TWENTY-EIGHT
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Bingley and Jane walked ahead as they always did, their conversation easy and uninterrupted.
Elizabeth fell into step beside Colonel Fitzwilliam, who made no particular effort to keep pace with them.
She noticed it immediately — the deliberate slowing, the gradual widening of distance between themselves and the couple ahead.
He was not admiring the garden. He was creating privacy.
Elizabeth waited for the worst. If he had come to repeat Lady Catherine's message, she had already resolved to answer him in such terms that no member of the Darcy family would ever feel compelled to call at Longbourn again.
"Miss Bennet," he said, once Jane and Bingley had moved beyond comfortable hearing, "I am sorry to make your acquaintance under these circumstances. You must wonder at my calling without Darcy."
Was that not obvious? Elizabeth thought, though she said nothing.
“I am not here for any ulterior purpose beyond asking your assistance.”
Assistance?
Elizabeth searched rapidly for what he could possibly mean and found nothing before he continued.
“It concerns Darcy.”
His name caused something sharp to leap in her chest. Surely, he was well. That much appeared obvious enough. Had he not been, Bingley and his cousin could scarcely have laughed together through conversation not five minutes earlier.
“I am here because there are matters you ought to know and my cousin will never tell you himself. Not because he does not wish to. Because he does not know how.” He paused briefly, as though studying her expression to determine whether she followed him.
“I have known Darcy nearly all my life. I have watched him do many things badly. Asking for help is the one thing he does worst of all.”
Elizabeth looked steadily at him, still entirely uncertain where the conversation was leading.
“Then tell me,” she said.
“It is rather a long account,” Richard replied. “I would ask your patience.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Two weeks ago, I received a letter from Darcy. He had learned that a man named George Wickham was serving with the militia regiment quartered here in Meryton.” He paused. “You are acquainted with him, I understand.”
“I have met him,” Elizabeth answered carefully.
“I have also recently learned that you were the person who informed Darcy of his presence here.”
“Yes.”
“Then you will know something of the history Wickham gives of himself and of Darcy.
" Richard's tone remained perfectly even.
"It is false. All of it. The particulars I shall not enter into now.
What matters is this. Darcy has long suspected that something beyond mere chance caused the accident which killed his wife.
I confess I always dismissed it — grief will reach for reason when chance offers none.
But when he learned of Wickham's presence here, and of the falsehood he told you concerning Clara, the suspicion took on rather more substance.”
Elizabeth became very still.
So that was the weight Darcy had carried through those excursions. The thing constantly drawing his thoughts elsewhere no matter how earnestly he attempted to remain present beside her.
“I considered his letter carefully and found more substance in it than I expected. Wickham possesses significant grievances against Darcy — however irrational — and sufficient connection to Derbyshire to have learned of Darcy’s wedding journey.
The marriage was hardly a secret. Half of Derbyshire knew of it before it took place. ”
Richard’s expression grew more serious.
"I obtained a likeness of Wickham from a miniature at Pemberley and travelled to Harrogate to make enquiries.
" He looked directly at her. "Most respectable establishments had no recollection of him, which upon reflection was hardly surprising.
A man intending evil would not choose to lodge somewhere he might be recognised by members of the wedding party. "
He paused.
“So, I made enquiries of a rather different nature. There is an establishment upon the south side of the town — the sort which does not advertise itself openly yet is sufficiently known to those seeking it. The woman managing it did not remember Wickham. One of the girls employed there did.” Richard’s mouth tightened slightly.
“Her description of him was ‘charming upon arrival, disagreeable before departure.’ She remembered him because she discovered her purse missing after he left. She could place him in Harrogate both the day before the wedding and upon the day itself.”
He exhaled slowly, as though the account itself exhausted him.
“Coupled with the falsehood he told you, his reputation for debt and deception, and his long history of conduct toward Darcy — portions of which I am not presently at liberty to detail fully — the magistrate found sufficient cause to issue a warrant for his arrest and examination.” He paused.
“It would not secure a conviction. But it is more than enough for a man who has spent two years asking himself the same question.”
Elizabeth felt her blood turn hot with fury.
Wickham. In Harrogate. The day before the wedding and on the wedding day itself.
Even if a court found such evidence insufficient, she could entirely understand why Darcy would not.
Why else would Wickham lie about it? Yes, Darcy had established that Wickham frequently lied regarding him — but lying about having known nothing of a wedding that ended in a carriage accident and a dead bride made no sense whatsoever.
Unless, of course, there was rather more to know than Wickham wished anyone to discover.
The image of Wickham’s easy smile in the Meryton street rose unbidden in her thoughts. The warmth of his manner. The alarming fluency with which his grievances against Darcy had poured forth fully formed during their very first conversation.
She had listened.
She had considered.
She had given him far more room within her thoughts than he had ever deserved.
And all the while he might quite literally be a murderer.
“Has he been arrested?” Elizabeth asked.
Richard shook his head.
“I arrived yesterday and immediately sent word to Colonel Forster. However, Wickham is no longer with the regiment. He deserted yesterday. All we presently know is that someone loyal to him appears to have warned him he was under observation.”
“Dear God.”
Elizabeth’s hands tightened into fists.
“Our hope is that he will be found soon.”
Richard fell silent for several moments, as though allowing the information time to settle before pressing further.
“How is Mr. Darcy bearing all this?” Elizabeth asked quietly.
“With mixed feelings, I suppose.” Richard resumed walking and Elizabeth moved beside him again. “He has punished himself for two years over Clara’s death, and now finds himself confronting the possibility that another man’s malice may truly have stood behind it.”
“He has suffered greatly for it.”
"Apparently rather more than any of us understood." Richard must have noticed the questioning look upon her face because he added quietly, "there is more."
“Go on,” said Elizabeth.
“When I arrived yesterday to tell Darcy what I had discovered, Bingley informed me my aunt had come to Netherfield to see him. I also learned she came here and spoke privately with you.”
The best Elizabeth could manage was, “Yes.”
"I believe she said some vile things to you — my aunt has long considered Darcy destined for her daughter.
She said things to him too." Richard broke off briefly.
"Things Darcy would not repeat to any of us.
Not to me, nor even to Bingley, who had been trying without success to get him to speak before my arrival. "
Elizabeth’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Before my aunt departed Netherfield, however,” Richard continued, “she revealed something to Bingley which he himself had never previously known. Nor had I, until he repeated it to me.” He paused.
“Darcy can walk, Miss Bennet. Or rather, he might have been treated toward walking again. And he has known it.”
The words reached her slowly.
I cannot dance with you. I cannot walk beside you.
He had known.
Known all this time and simply accepted the condition regardless?
Elizabeth stopped the thought before it could travel further. Whatever she felt must wait. She needed first to hear the remainder.
“Go on,” she said again, though her voice sounded strained even to herself.
"Lady Catherine happened upon the physician who attended Darcy following the accident.
According to the gentleman, the injury had not damaged the spine itself but rather the nerves governing the use of his limbs.
He believed that with diligence and continued treatment a very considerable recovery — perhaps nearly complete — might reasonably have been hoped for.
" Richard did not continue immediately. "Apparently Darcy thanked him, settled his account in full, and informed him another physician would continue the treatment.
No such physician was ever engaged. Darcy simply told us nothing more could be done, and we believed him. "
Elizabeth stopped walking entirely.
Richard stopped beside her.
“The chair,” he said quietly, “is not solely the consequence of the accident. It is also, in part, a punishment he assigned himself for surviving it. For placing Clara in that carriage. For remaining alive when she did not.” He allowed the words to settle between them.
“Two years, Miss Bennet. Two years of deliberate suffering because he did not believe himself entitled to recover from something she could not survive.”
Elizabeth looked ahead toward the bare hedgerow and said nothing.
She had not the faintest notion what to say.
All she knew was that her head felt unbearably heavy, her legs weak beneath her, and her eyes burning painfully.
“Bingley told me that before my aunt’s arrival Darcy had been happier than he had seen him in two years.
” Richard’s voice softened considerably.
“I have watched my cousin punish himself long enough. We had tried everything to pull him from his mourning. None of it succeeded.” He paused.
“You accomplished it in less than two months of his being here. Bingley told me everything regarding the excursions, and Marsh says he has never seen Darcy so content before Lady Catherine came again.”
It required all of Elizabeth’s strength simply to remain standing without leaning upon Colonel Fitzwilliam for support.
What she had mistaken for withdrawal had instead been collapse.
One selfish relation, determined to secure a marriage existing nowhere except within her own imagination, had pulled the final thread from a man already hanging by too few.
Tears slipped freely down Elizabeth’s face now, and she made no attempt whatsoever to conceal them.
She ought to have trusted him.
Trusted that he was not withdrawing from her.
Instead, she had permitted Lady Catherine’s words to infect every certainty she possessed.
That failure belonged entirely to herself, and she knew with sudden fierce clarity that she would never permit it again.
“What may I do to help?” she whispered.
Richard leaned slightly nearer.
"I thought you deserved to know why he has not come to call," he said quietly. "This is a great deal to ask of you, I know. But I hoped you might go to him. It may signify the difference between his choosing to live again — or something very much worse."
Elizabeth said nothing for a long while. She needed a moment — several of them — before she trusted herself to speak.
"Thank you, Colonel Fitzwilliam," she said at last. "We must speak to my father."