Chapter Thirty-Two
Wickham planned to send two additional notes to Longbourn after the first, but circumstances conspired against him.
Colonel Forster, with all the severity of a man determined to reaffirm discipline after a night of indulgence, kept the militia drilling from sunrise to sundown in the soggy fields outside Meryton.
Wickham, though he loathed the exertion and the muck clinging to his fine boots, bore it with a soldier’s facade and a scoundrel’s cunning.
Every blister and ache was dulled by the sweet promise of what he would soon gain: wealth, power, and revenge.
Miss Elizabeth would not escape him—not completely. She might have warmed to Darcy’s attentions, but Wickham was determined she would pay dearly for her family’s deception.
The Monday after the Netherfield ball brought with it a rare reprieve.
Rain clouds hung heavy in the sky, but no drills were called, and the officers were granted a full day of rest. Wickham intended to waste none of it.
He strode towards the inn with his thoughts on ale, idle flirtation, and the long-awaited resumption of his scheme.
But as he passed through Meryton, a familiar carriage rolled into view—Darcy’s.
The dark-paneled vehicle with its distinctive crest was unmistakable, and atop it were trunks enough for a week’s journey.
A horse trailed behind, tethered for long travel.
He narrowed his eyes. Were Darcy and Fitzwilliam departing? If so, where—and for how long?
He turned sharply on his heel and made his way into one of the local shops, knowing the shopkeeper was talkative and the customers often worse. As luck would have it, Sir William Lucas stood at the counter, puffed up and beaming as though he were the town crier.
"Ah, Mr Wickham!" Sir William said with enthusiasm. "Fine weather for ducks, eh?"
Wickham smiled politely. “Indeed, Sir William. I could not help but notice Mr Darcy’s carriage. Are the gentlemen returning to town?”
“Not at all! My daughter Charlotte had it from Miss Elizabeth herself—they are fetching another guest. A Miss Darcy, I believe. I daresay Netherfield will be all the brighter with her presence.”
“And how long are they to be away?”
Sir William tapped his chin thoughtfully. “A sen’night, perhaps more. These things are so difficult to predict, are they not?”
Perfect.
Wickham made a token purchase, exited with a tip of the hat, and altered course immediately. With the gentlemen absent and the ladies vulnerable, the time to strike had come. The wind stirred as he turned down the lane towards Longbourn.
By some divine stroke of luck—or devilish providence—he met Miss Elizabeth on the path to Oakham Mount. Her cloak was cinched tightly, her boots damp from the path. She startled as he nearly collided with her.
“Careful, Miss Elizabeth.” He placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her, letting his fingers linger just a moment too long. “It would not do for you to take a tumble.”
“Mr Wickham.” She nodded, polite but cool. “I was just on my way to Oakham Mount.”
“Then allow me to escort you. I have long admired the view.” He offered his arm. After a moment’s hesitation, she accepted, placing her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, the damp ground squelching beneath their feet. Finally, he broke the quiet.
“And how fares your cousin, Mr Collins? I confess I miss the clerical charm of his company.”
“He has returned to Hunsford,” she replied shortly. “Mary is saddened, but they intend to correspond until his return.”
Wickham tucked away that information with a mental nod. He did not need the parson present to go through with his plans; he needed him reachable when it came time to reveal all.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he said glibly.
Then, rounding a bend in the path, he stopped, releasing her arm and taking both of her hands.
His expression turned grave, his tone low and practised.
“Miss Elizabeth, I cannot wait any longer. I must tell you—I admire you deeply. I daresay I love you. Please, do me the honour of becoming my wife.”
She stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Mr Wickham…we discussed this. I am being courted by Mr Darcy. I cannot accept.”
Ah. So she had given her heart to the man he loathed above all others. His jaw tightened, but he maintained his smile.
“Ah yes, Darcy. You must know—he is not what he seems.”
“Careful, sir,” she said sharply, colour rising in her cheeks. “I will not tolerate insults to Mr Darcy. He is the most honourable man I have ever known.”
That was enough. Wickham’s smile twisted cruelly as he stepped closer, his voice a whisper of venom.
“I see. Then allow me to speak plainly. You will not marry Fitzwilliam Darcy. You will do exactly as I say—or I shall ruin your entire family.”
She flinched, but he pressed on, relishing her distress. “I know the boy you claim as your brother is no Bennet. Oh yes, I know what happened on the thirteenth of September, five years ago. I remember the carriage crash. I remember you pulling a child from the wreckage.”
The chit did not even attempt to deny it. “You abandoned them!” she cried. “You left them to die!”
“Perhaps,” he drawled. “But I survived. And I have proof—letters, trinkets, a bonnet sewn by Anne’s own hand. Enough to alert her family, enough to bring ruin on all of you. Shall I send a missive to Rosings Park? To Lady Catherine herself?”
Elizabeth was pale as death. “What do you want?”
“Ten thousand pounds. And a letter—one that breaks off your courtship with Darcy. Send it to Pemberley. By express. He will receive it upon arrival.” He had asked around and knew Bennet had dowries for his daughters. It was not an impossible sum.
“You…you are a monster.”
He laughed again. “Call me what you will, Miss Bennet. But I am a practical man. And this is a practical solution to my... inconveniences.”
Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she whispered, “You will destroy us all.”
“Only if you make me. You have two days.” He tipped an imaginary hat and stepped away, letting her stumble back down the path.
As he watched her go, hunched with grief, he felt no triumph. Only cold satisfaction. The game had begun.
Elizabeth waited until Wickham’s footsteps disappeared, her body trembling with the effort of holding herself together. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, and she did not trust herself to walk immediately. When she finally moved, it was with one purpose—reaching Oakham Mount.
She climbed quickly, heedless of the twigs that caught her hem or the sharp gusts that whipped her bonnet strings against her cheeks.
Her chest ached, not just from the incline but from the crushing weight of dread.
Wickham had made his move. The threat she had feared for five years was no longer a vague worry or passing shadow—it was real, immediate, and terrible. And now, she had a choice to make.
But perhaps it was not a choice at all. Wickham expected her to turn to her father.
He expected hesitation, delay, and time to vanish with the money.
But no—Elizabeth would not do what he expected.
Her father had already shown too much casualness, too much dismissal.
No, she would go to the one man who had always faced Wickham with clarity and strength: Mr Darcy.
When she reached the summit, her breath caught in her throat. Not just from exertion, but from the sight of him—tall and straight-backed, framed by the grey sky and late autumn trees, as though he were a part of the very earth that steadied her.
“Elizabeth!” he called, already striding towards her. “My love—what has happened?”
She could not speak. Instead, she stumbled into his arms. He caught her instantly, folding her against his chest as her sobs erupted in shuddering gasps.
“My dearest girl,” he murmured, one hand stroking her back, the other cradling the back of her head. “You are shaking. Please—tell me what has frightened you so.”
She let him guide her to a nearby stump, all that remained of the great oak for which the mount was named. She sat, clinging to his hand.
“You must know,” she whispered. “I can keep the secret no longer, not after this. You will likely hate me—leave me—but I must speak.”
“Never,” he said fiercely. “Whatever you say, Elizabeth, I will not hate you. Speak and let me bear it with you.”
His voice was warm and sure, and it gave her strength. So she began.
She told him of the day her mother died and the chaos that occurred away from the house.
She described the moment when the carriage crashed on the Great North Road, how dust and the screams of the horses mingled in the air, how she had pulled an infant from the arms of a dying woman and carried him from the wreckage.
She spared no detail—her fear, her panic, the decision to say nothing and claim the boy as her brother. “We—my father and I—told everyone he was born of my mother,” she said, her voice trembling. “No one questioned it, not with her gone and the baby already in the house. Living twins are so rare…”
Darcy’s expression was unreadable, his thumb still gently stroking her hand, though his posture had stilled. "Blast," he murmured. "I should have told Fitzwilliam of his presence."
It would not do to have him blame himself. She was at fault. “I lied to you,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice barely audible. “I lied to everyone.”
“Yes, but that is not the most important detail,” he said softly. “You protected a child, and you saved his life. You gave him a family.”
She stared at him in disbelief, and he offered her a small, almost reverent smile. “I suspected,” he admitted. “So did Richard. The resemblance is blatantly obvious. And now, with what you have revealed… I believe I know the identity of Tommy's mother.”
Elizabeth blinked. “You do?”
He nodded, jaw tightening. “Anne de Bourgh. My cousin. She disappeared five years ago. She vanished without a trace soon after my father died. There were whispers, especially amongst the servants, that she was with child.”
Elizabeth gasped. “Then…then Tommy is—”
“A Fitzwilliam, undoubtedly.” Darcy’s voice hardened. “And I believe Wickham is the father.”
She flinched. “He said he could prove it. That he had letters, a bonnet, other things.”
“Lies,” Darcy growled. “Or fabrications. He might have a token somewhere, though whether it could prove his story is questionable. Wickham deals only in deception and has always known how to twist half-truths into weapons. But that he would use a child—his own child—as a tool for extortion…” His fist clenched. “I will see him ruined.”
Elizabeth broke then, fully and finally. Her face crumpled, and she leaned into him, clutching his coat with white knuckles. “He wants ten thousand pounds,” she sobbed. “And a letter. One that ends us.”
“Never,” Darcy whispered, wrapping her tightly in his arms. “He will never take you from me. I would sooner burn Pemberley to the ground than let that man rob me of you.”
Elizabeth buried her face in his chest. “He will destroy my family’s reputation. He threatened to take the child away.”
“He will do nothing,” Darcy said with terrible calm. “Because you are no longer alone. He has made a grave error, thinking you have no defenders. I am here, Elizabeth. You have me now.”
His hand found her cheek and tilted her face up towards his. Their eyes locked—hers full of fear and desperation, his full of determination and devotion.
“Whatever happens next,” he said quietly, “we face it together.” And then, slowly, tenderly, he bent and kissed her.
It was not a mere kiss—it was a vow—a promise.
The potential for passion simmered beneath the surface.
She felt it in the way his lips brushed hers, in the strength of his arms around her, in the tears that still clung to her lashes.
When they parted, neither moved. They remained forehead to forehead, breath mingling in the crisp air.
“We must go to Longbourn,” he said at last. “Your father must be told. Together, we will form a plan. And if there is any shred of deceit left in Wickham, I shall find a way to crush it.”
Elizabeth gave a watery laugh and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I do not deserve you.”
“You deserve more than I could ever give,” he replied. “But I will spend the rest of my life trying.”
The implication that he wished to make a future with her warmed Elizabeth's heart. They stood together, and arm in arm began the descent from Oakham Mount—no longer as two individuals, but as partners in every way that mattered. Whatever trials lay ahead, they would face them united.