Chapter Thirteen
Darcy
Darcy’s boots crunched against the gravel as he approached Netherfield’s imposing entrance. Each step towards the house felt like walking towards his own execution.
He paused at the foot of the steps, staring up at the windows where warm light spilled out against the grey dawn. Behind those walls waited Lord Hartford’s questions, Lady Elizabeth’s expectations, and the moment when his lies would either save or damn them all.
His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his coat. The sleepless night showed in the shadows beneath his eyes, in the careful way he held his shoulders as though bracing against a blow. How many times had he rehearsed the words? The lighting was poor… I cannot be certain… It happened so quickly…
Each phrase felt like swallowing glass.
A groom appeared to take his horse, offering a respectful nod that Darcy returned automatically. The man’s easy deference made his stomach clench. How long before such courtesy transformed into suspicion? How long before whispers followed his passage through Netherfield’s corridors?
You are protecting an innocent man, he told himself for the hundredth time since dawn.
Mr Wickham—the gentle soul who had raised him, who had given him purpose when his world crumbled—deserved peace in his declining years.
The shock of learning his son had attempted to compromise an earl’s daughter would surely kill him.
Yet as Darcy climbed the steps, Lady Elizabeth’s face rose in his memory. The trust in her eyes when she had looked to him for protection. The way she had spoken his name with such confidence, such certainty that he would ensure justice prevailed.
I cannot swear to what I am not certain of, he would tell them.
But it was a lie. A careful, calculated lie designed to protect one person at the expense of another.
His hand hesitated on the brass door knocker. There was still time to change course, to stride into that morning room and declare with absolute certainty that George Wickham had forced his attentions upon Lady Elizabeth. Justice would be served, her reputation restored, the truth vindicated.
And an old man’s heart would break.
Darcy closed his eyes, seeing Mr Wickham’s weathered face as clearly as if he stood before him.
The quiet pride when George had finally taken orders.
The way his eyes lit up when letters arrived from his son’s parish.
The way he had hidden his disappointment through years of gambling debts and drinking, of scrapes that required rescue and promises that proved worthless.
This would destroy what little faith he retains in his son.
The knocker felt cold beneath his palm as he finally lifted it, letting it fall with a sound that seemed to echo through the morning air like a death knell. There was no turning back now. The choice was made, and the die was cast.
Footsteps approached from within, and Darcy straightened his shoulders, arranging his features into what he hoped resembled composure. In moments, he would face Lady Elizabeth’s expectations and Lord Hartford’s questions. He would speak his lies and watch trust die in a young woman’s eyes.
For the sake of an old man who deserved better than a son like George Wickham.
The door opened, revealing Peters’ familiar face. “Mr Darcy, sir. Her ladyship is expecting you.”
“Of course she is,” Darcy murmured, stepping across the threshold into Netherfield’s warmth.
***
“You sent word last evening that you were unable to locate Mr Wickham,” Lady Hartford said without preamble as Darcy was shown into Netherfield’s morning room.
Her voice carried the chill of winter frost, and she did not invite him to sit.
“A great disappointment, Mr Darcy. A very great disappointment indeed.”
Darcy remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back. Through the tall windows, he could see servants going about their morning duties, unaware of the crisis unfolding within these walls. “I searched thoroughly, my lady. There was no trace of him.”
“No trace.” Lady Hartford’s laugh held no humour. “How convenient for him. How inconvenient for us.” She moved to the window, her silk morning dress rustling with agitation. “Do you have any notion of what is being said in the neighbourhood this morning, Mr Darcy?”
“I confess I do not.”
“Then allow me to enlighten you.” She turned to face him, her colour high with indignation. “The entire county is abuzz with speculation about what transpired between you and my daughter last evening. I cannot show my face anywhere without enduring whispered conversations and meaningful looks.”
Darcy felt heat creep up his neck. “My lady, I acted only to protect Lady Elizabeth from harm.”
“So you claim. Yet the fact remains that she was discovered in your arms, distressed, whilst her supposed attacker had vanished into thin air.” Lady Hartford’s voice rose with each word. “What are people to think of such circumstances?”
Before Darcy could formulate a response, Lord Hartford appeared in the doorway. “Mr Darcy. Come, we must speak privately.” His tone brooked no argument. “Elizabeth is waiting in my study.”
The study felt smaller than usual with four occupants.
Lady Elizabeth sat rigidly in the chair before her father’s desk, her morning dress of blue muslin perfectly arranged but her face pale with strain.
She did not look at Darcy as he entered, though he felt the tension radiating from her like heat from a fire.
Lord Hartford settled behind his desk whilst Lady Hartford took the remaining chair, leaving Darcy to stand like a schoolboy awaiting punishment.
“Lady Elizabeth has given us her account of last evening’s events,” Lord Hartford began without preamble. “She maintains that Mr Wickham forced his attentions upon her, and that you intervened to drive him off.”
“That is correct, my lord. It is what she stated last night.”
“Then you can confirm it was indeed Mr Wickham who attacked my daughter?”
The moment Darcy had dreaded was upon him. Lady Elizabeth’s eyes finally met his, and he saw trust there—expectation that he would speak truth and ensure justice was served. The weight of Mr Wickham’s broken heart pressed against his chest like a stone.
“I…” Darcy began, then stopped. “The circumstances were confusing, my lord. It was very dark.”
Lady Elizabeth’s head snapped up. “Dark? Mr Darcy, you were close enough to strike him. You cannot claim you did not see clearly.”
“The lighting was poor. Shadows from the garden, moonlight obscured by clouds. I reacted to your distress, but I cannot swear with certainty to the man’s identity. I saw a figure which fitted him, but it might have also been someone else. Remember, I saw him from behind only.”
Silence fell like a curtain. Elizabeth stared at him with growing horror, whilst Lady Hartford’s expression shifted from irritation to incredulity.
“You cannot be certain?” Lord Hartford repeated slowly. “You chased a man you could not properly identify?”
“I heard Lady Elizabeth cry out and saw a figure fleeing. I acted on instinct.” The lies tasted like ash in his mouth. “From a distance, in poor light, many gentlemen appear similar—dark evening coats, white cravats.”
“You were face to face,” Lady Elizabeth said. “You looked directly at him before you struck him down. How can you claim uncertainty?” She rose.
“Elizabeth.” Lord Hartford’s voice cut through her protest. “Sit down.” His weathered face had grown grave as the implications sank in. “Mr Darcy, do you believe Mr Wickham capable of such behaviour?”
Another trap, another choice between truth and mercy. “I have known George Wickham since childhood, my lord. Whilst he has his faults, I cannot imagine him forcing his attentions upon any lady. Such conduct would be entirely contrary to his character.”
The words seemed to strike Elizabeth like hard as she pushed her back against the chair. Her face cycling through disbelief, anger, and something approaching despair.
“Then you suggest my daughter is mistaken about her attacker’s identity?” Lady Hartford’s voice had grown dangerously quiet.
“I suggest that I cannot reliable say one way or the other who the person was.”
“Stop.” Elizabeth’s voice cut through his explanation like a blade. “Just stop. I spoke to Mr Wickham at length beforehand. He attacked me. You are calling me a liar.”
Lord Hartford leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him. “Elizabeth, the man who came after you in the garden, did you see his face?”
She paused, looking around the room before shaking her head. “No. I did not. But I smelled his cologne. It was the same as Mr Wickham’s and who would it have been if not him? It makes no sense.”
She rubbed her lips together and Darcy could see doubt creeping in. She was unsure of herself. He hated himself for making her doubt herself in such a way.
“This places us in an impossible position. Without your corroboration, we cannot pursue charges against Mr Wickham or anyone else. The matter becomes he-said, she-said, with no resolution possible.”
“Could we not contact Mr Wickham’s father at Matlock?” Lady Hartford suggested. “Surely he might know his son’s whereabouts.”
“Even if we found him,” Lord Hartford replied, “what then? Without Mr Darcy’s certain identification, any accusations would be easily denied. A clergyman’s word against a hysterical young woman’s claims.”
“I am not hysterical,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth.
“Of course not. But that is how society will view it.” Lord Hartford’s expression grew increasingly grim.
“Which brings us to our current predicament. Half the neighbourhood witnessed you in what appeared to be a compromising position with our steward. Without a clear villain to blame, speculation will run rampant.”
Lady Hartford’s face had gone white. “The gossip is already spreading like wildfire. Mrs Long called this morning, supposedly to enquire after Elizabeth’s health, but really to fish for details.”
“What precisely are they saying?” Darcy asked, though he dreaded the answer.
“That you compromised my daughter,” Lord Hartford said bluntly. “That you took advantage of your position and her isolation to force your attentions upon her. The romantic notion that you were protecting her from some mysterious attacker grows less credible by the hour.”
“But I did nothing wrong,” Darcy protested.
“Your intentions are irrelevant,” Lady Hartford snapped. “What matters is how events appeared to those who witnessed them. And they appeared scandalous.”
“Our only hope was to apprehend the true culprit and see him brought to trial,” Lord Hartford continued. “Then you would have been hailed as a hero rather than suspected as a villain. But without that…” he spread his hands in a gesture of defeat.
“Then what do you propose?” Darcy asked, though something in Lord Hartford’s expression suggested he already knew. Was he about to lose his place? Be cast out like a villain in a poorly written play?
“Marriage,” Lord Hartford said simply. “Between you and Elizabeth. It is the only way to salvage both your reputations.”
“Marriage? My lord, surely you cannot be serious.” Darcy’s ears rang.
“Papa,” Lady Elizabeth called, aghast.
“Entirely serious. You were found in a compromising position with my daughter. Whether by your design or circumstances beyond your control matters little. Society demands resolution.”
“But I compromised no one,” Darcy said desperately. “I acted to protect Lady Elizabeth, nothing more.”
“Then you should have thought of that before allowing yourself to be discovered alone with her in such circumstances,” Lady Hartford said coldly. “Innocent or not, you have ruined her reputation as surely as if you had planned it.”
Darcy turned to Elizabeth, seeking some sign of her thoughts, but her face had gone rigid with fury. When she spoke, her voice shook with barely controlled rage.
“You stood there and watched him attack me. You saw him. I know it. Yet you choose to protect him rather than speak the truth.” She rose from her chair, her hands clenched at her sides. “You would rather see me blamed than identify my attacker with certainty.”
“Lady Elizabeth, that is not—”
“Is it not?” Her eyes blazed with anger and hurt. “Then tell them now. Tell them you saw George Wickham. Tell them you are certain of his identity.”
The room fell silent except for the tick of the mantel clock. Darcy stood frozen, caught between Elizabeth’s demand for justice and the image of Mr Wickham’s gentle face crumpling with shame.
“I cannot,” he said finally.
Elizabeth’s face went white, then red, then white again. “Then you are a coward and a liar.” She turned to her father. “I will not marry him. Not a man who lies to my face. Not a man who has no honour.”
“Elizabeth!” Lord Hartford’s voice cracked like a whip. “That is quite enough. The situation is what it is, and we must deal with it practically.”
“Practically?” Elizabeth whirled to face her father. “You want me to marry a man who would rather protect a scoundrel who tried to compromise me than my honour?”
“I want you to marry the man whose actions, however misguided, have nonetheless compromised your reputation beyond repair,” Lord Hartford said. “The alternative is social ruin for you and disgrace for our entire family.”
“Then I choose ruin,” Elizabeth declared.
“You do not have that luxury. Your sisters’ futures depend upon how we resolve this matter.” Her father looked at her with a hard expression Darcy has never seen before.
“And what of Jane?” her mother added. “Her misguided attachment to Mr Bingley is bad enough, but a disgraced sister? She will never recover. They will all end up old maids with only Mr Collins to look after them once your papa is dead. Would you wish that on anyone?”
Elizabeth’s shoulders sagged slightly as the weight of family obligation settled upon them.
Darcy watched this exchange with growing horror. Marriage to Lady Elizabeth—a woman who now looked at him with undisguised contempt, who believed him a coward and a betrayer. How could any happiness be built upon such a foundation?
“There must be another way,” he said desperately.
“There is not,” Lord Hartford replied with finality. “You will marry Elizabeth within the fortnight, or you will find employment elsewhere whilst she bears the scandal of your actions alone. Those are your choices, Mr Darcy. Choose wisely.”