Chapter Twenty-Six
Darcy
The carriage wheels rolled steadily over well-worn roads as they approached Pemberley, yet Darcy’s hands remained clenched upon his knees.
Elizabeth sat beside him, her own excitement evident in the way she leaned towards the window to catch glimpses.
For him, each mile brought a mixture of anticipation and dread he could not quite suppress.
“You seem anxious,” Elizabeth observed, turning from the window to study his profile. “I had thought you would be eager to return home.”
“It has been many years since I last saw Pemberley,” he replied, though that explanation felt insufficient. “I confess myself uncertain what changes time may have brought.”
“Who owns the estate now? Some relation of the Havishams?”
Darcy’s expression grew troubled. “Unfortunately, no. Mr Havisham proved less astute with finances after his wife died. He developed a fondness for gaming and speculation that Mr Wickham and my father could not cure him of despite their best efforts.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose with surprise. “Gambling?”
“Quite extensively. His lifestyle had always been rather lavish, but after Lady Havisham’s death, his spending became reckless. My father and Mr Wickham were obliged to sell portions of the estate to satisfy his debts on more than one occasion.”
“How dreadful for them both.”
“Indeed. When Mr Havisham died without heirs, his remaining debts were so substantial that the estate passed to a distant cousin who had no desire to maintain it. The property was sold, though Lord Matlock was kind enough to provide a letter of introduction to the current occupants. He knows them socially.”
The familiar gates of Pemberley came into view, and Darcy felt his breath catch. The iron scrollwork remained unchanged, though the gatehouse showed signs of neglect that would never have been tolerated in his father’s time.
As their carriage wound up the drive, Elizabeth gasped with genuine admiration. “It is magnificent.”
The house rose before them in all its classical beauty, its honey-coloured stone glowing in the afternoon light.
The lake Georgiana had described so eloquently stretched beyond the lawns, its surface reflecting the sky like polished silver.
Despite the obvious signs of reduced maintenance, Pemberley’s essential grandeur remained undiminished.
“I must speak with the housekeeper immediately,” Darcy said as the carriage drew to a halt. “Pray wait here—I shall return directly.”
He hurried into the house with Lord Matlock’s letter, his heart hammering against his ribs. The entrance hall looked much as he remembered, though the marble floors lacked their former lustre and dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through tall windows.
Mrs Reynolds had been replaced by a younger woman who accepted Lord Matlock’s introduction with polite efficiency. Within minutes, Darcy had secured permission for himself and Elizabeth to walk the grounds freely.
“Elizabeth,” he called as he emerged from the house, “come. Let me show you where I spent my boyhood.”
She took his offered arm with obvious pleasure, and they set off across the familiar lawns. Each step awakened memories—racing through these very gardens with George and Georgiana, studying under the great oak by the lake, learning to fish in the stream that fed the water.
“There,” he said, pointing towards a modest stone house nestled among trees beyond the main gardens. “That was our home—the steward’s cottage where Georgiana and I lived with our parents and later with the Wickhams.”
“It looks so peaceful,” Elizabeth observed. “Rather like a fairy tale cottage.”
“My mother kept an extensive herb garden there,” Darcy continued. “She grew everything from lavender to mint, rosemary to thyme. The air was always fragrant with growing things.”
But as they approached the cottage, Darcy’s steps slowed. Where his mother’s prudently tended herb garden had flourished, formal rose beds now stood in neat rows. The sight sent dismay flooding over him.
“The roses are lovely,” Elizabeth said gently, sensing his distress.
“Yes,” he managed. “Though I confess I miss the herbs. My mother spent hours there, teaching me the names of plants and their uses. She said every garden should feed both body and soul.”
Elizabeth squeezed his arm. “What would it be like, do you think, to return to Netherfield or Longbourn years hence and find them so altered?”
“I imagine rather like this—recognisable yet strange. Time moves on whether we are present to witness it or not.” He drew a steadying breath. “Though I suppose change is inevitable. The cottage has new inhabitants now, and they are entitled to arrange their gardens as they please.”
“Did you ask the housekeeper about George Wickham?”
George’s father had asked him to please ask the housekeeper if he had been seen, though he’d hoped the answer would be no.
“I did. He has not been seen here for many months.” Internally, Darcy felt relief mixed with guilt. The last thing he needed was an encounter with Wickham—particularly with Elizabeth present. The elaborate house of cards he had built around their marriage would crumble instantly.
They walked on, arm in arm, and Darcy felt some of his tension ease.
Elizabeth’s presence beside him, her genuine interest in his memories, created an intimacy he had not expected.
When she stumbled slightly on the uneven path, he steadied her with his free hand, and the brief contact sent warmth flooding through him.
The memory of their kiss at the lake returned with startling clarity. How she had looked in that moment—flushed with triumph, her eyes bright with joy, her lips soft against his. The temptation to kiss her again, here among the scenes of his childhood, was almost overwhelming.
“You look rather serious,” Elizabeth observed. “Are the memories too painful?”
“Not painful, precisely. Merely… forceful.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. “Being here with you feels somehow significant. As though the past and present are converging in ways I had not anticipated.”
Something in his tone made her study his face more closely. “What do you mean?”
Before he could answer, fat raindrops began to fall, quickly increasing to a steady downpour. They looked at each other with shared dismay.
“The house,” Darcy said. “We shall need to dash.”
They hurried across the lawns, but the rain came faster than their feet could carry them.
Elizabeth’s skirts grew heavy with water, and her bonnet provided little protection against the deluge.
As they neared a grove of trees that offered some shelter, her foot caught in an exposed root and she tumbled forward with a cry of alarm.
Darcy was beside her instantly, helping her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”
“I think not,” she gasped, though her hands trembled as she brushed mud from her dress. “Only startled.”
They stood very close together beneath the canopy of leaves, both breathing hard from their flight from the rain.
Water dripped from Darcy’s hair onto his forehead, and Elizabeth’s cheeks were flushed with exertion.
The intimacy of the moment—alone together, dishevelled and breathless—suddenly overwhelmed all his careful restraint.
“Elizabeth,” he said.
Before he could think better of it, before caution could reassert itself, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
This kiss was nothing like their brief, impulsive contact at the lake. This was deliberate, passionate, filled with all the longing he had been suppressing for weeks. Elizabeth’s hands came up to rest against his chest, and for a moment she yielded completely to the embrace.
When they finally parted, both were trembling.
“I must tell you,” Darcy said, his forehead resting against hers, “I have fallen in love with you. I know it is not wise, given our circumstances, but I cannot deny it any longer.”
Elizabeth’s eyes searched his face. “Why is it not wise? We are husband and wife, after all.”
The simple logic of her words struck him speechless. She was right—what could be more natural than affection between married couples? Yet the foundation of lies beneath their union made every genuine feeling seem like betrayal.
In answer to his silence, Elizabeth rose on her toes and kissed him again, her lips warm and sure against his own.
The rain continued to fall around them, but Darcy barely noticed.
In Elizabeth’s arms, surrounded by the landscape of his youth, he felt something he had never expected to experience—the possibility of genuine happiness.
Yet even as he held her close, guilt gnawed at his conscience.
How could he build a future on such deception?
How long before the truth destroyed whatever fragile joy they had discovered?
When they finally returned to Matlock, bedraggled and glowing despite their soaked clothing, they were met by Georgiana’s white face and obvious distress.
“Oh, thank heavens you have returned!” she cried. “It is Mr Wickham—he collapsed whilst walking this afternoon. The physician has just left.”
The joy of the afternoon evaporated instantly. Darcy felt Elizabeth’s hand tighten on his arm as they hurried towards the cottage, where the old man lay pale and still beneath quilts that seemed to swallow his diminished frame.
“What did the physician say?” Darcy asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.
“That his time is coming,” Georgiana whispered. “Perhaps months, but no longer. His heart simply cannot sustain him much further.”
Darcy sank into the chair beside the bed, taking the old man’s frail hand in his own. Mr Wickham’s eyes fluttered open, focusing with effort on Darcy’s face.
“My boy,” he whispered. “Did you enjoy Pemberley?”
“Very much,” Darcy managed.
“Good. That is… good.”
As Mr Wickham’s eyes drifted closed again, Darcy felt the weight of all his secrets pressing down upon him like stones. The man who had been father to him was dying, and still he could not bring himself to speak the truth about George Wickham’s crimes.
Beside him, Elizabeth’s presence offered comfort even as it intensified his anguish. He loved her—truly, completely loved her. But how could he build a life with her when that life was founded on lies that grew more impossible to bear with each passing day?