Chapter Twenty-Eight
Elizabeth
The leather-bound volume of poetry lay open before Elizabeth, but the words might as well have been written in a foreign tongue for all the attention she paid them.
Two weeks had passed since that terrible night at Matlock, since she had overheard Darcy’s confession to Mr Wickham, since her world had crumbled around the awful truth of his deception.
She had fled immediately. The journey had passed in a blur of rage and devastation, her mind reeling with the magnitude of Darcy’s betrayal.
He had known. He had always known. Every moment she had spent doubting her own memory, questioning her sanity, torturing herself with uncertainty—all of it unnecessary suffering.
Now she sat in Netherfield’s library, staring at pages she could not read, wondering what her future held.
The familiar surroundings offered little comfort.
Everything reminded her of the life she had built, the marriage she had almost begun to treasure, and the man she had been foolish enough to grow to love.
“Lizzy?”
She looked up to see her father in the doorway.
Lord Hartford had said little since learning of the reason for her return beyond ensuring she was comfortable and had everything she required.
The rest of the family seemed to sense her need for solitude, though she caught them casting worried glances in her direction.
“Papa.”
He entered the room and settled into the chair across from her, his movements deliberate as though approaching a wounded animal. “How are you managing?”
“I hardly know.” The admission surprised her with its honesty. “I have not quite known what to feel since I returned.”
She had written to Jane immediately upon her arrival, desperately needing her sister’s gentle counsel, but the letter had gone to Bingley’s family estate where Jane was visiting with her betrothed and his sister. No reply had yet arrived.
“How is Mama?”
“Still taking to the vapours, though I suspect she enjoys the drama more than she is willing to admit.” Her father’s dry observation drew a wan smile from Elizabeth. “She has taken to her bed with smelling salts and declares herself quite overcome by the scandal of it all.”
They sat in silence for several moments before Lord Hartford spoke again. “You must feel some relief, knowing you were right about Wickham all along. That you did not imagine it was him—that it truly was him.”
“I do feel vindicated in that respect,” Elizabeth admitted. “But I am dismayed that Darcy would lie to me about such a thing, that he would keep the truth from me whilst I tormented myself with doubt.”
“Perhaps you should speak with him, learn more about his motives.”
“I know his motives. He claimed he was protecting the elder Mr Wickham, that the shock might kill him.”
“Given that the gentleman’s health has taken a turn for the worse, perhaps that consideration was not entirely misguided.”
Elizabeth studied her father’s face with surprise. “Are you defending him?”
“Not defending, precisely. What he did was wrong—there can be no question of that. But I believe he acted from love for Mr Wickham rather than malicious intent.”
“Regardless, my life is ruined,” Elizabeth said. “I am forever shackled to a man who has lied to me from the very beginning. There is no way out, I shall be trapped.”
“No, you are not.”
The firmness in her father’s voice made her look up sharply.
“These circumstances would allow for an annulment,” he continued. “Darcy committed fraud by withholding material facts about your marriage. I have already consulted with our solicitor on the matter. If that is what you want, it can be arranged.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. “Truly?”
“Moreover, now that we know Wickham was indeed your attacker, he can still be charged and tried. Your name would be cleared, the truth established beyond question.”
“But I would still be a woman who had sought an annulment. No respectable man would marry someone with such a history.”
“That is likely true,” her father acknowledged. “But at least you would be free. We would reclaim Longbourn from Darcy and send him away. You need never see him again.”
Elizabeth studied his face, noting the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. “It sounds as though you do not truly wish for such an outcome.”
“I think the two of you need to speak and sort this matter out between yourselves before any irreversible decisions are made.”
“I cannot do that. He has not returned from Matlock—”
“Actually, that is what I came to tell you.” Her father’s expression grew more serious. “Darcy is back. He arrived at Longbourn not an hour ago.”
Elizabeth’s book tumbled to the floor as she started in her chair. “What?”
“A note came from Longbourn. Mr Darcy requests the opportunity to speak with you.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than she intended. “Absolutely not. I have nothing to say to him.”
“Very well.” Lord Hartford rose from his chair with the same careful movements. “I shall send word that you decline to see him.”
As her father moved towards the door, Elizabeth felt panic flutter in her chest. The thought of seeing Darcy again, of hearing whatever justifications he might offer, terrified her.
Yet the knowledge that he was so close, that he had returned seeking her forgiveness, stirred emotions she was not prepared to examine.
“Papa?”
He paused at the threshold. “Yes?”
“What… what did he say in his note? Precisely?”
“That he wished to explain himself, and that he would not leave Hertfordshire until you granted him that opportunity.”
Elizabeth stared at the fallen book, its pages splayed open to verses about love and loss. “I see.”
“Shall I still tell him you refuse?”
The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of decisions that could not be undone. Outside, she could hear the distant sound of carriages on the drive, the ordinary business of life continuing whilst her own world remained suspended in uncertainty.
“Yes,” she whispered finally. “Tell him I refuse.”
But even as the words left her lips, Elizabeth wondered if she had just made the greatest mistake of her life.