Bells at Dawn #2
He had spoken rarely of himself and never of his family.
Yet the house spoke of wealth and long establishment, the marble, the quiet order, the elegance that required no display.
It was not the residence of a mere officer of fortune.
Miss Darcy’s gentle manners and education told their own tale of birth and breeding.
A brother and sister in London, then, perhaps living here since their parents’ death. And if he were the younger, as seemed likely, perhaps the army had offered him what inheritance could not, purpose, independence, a place to claim through merit rather than estate.
The thought softened her. She could imagine him as the second son of some great house, proud, dutiful, shouldering responsibilities not his own. It explained the reserve, the discipline, the weight he seemed always to bear.
Her gaze returned to the painted face.
He had been proud, yes, but honourable; reserved, yet unfailingly kind where it mattered most. The man in this portrait was not changed by hardship, but revealed through it.
A faint smile rose to her lips. “Such a smile as when he looked at me,” she whispered.
The sound startled her. She drew back, colour rising in her cheeks, half-ashamed of her own fancy. Yet she could not look away.
He had never spoken of himself, and she had never asked. Perhaps she had been afraid to.
The portrait offered what he never had, a glimpse beyond the soldier.
And it moved her more than she wished to confess.
She went to replace the book when her hand brushed against another frame, smaller and half-hidden beneath the first. She lifted the remaining volume aside.
Two figures now filled her view.
The same young Darcy stood again within the painted light, his expression unchanged.
Beside him, smiling broadly, stood another man.
The contrast was striking. Where Darcy was composed, the other exuded confidence, his hand resting with careless familiarity upon his companion’s shoulder.
The artist had painted them as equals, both fine young men of promise, bound by the illusion of friendship.
Elizabeth leaned closer. Beneath the frame, a small brass plate bore the inscription:
Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy and Mr George Wickham, Cambridge, 1801.
Her breath caught. Wickham.
The name rang through her like a blow. She stared at the smiling figure beside Darcy, the easy posture, the careless confidence. She had seen that face before, in the campfire light beyond Kingston Bridge, among the enemy. The same charm, the same bright eyes, now turned to treachery.
Her pulse quickened. He had been here once, she thought. He had walked these halls, dined at this table, been trusted by this very family.
The music faltered. A single chord broke, then fell silent.
Elizabeth turned toward the pianoforte. “Miss Darcy,” she said slowly, her voice unsteady. “That man, Wickham. Who is he?”
Miss Darcy looked up, startled; her hands froze above the keys.
Elizabeth lifted the portrait slightly so that the light caught both faces.
Miss Darcy’s face went white. She rose at once, crossing the room in quick, uneven steps, and reached for the frame.
“Please,” she whispered, her composure fraying. “You must not speak of him to my brother.”
Elizabeth hesitated, taken aback by the vehemence of her tone. “You know him, then?”
Miss Darcy drew a trembling breath. “I did once. It was long ago.” Her fingers tightened around the edge of the frame. “My father believed him good, and my brother once called him friend. We were all deceived.”
Her voice faltered, then steadied with effort.
“My father was his godfather, and he was the son of the steward at Pemberley. When my father died, Mr Wickham’s true nature soon followed.
My brother forbade his name in this house.
I should have destroyed this picture, but I could not. It was part of what we lost.”
She turned the frame slightly away from the light, her expression a mixture of shame and something deeper, a shadow of old affection she could not wholly suppress.
Elizabeth spoke softly. “I am sorry.”
Miss Darcy shook her head. “Do not be. It is an old wound, though it seems it may still bleed. If he lives and if he has done what you say, my brother must be told.”
From beyond the window came the clamour of bells and cheering. The city rejoiced in victory, unknowing.
Elizabeth’s gaze returned to the painting, to the young Major Darcy beside his false friend. “They celebrate,” she murmured, “and yet the enemy walks among them. That man is aiding the French.”
Miss Darcy pressed a hand to her throat. “You are certain?”
“I saw him with my own eyes,” Elizabeth said. “There can be no mistake.”
The younger woman’s composure wavered, but she stood straighter. “Then my brother must be told, though I know not how he will bear it.”
From below came the ring of a carriage drawing up before the house, the sound sharp against the cobbles. Voices followed, firm and low, then the heavy tread of boots upon marble.
Miss Darcy turned toward the door, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “He is here.”
Elizabeth looked once more at the portrait, Major Darcy as he had been, and the smiling traitor beside him, and drew a slow, steady breath. “Then there is no time to lose,” she said quietly.
From the hall came the echo of firm footsteps, and beyond the window the distant bells still rang for a peace that did not yet exist.