Chapter 12 #2
“It was one of the most agreeable days I have spent in some time,” Elizabeth continued, then added with a low laugh, “and the game was unexpectedly diverting.”
He inclined his head but did not respond.
“I must admit,” Elizabeth added, “I was surprised you identified the ribbon as mine.”
Once again, Mr Darcy turned to face her, a thoughtful crease forming along his forehead. “Were you? I am almost certain I have seen you wear it before. In your hair, I believe, fastened with a spray of purple flowers.”
Elizabeth felt a sudden tightness in her chest, as though the breath had been knocked from her body. “When was that?” she asked carefully. “Can you recall the occasion?”
He stared at the path ahead, frowning in consideration.
“I could not say precisely. A dance, perhaps? An assembly, or a ball… But no. That cannot be right, as we have never attended such an event together.” He gave a half-laugh and shook his head slightly before turning back to her with a crooked smile.
“I must be mistaken. A lucky guess, then?”
Elizabeth attempted to match his easy expression, but her heart had begun to pound erratically.
The image he described was too detailed, too exact.
It matched her memory of the Netherfield ball so closely that it could not be mere coincidence.
Yet how could he remember what, in this world, had never occurred?
Eager to dispel the rising disquiet within her, Elizabeth pressed on. “And the sprig of yew you placed in the basket—that surprised me as well. I confess, I would not have taken you for the sort to keep tokens of a garden walk.”
Mr Darcy looked away, but not before Elizabeth noticed the rosy hue that crept up his neck. “Merely a memento to mark the day,” he said. “It seemed…worth remembering.”
Elizabeth gave a small nod, though her heart sank slightly at his words. “Yes, it was a celebratory occasion, after all. It must be a meaningful time for you.”
Mr Darcy turned to look at her, his face unreadable. After a moment, he said only, “Indeed.”
They walked on in silence, the air between them charged with restrained emotion. Then, Mr Darcy turned towards her again.
“Miss Bennet, may I ask you a question?”
She looked up, surprised by the formality of his tone. “Of course.”
“I have been reflecting on something you said the other day,” he began slowly. “You mentioned having heard some time ago that Anne and I were to marry. I am curious, where did you come by that intelligence?”
Elizabeth’s steps faltered. “I believe Colonel Fitzwilliam may have mentioned it at some point. But I first heard it in Hertfordshire. From Mr Wickham.”
Mr Darcy stopped short. He turned to face her fully, his complexion paling. “Mr Wickham?” he repeated. “You refer to George Wickham?”
Elizabeth froze, her heart racing. She had spoken without thinking, forgetting that in this strange new world, Mr Darcy knew nothing of her acquaintance with Mr Wickham.
“Yes. He was with a militia regiment stationed near my home last autumn.”
Mr Darcy’s expression darkened. His eyes, usually so reserved, now flashed with fury. “And he dared to speak of me? And of my family?” His tone rose sharply. “What lies has he told you?”
Elizabeth took a step back, her pulse pounding in her ears.
“N-nothing so very terrible,” she stammered.
“Mr Wickham was always…agreeable. Charming. He was well liked within the neighbourhood.” She paused for a moment before continuing, “He talked of his boyhood in Derbyshire, of your family’s long acquaintance.
And he alluded to certain things about your history together. ”
Mr Darcy’s hands clenched at his sides. “What sorts of things?”
Elizabeth hesitated. She could not bring herself to repeat the accusations aloud. “Let us just say that I have recently begun to doubt much of what he asserted,” she replied quietly.
Mr Darcy exhaled, dragging a hand across his jaw. The lines of his face had hardened; she could see his mind working furiously behind his eyes. “It makes sense now,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Your manner towards me, when we first met. It was tainted by his influence.”
Elizabeth blinked. She had not considered it before, but Mr Darcy’s words gave her pause.
If, as he said, her manner had been cool when they were first introduced in this new reality, what had prompted such reserve?
She had no memory of that initial meeting; but was it possible she had carried her former opinions with her, unknowingly?
Had the strength of her past perceptions so thoroughly shaped her that even in this altered existence, they had left their mark?
“I am sorry if I treated you unkindly,” she murmured. “I was not aware of it at the time.”
He responded with a curt nod, but when he looked at her again, there was a dark intensity in his gaze. “And what of my sister? Did he… Did Wickham dare to speak of Georgiana?”
Elizabeth reached out, placing a tentative hand on his coat sleeve.
“He did not speak ill of Miss Darcy…except to call her proud. But I can see now that nothing could be further from the truth. He talked mostly of his own misfortunes. A living that had been promised him by your late father…”
Mr Darcy’s jaw tensed. “Oh yes. Mr Wickham’s misfortunes have been great indeed,” he replied bitterly.
“I suppose he failed to mention that when my father died, Wickham resolved against taking orders and was instead given three thousand pounds in compensation for the living he declined. He later spent every shilling and returned, shamelessly, to demand the preferment, declaring it was still his by right.”
Elizabeth gasped.
“But that,” Mr Darcy continued grimly, “is not even the worst of it.”
What followed was a tale so vile, so appalling, that Elizabeth could scarcely comprehend it.
Her stomach clenched with anger and disbelief as Mr Darcy recounted Mr Wickham’s attempt to elope with his then fifteen-year-old sister, an act prevented only at the last possible moment.
The callous scheming, the deceit, the cruelty—each word landed like a blow.
By the time Mr Darcy had finished, Elizabeth’s thoughts were in chaos. How could one man be capable of such calculated malice? And worse, how could she have been so thoroughly deceived?
She felt sickened. Not just by Mr Wickham’s behaviour but by her own former credulity.
As they continued on, Elizabeth noticed that the path had curved back on itself, and through a small break in the trees, she could now see the lane leading to the parsonage just ahead.
Mr Darcy followed her gaze, drawing to a halt. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice low. “I have kept you far too long. I fear I am not fit company at present, and no doubt, you have long been wishing for my absence.”
Without waiting for her reply, he stepped ahead to open the gate. At its threshold, he paused only long enough to bow with formality before turning away.
Elizabeth watched him retreat, his figure soon swallowed by the trees, her thoughts a restless tide. She had believed him proud, disagreeable, impossible to understand; but now she was no longer certain she had ever truly comprehended him at all.
And more disquieting still was the growing suspicion that she might not, in any real sense, have ever truly known herself.