Chapter 13
Elizabeth awoke to the soft creak of the shutters and the faint orange glow of dawn spilling across the floorboards.
For a moment, she did not move. Darcy still lay beside her, his breathing deep and even, his hand mere inches from her own.
The night’s words echoed in her mind—his confession, her choice, the press of his lips to her forehead like a vow whispered in the dark.
She felt it still, the warmth of that kiss lingering on her skin like a secret.
She turned slowly toward him, taking in the relaxed lines of his face in sleep.
So rare, that expression—unguarded, almost boyish.
A version of him few had likely ever seen.
She found herself studying him as if to memorize him: the faint crease between his brows, the tousled hair curling at the temples, the dark lashes that cast soft shadows over his cheeks.
She let the moment linger until his lashes fluttered, and his eyes opened.
He blinked at her. “Good morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
“Good morning,” she whispered back.
And just like that, the spell was broken.
But it was not lost.
They rose and dressed, the silence between them companionable now rather than strained. After a light breakfast brought to their room—Darcy had seen to it before she had even risen—they stepped out into the crisp morning air to begin their journey northward.
From the village of Meryton to the county border near Bakewell was no short jaunt.
Darcy estimated it would take at least five days with good roads and hired post-chaises, perhaps longer if the weather turned.
The route stretched nearly two hundred miles, threading north through Northamptonshire and the Midlands before finally reaching Derbyshire.
As the coach rumbled along the unfamiliar turnpikes and coaching inns rolled past the windows, Elizabeth felt the landscape shift—flattening into open farmland, the hills of her childhood giving way to the northward climb.
The rhythm of the carriage was steady, almost lulling, and for a time they sat in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts.
At the next stop to change the horses, the only other occupant of the public coach disembarked and did not return.
Elizabeth and Darcy were left to themselves, and the only sign that they were not in a private conveyance was the worn upholstery beneath them and the groaning springs that creaked at every jolt in the road.
And because of their privacy, she could no longer contain the question gnawing at her.
“Mr. Dar—William,” she said carefully, “may I ask you something… uncomfortable?”
He turned from the window, brows lifting slightly. “You may ask me anything.”
She twisted her hands in her lap. “It is about Mr. Wickham.”
His entire posture stiffened.
“I only—being back in Meryton made me think of him. Of the stories he told. The… the living that was promised to him. That he claims you denied.”
Darcy’s jaw tensed. “I see.”
“I only mean—” she faltered, seeing the storm brewing behind his eyes. “I believed him, once. Not any longer, of course. But I think I should like to understand the truth.”
There was a silence—longer than she expected, heavier than she could bear.
Darcy’s expression was unreadable, and he looked away from her, his gaze fixed on the passing landscape beyond the window.
The countryside blurred past in shades of brown and gray, but Elizabeth hardly saw it.
The quiet between them seemed to stretch, sharp and uncomfortable, until it filled the whole of the carriage.
Her stomach tightened. The warmth and certainty she had felt the night before—his tenderness, his kiss, the promise in his voice—slipped away like sand through her fingers. He was angry. Truly angry.
As the seconds ticked by, she sat rigidly, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She told herself she did not mind the silence. It was just a question. A simple inquiry. Perfectly reasonable.
But the longer he said nothing, the more her confidence withered. Her thoughts, so calm and certain that morning, began to churn. The security she had felt—his kiss on her forehead, the warmth in his voice, the way he had looked at her—suddenly felt fragile. Remote.
A prickle of discomfort stirred in her chest. She had never liked being left to guess at another’s thoughts. And from him—of all people—it felt intolerable.
She shifted slightly. Why was he so angry? Why would he not speak?
The silence pressed down, too close, too loud. A flicker of resentment sparked low in her gut, catching her by surprise.
“I am sorry,” she said at last, too quickly. Her voice was sharper than she intended. “It was presumptuous of me.”
“No,” he said, his voice low and tight. “It was not. Only… Wickham is a difficult subject for me. He always has been.”
“I see.”
The tone of her voice made it clear that she did not see. He hesitated a moment longer, then exhaled and turned back toward her.
“You are right to ask. And I promised you honesty.”
She waited, hands still tightly clasped.
“We were raised almost as brothers,” he began quietly. “His father was my father’s steward. A good man—steady, intelligent, loyal. When George was born, his mother died in childbirth. A tragedy. She had been a serving girl, but bright and warm-spirited. My father felt it a great loss.”
Elizabeth blinked in surprise.
“My father—” Darcy paused, rubbing his gloved thumb against the edge of his seat.
“He had always longed for a large family. He had a brother, younger by a few years, who died in his twenties of a fever while on the Continent. I think that loss marked him more deeply than he ever said aloud. So when I was born, and it became clear that my mother could not bear many more children—” his lips tightened—“he saw something of his brother in Wickham. The mannerisms, perhaps. A resemblance. And so he did what he thought best.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “What was that?”
“He had George brought to Pemberley,” Darcy said.
“Not just as the steward’s son. As my companion.
We shared tutors, toys, mischief. My father insisted he be educated as a gentleman.
My mother hated it. She thought it encouraged entitlement—and she was right.
But my father... he saw George as a second son. ”
“Was he kind, as a boy?”
“Charming,” Darcy said bitterly. “Always charming. But selfish. Calculating. He would borrow my books and lose them, break my toys and charm me into silence. He would lie to my parents, and if caught, say it was a misunderstanding. And somehow, I was always the one being scolded for lacking generosity or warmth. My father thought me cold. In truth, I was exhausted.”
Elizabeth said nothing. Her fingers loosened their grip, slowly.
“Even as we grew older,” he continued, “George knew how to twist affection to his advantage. At university, he gambled away every allowance he was given. My father helped him again and again, even promising him the living at Kympton, despite his lack of interest in the Church. After my father died…” his voice dropped, “...I could not, in good conscience, bestow a parish upon a man who mocked religion and drank himself insensible before lectures.”
“And then?” Elizabeth asked softly.
“He demanded money instead,” Darcy said. “I gave it to him. Three thousand pounds.”
Elizabeth looked down at her lap, guilt roiling in her chest.
“I believed him,” she said quietly. “Every word.”
“I know,” Darcy said, his voice gentler now. “It wounded me, but… I can hardly fault you for it. Wickham is a gifted liar. And I was proud. Silent. I let you believe it.”
“I was prejudiced against you,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I saw what I wanted to see.”
He reached for her hand. “If you can forgive me for my pride, I can forgive you for your prejudice.”
Her lips curved faintly despite herself.
“Besides,” he added, “I am the one who made the foolish wish that brought us here, all because I condemned your family without truly knowing them. So perhaps we both are equally guilty of poor judgment.”
The rest of the day passed in quieter reflection. The road north unfolded like a ribbon of history—each milestone another marker of a shared past neither of them remembered, and yet one they were rewriting together.
And that night, when they stopped at a modest inn near Leicester, and Darcy gently touched the small of her back as he guided her inside, Elizabeth knew with quiet certainty that she was exactly where she wished to be.
By his side.
Wherever the road led next.
∞∞∞
The next day dawned gray and cold, the air damp with the threat of rain. The inside of the hired coach was warmer than the wind outside, but not by much. They sat close, huddled in their cloaks, their thighs brushing now and then with the movement of the carriage.
They had crossed the boundary into the next county that morning, and the countryside had begun to change—greener, hillier, with fewer villages and more miles between.
Elizabeth studied the scenery for a while, but her mind was elsewhere.
Darcy had asked after her family. He had spoken kindly of Jane. He had even endured Mrs. Bennet with an admirable degree of composure.
It was time she did the same.
She waited until the driver’s voice called down about the next change of horses, then looked over at Darcy.
“What is your sister like?”
He blinked, clearly surprised by the question. “Georgiana?”
She smiled slightly. “Unless there is another secret sister you have yet to mention.”
That coaxed a faint smile from him, but it faded quickly. He looked down at his gloved hands, laced loosely in his lap.
“She is sweet,” he said after a long pause. “Shy. Too shy, I think. She always has been. Gentle, eager to please, but…” He trailed off.
“But?”
“She finds the world overwhelming,” he said simply. “People, especially. Other girls.”
Elizabeth waited, giving him space.