Chapter 13 #2
“When she was younger, I thought it was only that she needed to be socialized,” he continued quietly.
“Our father died when she was eight. There was no mother. Just Fitzwilliam and me. Two bachelors—one always away with the army, and one buried in estate ledgers and mourning. I… I did not know how to raise a young girl.”
There was no self-pity in his voice—only quiet resignation.
“I sent her to school. It is what my aunts advised, and it was what I knew. I thought it would teach her the rules of society, give her friends. A place to belong.”
His jaw tensed slightly.
“But it did not. She did not thrive. She withdrew further. The other girls… they were not kind. Not cruel, exactly—but they saw her shyness as weakness. Some mocked her. Others ignored her. I visited once and found her pretending to be asleep to avoid going down to breakfast.”
Elizabeth’s heart ached.
He looked over at her then, his expression bleak. “I took her home the next day. I thought—” He exhaled. “I thought perhaps a smaller setting would suit her better. My aunt Matlock recommended a companion. A Mrs. Younge.”
At the name, his features darkened.
“She was charming in society. A widow, genteel, with good references. I thought Georgiana liked her. Perhaps she did, at first.”
Elizabeth sensed the shift—heard the bitter edge creeping into his voice.
“I left them in Ramsgate while I returned to London. I thought it a harmless way for her to enjoy the sea air while I attended to business.” He looked away. “It was a mistake.”
“What happened?” Elizabeth asked softly.
He stared out the window for a long moment. “Wickham found her there.”
Her breath caught.
“Mrs. Younge was not what she seemed. She and Wickham had known each other for years. I believe they plotted it together, waiting for their opportunity. But I stopped receiving any letters from her. I thought she was, perhaps, still despondent, so I decided to surprise her… and instead found her about to elope”
Elizabeth sat up straighter. “Good God.”
“I arrived just in time.” His voice was low and hard. “He had convinced her that they were in love, that they must flee before I could stop them. I found her with her trunk already packed, planning to leave that night.”
“Did you confront him?”
“Not in that moment—he was not present. Instead, I sent my sister to her room and fired Mrs. Younge. When I checked on Georgiana, she was angrier than I had ever witnessed before. My quiet sister was fire and rage. She did not believe me until she heard it from his mouth herself.”
Elizabeth gasped and put a hand to her mouth. “The poor girl.”
Darcy pressed his lips together. “He was so cruel, denying everything, saying it was all Georgiana’s idea and that he never loved her.
She wept through the entire exchange, and after I drove him from the house, she begged me not to tell anyone.
” His mouth twisted. “Not because she feared disgrace—but because she blamed herself.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened in her lap. “She was fifteen, and he was a grown man.”
“She turned sixteen two weeks later.”
The carriage rocked over a rut in the road. Neither of them spoke for several moments.
At last, Elizabeth said, “He is a monster.”
Darcy looked over, startled. Something in her voice—fierce and raw—seemed to move him.
“You were right,” she said, more quietly. “I believed his story in Meryton. I thought you had robbed him of his living. I thought him wronged and you proud.”
His eyes flicked away, and she hung her head. “I am ashamed of it now.”
“You had reason,” he said. “I gave you no cause to think otherwise.”
“But still—”
“I told you,” he said gently, “we are equal in our misjudgments.”
She searched his face—serious, composed, with just the faintest hint of sorrow lingering behind his eyes.
“I wish I could tell her it will be all right,” Elizabeth said softly. “That she will not always feel this way. That someone will see her, truly see her, and treat her kindly.”
He nodded once and looked out the window.
“I will do whatever I must,” he said, almost to himself. “Even if we are trapped in this world, and she does not know me. I will find a way to help her.”
Elizabeth watched him, her throat tightening.
And in that moment, she saw not the proud man who had once insulted her at a ball, nor the stranger thrust into her journey by some inexplicable force of fate.
She saw a partner. The one man in the world who was the most suited to her in disposition and talents, in understanding and temper.
And her heart knew it.
∞∞∞
Darcy sat quietly as the coach rattled onward, the conversation with Elizabeth still echoing in his mind.
She had asked him—gently, curiously—about Wickham, and instead of answering her with the clarity and honesty she deserved, he had bristled.
He had not meant to. Truly. And yet, the instant she had spoken Wickham’s name, something had curled in his chest: a hot, acidic knot of memory and shame and fury—and the words had left him more harshly than he intended.
And she had recoiled.
Not dramatically. Not with wounded pride or anger. No, it was subtler than that. A stilling of her hands. A quick blink. A quiet retreat into herself.
But he had seen it.
And he had hated himself for it.
She had only wanted to understand. Of course she had asked. And why should she not have believed Wickham back in Meryton? Darcy had done nothing to recommend himself—nothing to refute Wickham’s lies—nothing to make Elizabeth trust him over a charming man with a tragic tale.
And yet she had apologized. Felt shame. Looked at him with those wide, regretful eyes and spoken words he never thought he would hear from her lips.
“I am sorry… It was presumptuous of me.”
Not just an apology. A wound cloaked in frustration. He had heard the flicker of hurt in her tone, the defensive edge. And he had deserved every syllable of it.
He had apologized, of course. Tried to explain.
But the truth was, he hated the man so much, and had done for so long, that any mention of him was like pressing against an old bruise that had never properly healed.
Wickham had been at the center of too many of his failures—failures of judgment, of trust, of protection.
Failures that had cost people Darcy loved more than they would ever know.
And now… Elizabeth.
He had hurt her with his tone, and that knowledge unsettled him more than he could admit. He was not used to caring how others perceived his mood. His family, his tenants, his peers—they respected him, they obeyed him, but they did not expect tenderness.
Elizabeth did not expect it either. And yet, somehow, he wanted to offer it to her. Freely. Without reserve.
She made him want to be better. Even when she challenged him. Especially when she challenged him.
He shifted slightly in the seat, glancing across at her. She was staring out the window, one gloved hand resting lightly against her chin. Her expression was thoughtful, quiet. No trace of judgment remained there. Just… empathy. Understanding.
She had listened as he spoke of Georgiana. Not with pity, but with purpose. With fire. When she had called Wickham a monster, something in Darcy had loosened—some old, tight place in his chest that had never quite relaxed.
She sees it now, he thought. She understands. And still she is here.
The coach hit a rut, jostling them slightly. Elizabeth turned to steady herself, her shoulder brushing his. He did not move away.
No, she is not the same woman who dismissed me in Kent. And I am not the same man who walked away from her, determined never to look back.
He wanted to reach for her hand. Wanted to tell her again how sorry he was for the sharpness in his voice. But instead, he simply said, “Thank you.”
She looked at him, puzzled. “For what?”
“For asking about my sister.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed softly, but she nodded once. “She matters to you. I wanted to understand.”
He gave a faint smile. “You are very good at that.”
The carriage rocked on, and this time, silence fell not from discomfort, but from something far more fragile and precious.
Trust.