Chapter 23
The foyer gradually filled with murmurs as shock work off. The hushed voices spurred Mrs. Reynolds into motion, and she began barking orders with sharp efficiency, dispersing the servants who had gathered to watch.
“Back to your duties! Cook, tend to the injured. You—fetch fresh linens. You two, clean up this mess before the blood sets in.”
Darcy stood unmoving, his fists clenched and chest heaving. Blood pounded in his ears.
Mrs. Reynolds caught his eye. Her voice softened just slightly. “You and Beth—ten minutes. That is all I can spare you. Gather your wits and decide what you are going to do next. Then get out of sight before that wretched man returns.”
She gave a sharp nod toward the small cloakroom beside the staircase. Darcy turned and gently ushered Elizabeth inside, closing the door behind them.
It was dark and narrow, barely wide enough for two, and her form pressed up against the length of his body as he closed the door behind them. A thin shaft of light came in through the hinges of the doorframe. The scent of wool and old leather filled the air.
Elizabeth’s hand trembled in his.
“I am going to kill him,” he said, the words ripped raw from his throat. “I swear to God, Elizabeth—when he returns, I will not hesitate. I will see to it with my own hands.”
She flinched at the vehemence in his voice. “Darcy—”
“No.” He shook his head forcefully. “No, I have had enough. He tried to—he dared to lay his hands on you, and I—” His voice broke. “I left you alone.”
You were not far. You saved me—”
“I should have been there.” He struck the wall with his fist. “I should never have let him near you.”
“Darcy—”
“Do not call me that,” he said roughly. “That name means nothing here. Nothing. I am no master of Pemberley. I am no brother. No protector. I am only a servant in a world that should not even exist, and I cannot—” His breath caught. “I cannot even keep you safe.”
She moved closer, her eyes shimmering. “This is not your fault.”
“Is it not?” he whispered. “Everything is broken. My sister, my name, my world. And the one thing—the one person—who has made any of this bearable… he nearly ruined you.”
Her gaze softened. “But he did not.”
He looked away, shoulders shaking. “Only because I reached you in time. What if next time I do not? What if next time he—”
“Then we take steps,” she said firmly. “We prepare. We protect Georgiana. We protect each other. But we do not become like him.”
“It would be worth it, to rid the world of him.”
“I do not believe you.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “You do not think me capable of murder?”
“I think,” she said slowly, “that you are capable of anything. But what matters is not what you can do—it is what you choose to do.”
He stilled at that.
She stepped closer, her hand gently brushing his sleeve. “You are a good man, Fitzwilliam Darcy. You are angry—rightly so. But you are not wicked. You are not cruel. You are not a man who would commit murder in a blind rage.”
He closed his eyes.
Her grip tightened. “No, Fitzwilliam. I will not allow you to kill him.”
His shoulders slumped. “How can you even want him alive? After what he tried to do?”
“I know,” she said steadily, though her voice was hushed, “and, God forgive me, I do wish him dead. But that does not mean we abandon our principles.”
“What principles? What honor remains in this twisted world? I wished myself into it—I erased everything I knew. And now I am left powerless to fix it. If I cannot stop him, what good am I?”
“You are not powerless,” she said fiercely. “You stopped him today. You protected me. You protected Georgiana. That is what matters.”
He turned away, his voice rough. “It is not enough. He will come back.”
“Then we make a plan. We find a way to stop him without losing ourselves in the process.”
Darcy dragged both hands through his hair, wild and unkempt from the morning’s chaos. “You do not understand. I want to kill him. I want to see his blood on my hands. I do not care about consequences. I—”
“You do care,” she interrupted, stepping closer. “You care so much that it is eating you alive. But you are not a murderer, Fitzwilliam. You are not a brute. You are a good man—whether this world sees it or not.”
“Elizabeth—”
“You would regret it, Fitzwilliam. I know you would.”
“Would it even matter? Does this world, this Wickham, even exist? Once we return home, no one would even know.”
“You would know.” She looked pleadingly into his eyes. “This man has already stolen so much from so many. Do not allow him to steal your soul, too.”
He stared at her—at the sincerity in her eyes, the gentle defiance in her stance. Her face was pale, but her gaze was steady. She had endured so much, and still she stood here, defending that… that monster.
“Then tell me what to do.” His voice cracked. “Tell me how to stop wanting to destroy him.”
Her hand rose to his face, fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “You do not have to stop feeling it. You only have to choose to not act on it. To be better than he is.”
Darcy swallowed hard. The tightness in his chest began to ease—not vanish, but loosen enough for breath to return.
“I want to take you away from here,” he said hoarsely. “I want to put you somewhere safe. I cannot breathe, knowing he is near you.”
“I know.” Her voice was tender. “But you do not have to carry that burden alone.”
His eyes met hers, searching. “You forgive me? For letting him get so close?”
“There is nothing to forgive.” She touched his heart. “You came once you knew. That is all that matters.”
He closed the distance between them and held her tightly, his forehead pressed to hers.
“Then I shall never leave you again.”
They remained there for several minutes, unmoving, his arms wrapped around her like a man clinging to the last safe thing in a storm. She fit against him perfectly—warm, steady, and alive. He did not want to let go.
If this world were a dream, he wanted to sleep forever.
But reality, as it always did, intruded.
Knock, knock.
“William? Beth?” Mrs. Reynolds’ voice was soft, but urgent. “I am sorry, but we must act.”
Darcy exhaled, eyes still closed, forehead still resting against Elizabeth’s. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
He had no plan.
He had fury. Despair. A desire to protect that bordered on madness. But no strategy, no logic, no idea how to end this nightmare without blood.
Elizabeth lifted her head from where it rest on Darcy’s chest, her fingers brushing his arm before turning toward the door and opening it.
Mrs. Reynolds raised an eyebrow at both of them—taking in their drawn faces, the flush on Darcy’s cheeks, the quiet fury still simmering in his eyes.
“Well?” she asked.
“I do not have a plan.” He hung his head.
“Fortunately,” Elizabeth said, her voice calm, “I do.”
∞∞∞
Elizabeth was still trembling when Darcy pulled her into the closet. The echo of Wickham’s voice lingered in her ears—the slurred jeer, the satisfied smirk as he locked the door, the sound of his footsteps as he swayed towards her.
It was confidence of a man certain he could do whatever he pleased and remain unpunished.
It made her physically ill to remember how close he had come.
If Darcy had been a moment later—
She closed her eyes, pressing herself more tightly against Darcy’s frame. The thought was unbearable.
And yet, even through the fear, something fiercer stirred within her: anger. Not at Wickham—though he deserved every curse heaven might see fit to rain upon him—but at the injustice of it all.
Here she was, a woman of no fortune, with no family to appeal to and no power in her hands. Darcy, a man of intelligence and strength, was reduced to a servant in his own home. And Georgiana—the mistress of Pemberley—was all but a prisoner within it.
There had to be a way to turn the scales.
But how? He was the master of Pemberley, and they were nothing but servants.
When Darcy said he was going to kill Wickham, a small part of her desperately wished he would.
But only for a moment.
She knew that Darcy was an honorable gentleman. Murder, tempting though it was, would put a blackness in his heart that no amount of love or forgiveness would ever be able to erase.
And so as he spoke of vengeance, her mind raced, desperate for something—anything—that did not end with blood or ruin. And then she remembered.
Georgiana’s letter—Colonel Fitzwilliam!
The idea struck her like a spark catching dry tinder. He had written to Georgiana from Matlock, which was only a few hours away. If they could reach him—if he could see what had become of his cousin’s household—surely he would intervene. Surely he could do what they could not.
Her lips parted to speak, to tell Darcy of her plan, but then his arms tightened around her, anchoring her to him. The rage and despair that had filled the small cloakroom seemed to ebb with every breath he took against her hair.
For the first time since the fire that was not a fire, she felt safe. Truly safe.
She closed her eyes and leaned into him. The world could wait a little longer.
To her disappointment, a soft knock came all too soon.
“William? Beth?” Mrs. Reynolds’ voice carried a weary gentleness. “I am sorry, but we must act. Have you settled on a plan?”
Darcy’s negative response only served to harden Elizabeth’s resolve. “Fortunately, I have one,” she said.
“What are you thinking?” Darcy asked her, a look of trepidation on his face.
Darcy turned sharply toward her, his expression caught between hope and trepidation. “What are you thinking?”
Elizabeth lifted her chin, arching an eyebrow with a faint trace of mischief. “Nothing so dire as you are, I suspect. It involves neither murder nor mayhem—at least, not if we are lucky.”
The smallest ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, and she felt her heart ease just a little at the sight.
“It is actually quite simple, really. Georg—Mrs. Georgiana received a letter from her cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam a few days ago.”