Chapter 24 #2
The rhythmic thud of hooves filled the silence. He clung to it—because the alternative was to hear again the echo of Wickham’s voice.
The sneer. The slurred laugh.
The sight of Elizabeth trembling.
He pressed a hand against his thigh to still the shaking. The fury that rose in him was almost welcome—it gave him warmth, something to hold onto.
How dare that man exist—how dare he breathe the same air as she did.
But Elizabeth’s words came back to him, soft and unyielding:
“Fitzwilliam, you would know.
If he killed Wickham, no matter the world or the consequence, he would know. He would carry that blood forever.
She was right.
He exhaled sharply, forcing the rage down.
Focus. Ride. Do not think of her tears. Do not think of the bruise on her wrist or the terror in her eyes.
Matlock was still hours away. The wind stung his face. The hills rose and fell before him in waves of frost and shadow, and with each mile, his mind swayed between hope and despair.
He tried to pray, but no words would come. Only her name.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered into the cold. “Please, God—keep her safe until I return.”
The mare stumbled slightly on the uneven ground, and he steadied her, murmuring softly. The brief distraction grounded him. He adjusted the reins and pressed on.
The light was fading now; dusk pooled in the hollows between the hills. Somewhere far behind him lay Pemberley—its chimneys, its darkened windows, and the woman he loved hiding in its depths.
He urged Nell to a canter, ignoring the ache in his shoulders, the sting of the wind in his eyes. If he rode hard, he might yet reach Matlock before nightfall.
And if Richard was still Richard—
If any part of this world still held a shred of mercy—
Then he would not have ridden in vain.
The minutes passed slowly, almost agonizingly so.
At last, he road through the front gates of Matlock and directed Nell towards the stable, where he slid down from the saddle.
The cold struck him like a blade the moment he dismounted; his cheeks were stung raw and his fingers numb despite the gloves.
Looking around, he was relieved by what he saw.
Men bustled about the yard with practiced ease—warm breath steaming in the air, leather boots scuffing, the tidy clatter of harness and tin pails.
The stables at Matlock bore the stamp of prosperity: neat strappings, polished tack, and grooms whose coats still held a respectable gloss.
At least the earl still prospers; it will give the colonel more power to be of assistance.
A young groom in a fur cap gave Nell an appraising look and then shot Darcy a filthy stare at the mare’s ragged condition. “She looks half-dead, that one,” the man muttered, loud enough that Darcy heard it.
“She has done more than is fit for a nag this day,” Darcy said shortly. “There is an emergency at Pemberley. Mrs. Wickham sent me.”
The groom shrugged and jerked his thumb toward the house. “Best speak to the housekeeper or the butler, then. You will find them faster at the front than hanging about the stables.”
Darcy thanked the man and made for the front door, each step crunching on frost. He rapped the knocker with a force born of impatience and fear. The door opened upon an austere visage—a man of brittle courtesy who regarded Darcy’s mud-stained form from chin to heel.
The look held no charity.
“State your business,” the man said coldly.
“Please,” Darcy replied, forcing his voice steady, “I need Colonel Fitzwilliam immediately. There is an emergency at Pemberley, and his cousin requests his presence.”
The man’s expression did not alter but he inclined his head and closed the door. Darcy was ushered into a broad, warm foyer where the air smelled of peat and polished wood. The warmth of the room was balm, but it only made his impatience crueler.
“Wait here.”
Time stretched. Every creak and step sounded like a clock; every idle footman a reprimand to his conscience for not being at Elizabeth’s side.
At last the door to a side room opened and a gentleman entered, his gait composed, his expression skeptical: Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.
He appeared older than Darcy remembered—tighter in the face, less softened by years abroad—and his dinner dress bore the neatness of military apparel.
Darcy’s heart ached as he looked upon the colonel—his cousin, his friend, the man who had once been as a brother to him—and saw nothing but caution in his eyes.
There was no flicker of recognition, no spark of the shared memories that had bound their youth.
The easy warmth that had always existed between them was gone, replaced by suspicion and distance.
To stand before Richard Fitzwilliam and be met with doubt instead of trust was a wound deeper than pride could bear. It was like gazing into the mirror but seeing no reflection.
“You have come from Pemberley?” Richard asked, blunt and unsmiling.
Darcy inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”
Richard’s eye took in Darcy’s worn clothes, Nell, the smear of road on his hands. “What is your purpose?”
Glancing around, Darcy took in the gazes of the servants that were all fixed on him. “This may be best done in private, sir.”
Nodding curtly, Richard turned on his heel and led Darcy to a nearby sitting-room. He closed the door, then turned to look Darcy squarely in the face. “Now what has happened? Who are you, and was is going on at Pemberley?”
“My name is William. Georg—that is, Mrs. Wickham sent me for you.”
Darcy cursed himself as Richard’s eyes narrowed with lightning speed.
“Georgiana? What, pray tell, is the precise nature of your relationship with my cousin.”
Darcy gaped, horror at how his explanation might sound tripping through him.
“No—no, Colonel—my apologies. My meaning was confused. My wife is her maid, her companion. I have been working in the stables and as a footman. Pray, forgive my clumsy words.” He swallowed and tried again.
“Let me begin afresh. I am making a muddle of this.”
His tongue seemed made of lead, affected by both cold and fatigue.
He began haltingly, then faster as the urgency of the truth forced him forward.
He told of their employment a month previous; of his wife’s work as both scullery and lady’s maid, as well as companion to Mrs. Georgiana; of Wickham’s drunken return and the threat he posed to Georgiana and her unborn child; of the blow given in a moment of desperate defense; of the threat to fetch the magistrate and the fear that the man’s temper might yet yield to worse.
“Did my cousin send a missive with you? Anything to vouch for your character?”
“No. No, she did not. I… I am afraid that the idea of my being doubted did not even occur to us. Time was of the essence, and Mrs. Wickham was understandably quite distraught. Mrs. Reynolds assisted her up to her chambers.”
The colonel’s scowl deepened. He stood silent for a measured beat, assessing the man before him as if weighing coin.
“You expect me to believe that a stranger ridden hard into my gates declares that my cousin is imperiled, and that you have not thought to obtain a letter, a written word, any confirmation?” he said at last. “It is sudden, and it sounds convenient.”
Darcy felt the hot, helpless heat of anger rise. He had no time for diplomacy. He had no parchment of proof because there had been no time for prudence. “Blast, Richard,” he heard himself blurt out.
Both men froze. The use of the colonel’s Christian name left them astonished—the one at the impertinence, the other at the misstep.
“Honestly, sir,” Darcy continued, his voice once again calm, “I do not blame you for your doubts. Wickham is a cad of the worst sort, and if any man has reason to mistrust him, you have seen enough of the Continent to be wise. All I can offer is my oath and urgency. Pemberley needs assistance now.”
For a long moment, not a word was spoken. Outside, the wind pressed cold fingers against the windows, and Darcy stood beneath his cousin’s searching stare, waiting—heart pounding—for judgment to fall.
Come on, Richard, Darcy urged his cousin internally. Surely some part of you must recognize me, trust me.