Chapter 10 A Night of Restlessness and Resolve
A NIGHT OF RESTLESSNESS AND RESOLVE
The hours until dawn stretched interminably.
Every time Mr. Darcy closed his eyes, the evening replayed itself in merciless detail: Miss Elizabeth's expression when Wickham whispered his poison in her ear.
The softness in her eyes when she thanked him for defending Miss Lydia.
The way she had looked at him in the alcove, her voice quiet with dawning trust, saying I have begun to suspect as much.
And beneath it all, threading through every memory like a golden thread, the warmth in her voice when she spoke his name.
Mr. Darcy.
He could hear it still. Could feel the way his heart had stuttered at the sound.
He was a man pulled apart by contradictions.
His desire to protect her warred with his fear of losing her esteem.
His rage at Wickham's lies battled against his longing for something he was not certain he deserved.
He wanted to tell her everything—the whole sordid truth of Wickham's character—and yet he could not, not without exposing Georgiana to scandal.
When gray light finally crept across the ceiling, Darcy rose and dressed, feeling no more rested than when he had lain down. His valet took one look at his face and wisely said nothing.
Breakfast was an exercise in endurance.
The dining room buzzed with cheerful chatter—servants clearing dishes, Caroline issuing commands, Mrs. Hurst making languid observations about the previous evening's successes.
Darcy heard none of it. He sat with his coffee growing cold, his thoughts fixed on a woman who was miles away, probably not thinking of him at all.
Bingley, in contrast, was incandescent.
He practically floated into the room, his face alight with a joy so pure it bordered on comedic. He helped himself to eggs with the enthusiasm of a man who had discovered the meaning of existence, humming snatches of a country dance under his breath.
“Was it not the most wonderful evening?” he asked no one in particular. “The music, the games, the company—everything was perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
“The candelabra would disagree,” Caroline said acidly. “That Bennet girl nearly burned the house down.”
“An accident. Could have happened to anyone.” Bingley waved away the objection with cheerful dismissal. “And Miss Bennet was so gracious about the whole thing. Did you see how she calmed her sister? Such composure. Such kindness.”
Caroline's jaw clenched. “I saw a great deal of the Bennet family last night. Rather more than I might have wished.”
Bingley did not appear to hear her. He had drifted into a reverie, his toast forgotten, his expression that of a man contemplating heaven.
Darcy watched his friend and felt something loosen in his chest. Bingley was happy—truly, profoundly happy—in a way Darcy had rarely seen him.
Whatever reservations Darcy had once harbored about Jane Bennet, they seemed foolish now.
The woman clearly adored Bingley. Her every look, her every gesture, spoke of genuine affection.
Who was Darcy to stand in the way of such happiness?
Bingley caught his eye and leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Darcy. I must ask you something. In confidence.”
“Of course.”
“Do you believe—that is—” Bingley's ears reddened. “Do you think Miss Bennet returns my feelings? Truly returns them?”
Darcy thought of Jane Bennet's serene composure, her gentle smiles, the way her eyes had followed Bingley across every room. He thought of Miss Elizabeth's obvious delight in her sister's courtship, her certainty that Jane's affection was genuine.
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.
Bingley's face split into a grin so wide it threatened to crack. “You truly think so?”
“I do.”
“Then I shall—that is—I have been considering—” He stopped, took a breath, and squared his shoulders with the gravity of a man about to charge into battle. “I intend to propose. Today, if I can arrange a private moment. Tomorrow at the latest.”
Something warm spread through Darcy's chest. “I am glad to hear it.”
“You approve?”
“You would know if I did not.”
Bingley looked as though he might embrace him across the breakfast table. Caroline, who had been listening with mounting horror, made a strangled sound.
“Charles, surely you cannot mean—”
“I can and I do.” Bingley's voice held an unusual firmness. “Miss Bennet is everything I have ever wanted. I will not let her slip away.”
He returned to his breakfast with renewed enthusiasm, leaving Caroline to fume in silence.
Darcy barely noticed. His thoughts had already drifted elsewhere—to Miss Elizabeth, to Wickham, to the impossible tangle of truths he needed to unravel.
Mrs. Hurst expressed mild shock at the Bennet sisters' evident popularity, but Darcy was only half listening.
He found himself watching the door, some foolish part of him hoping Miss Elizabeth might somehow appear, knowing she would not, knowing she was at Longbourn and that he had no right to wish for her presence.
He wished for it anyway.
After breakfast, Darcy retreated to the library under the pretense of writing letters.
He could not write.
He sat at the desk with paper and pen before him, staring at the blank page as though it might reveal answers he could not find on his own.
He needed to speak to Miss Elizabeth. Needed to explain about Wickham—the lies, the manipulation, the danger the man posed to anyone foolish enough to trust him.
But how?
He could not reveal Georgiana's near-ruin. The scandal would destroy her. And yet without that crucial piece of evidence, his accusations against Wickham would seem like nothing more than petty rivalry: a proud man slandering a charming one out of spite.
Miss Elizabeth had begun to doubt Wickham. She had said as much in the alcove. But doubt was not certainty, and Wickham was skilled at appearing wronged. One well-timed display of wounded innocence could undo everything.
After breakfast, Darcy retreated to the library under the pretense of reviewing correspondence.
He could not concentrate on a single word.
He paced the length of the room instead, his footsteps muffled by the carpet, his thoughts churning. He needed to speak to Miss Elizabeth. Needed to explain about Wickham—the lies, the manipulation, the danger the man posed to anyone foolish enough to trust him.
But how?
He stopped before the window, staring out at the frost-covered grounds without seeing them.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said aloud, testing the words. “There are matters I must bring to your attention regarding Mr. Wickham's character.”
Too formal. Too cold. As though he were presenting evidence before a magistrate.
He tried again.
“Miss Elizabeth, I beg you would hear me. The man you believe wronged is not what he appears—”
Too dramatic. Too desperate. She would think him jealous, or mad, or both.
He resumed pacing, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“The truth is—” He stopped. What was the truth? That Wickham was a liar? That he had nearly ruined Georgiana? That Darcy had watched him charm his way through Hertfordshire and could not say a word without exposing his sister to scandal?
He could not reveal Georgiana's near-ruin. The scandal would destroy her. And yet without that crucial piece of evidence, his accusations against Wickham would seem like nothing more than petty rivalry—a proud man slandering a charming one out of spite.
Miss Elizabeth had begun to doubt Wickham. She had said as much in the alcove. But doubt was not certainty, and Wickham was skilled at appearing wronged. One well-timed display of wounded innocence could undo everything.
Darcy stopped before the fireplace, gripping the mantel until his knuckles went white.
He had rehearsed a dozen different speeches in his mind. None of them were right. Words that sounded reasonable in his head became stilted and suspicious when spoken aloud. Every approach seemed either too vague to be convincing or too specific to protect his sister.
The fire crackled. The clock ticked with maddening steadiness.
Darcy pushed away from the mantel in frustration. Unable to sit still any longer, he decided to see if a walk would dislodge some coherent revelation.
The winter air cut through him like a blade, sharp and clarifying. He strode across the frost-covered grounds without direction, his breath fogging in the December cold, his thoughts gradually settling into something approaching order.
He thought of Wickham's smug expression at the entertainment. The way the man had laughed when Lydia fell, a laugh designed to wound. The cold edge in his voice when he spoke to Miss Elizabeth as he tested her loyalties.
And then he thought of Miss Elizabeth's growing doubt. The way she had stepped back from Wickham's charm.
He thought of the alcove, her voice soft with trust: I have begun to suspect as much.
She was already so close to seeing the truth. And if he could just speak to her—honestly, without pride or pretense—perhaps he could help her see the whole of it.
If he stayed silent, Wickham won. The man would continue spreading his poison, continue playing the victim and worming his way into the confidence of everyone Darcy cared about.
If Darcy spoke too freely, he risked Georgiana's reputation—and Miss Elizabeth's trust, if she felt he was asking her to believe accusations without proof.
But if he chose his words with care and let his sincerity speak for itself, he might preserve her peace of mind and protect her from Wickham's schemes.
He might, just possibly, win her regard.
Darcy made a decision that had nothing to do with pride or family reputation or social expectation. He made it for Miss Elizabeth, for her safety, her happiness, her right to know the character of the man who sought her attention.
He would speak to her. Today, if possible. The resolution steadied him. He turned back toward the house, his stride purposeful, the words, once elusive, finally composing themselves in his mind.