Chapter Twenty-One #2
Wickham had always appeared careless and indolent.
Now Darcy saw something else beneath both qualities.
The man was haunted. And whatever remorse lay within him—it was real.
Darcy was left to consider what Wickham’s remorse might accomplish.
It might prove useful. It might destroy the man before justice could be done.
It might even alter Darcy’s own intentions.
With a glance behind him, he noted that Wickham remained by the fire, his glass in hand, his thoughts—at last—no longer entirely his own.
Shaking his head, Darcy stepped out into the night, the cool air striking his face with welcome clarity.
Darcy did not intend, at first, to make a habit of seeking her.
That was what he told himself. The first morning had been coincidence—so he had reasoned.
He had risen early, restless from a night too full of thought and too empty of sleep and had gone out into the park with no fixed design beyond the need for air and motion.
That she should be there as well, walking with that same grace he remembered, attended by a discreet footman and followed closely by the great dog, had seemed at once inevitable and entirely unforeseen.
The second morning had been less easily explained. By the third, he no longer troubled himself with pretense.
He had come to understand the general rhythm of her mornings, without knowing anything that propriety would forbid.
She walked most mornings when the weather permitted, favoring a particular path where the trees arched overhead and the press of society was less constant.
Sometimes she was accompanied by the children; sometimes by her sister; but more often she was alone save for the footman and the dog, whose loyalty required no instruction.
Darcy told himself that these encounters were necessary.
He told himself that proximity allowed him to observe, to judge how much she knew, how far her suspicions extended, whether she might—when the time came—be trusted with more.
His stated reasons were convenient, but they did not withstand scrutiny.
He sought her company because he was drawn to her.
Each step toward her carried him nearer to what he had lost and to the future he still dared to hope might be restored.
It was, he knew, a dangerous inclination. He did not resist it.
On this particular morning, the air was cool and bright, the light filtering through the branches in pale, shifting patterns upon the path. Darcy had been walking some time before he saw her, his pace unhurried, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture that had become habitual to him.
She stood a short distance ahead, Bruno at her side, the footman positioned discreetly behind.
She was not walking, but still—her attention appeared unfocused, not fixed upon anything in particular.
There was a thoughtfulness in her posture, an absorption that spoke of inward reflection rather than outward observation.
Darcy slowed. He considered turning away. You have no need of this. The thought was perfectly rational and entirely correct. He dismissed it anyway.
“Miss Bennet.”
She turned. There was no startlement now, no visible shock as there had been in those first encounters. She paused for only an instant before her customary composure returned.
“Count Vendicarsi,” she said. There was a strange tone to her words, as if she was speaking sarcastically or sardonically.
He inclined his head. “May I join you?”
There was the slightest pause. “Yes.”
They began to walk. For a time, they said nothing. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but it was not empty either. It carried with it all that had passed—and all that had not.
Bruno trotted ahead, pausing now and then to investigate some new scent, while the footman maintained his distance with practiced discretion.
At length, Elizabeth spoke. “You are persistent in your habits, sir.”
Darcy allowed the faintest hint of a smile. “Am I?”
“I begin to think so,” she said lightly. “I find you here with remarkable frequency.”
“As do I you.”
She chuckled. “That is because I have made no effort to conceal my routine.”
“Nor have I.”
Elizabeth glanced at him. “No?”
“No,” Darcy said. “I prefer clarity where it may be had.”
She studied him, as though weighing the remark, then looked ahead once more.
“Clarity,” she repeated. “It is a rare commodity.”
“It is,” he agreed.
“Even so,” she pressed, “you seem to suggest it is within our reach.”
Darcy considered her. “In some matters, it is.”
“And in others?”
He shrugged. “In others, it must be pursued.”
Elizabeth’s gaze shifted back to him, more intent now.
“At what cost?”
Darcy did not immediately answer. They walked several paces in silence.
“At whatever cost is required.”
The words settled between them with more force than he had intended.
The path before him seemed dangerously clear.
It would be simple to answer the cruelty he had experienced in kind, to seek complete destruction of his enemies. He dismissed the thought almost at once.
Elizabeth would not forgive it—and neither would he.
Her expression changed—subtly, but unmistakably. “That is a dangerous philosophy.”
“Only if misapplied.”
“And who,” she asked, “is to determine that?”
Darcy met her gaze. “Those who are capable of discerning right from wrong.”
Elizabeth stopped.
Not abruptly, but with a deliberation that brought their movement to a halt.
“That is precisely the difficulty,” she said. “Every man believes himself capable of such discernment.”
Darcy turned to face her fully. “Not every man.”
“Enough,” she replied. “Enough to make the distinction unreliable.” There was a spark in her now—familiar, compelling, and wholly her own. It stirred something in him that no amount of discipline could entirely suppress.
“Then you would have no one act?” he asked. “No one seek to correct injustice for fear of error?”
“I would have them consider the limits of their authority,” she said. “There is a difference between recognizing a wrong and appointing oneself its remedy.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “And if no one does so?” he asked. “If wrong is permitted to stand because all shrink from the responsibility of opposing it?”
Elizabeth held his gaze.
“Responsibility,” she said, “is not the same as right.”
Darcy drew breath as if to answer, then checked himself. He stepped closer—not improperly, but with an intensity that could not be mistaken.
“And if a man has been wronged?” he said. “Grievously. Deliberately. Would you have him do nothing?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. “That depends upon what he seeks,” she said.
“Justice.”
“Or vengeance?” Her words hung between them.
Darcy felt it like a blade drawn lightly across the surface of thought—sharp, precise, impossible to ignore.
“They are not always the same,” Elizabeth claimed boldly. “Though they are often mistaken for one another.”
Darcy looked away briefly, his gaze fixing upon the path before them.
“No,” he said. “They are not.” Had Lucien not said the same thing on numerous occasions?
He recalled the long nights and suppressed a shudder.
He had faced worse than this without hesitation.
The thought of standing before her again—unchanged in name, but not in experience—gave him pause.
He did not know whether she would see the man he had been… or only what remained.
Silence fell again. The wind stirred faintly through the branches above, carrying with it the distant sound of carriage wheels and voices too far removed to be distinguished.
Elizabeth resumed walking.
Darcy followed.
“One might infer that you have thoroughly considered this subject,” she observed following a brief silence.
“I have.” For years, locked in a tiny cell without direct daylight.
“And what conclusion have you reached?”
Darcy exhaled slowly. “That justice must be pursued,” he said. “Even when it is difficult. Even when it demands more than one would wish to give.” Otherwise, those who had done wrong would never feel the sting of their errors.
Elizabeth’s gaze eased, though her expression remained serious. “And who,” she asked again, “has the right to enforce it?”
Darcy’s answer came without hesitation. “Those who cannot ignore it.”
She shook her head. “That is not a right,” she said. “That is a compulsion.”
“Perhaps.”
“And compulsion,” she added, “is not always a trustworthy guide.”
Darcy looked at her then, a small frown gracing his lips. “You would have him to suffer without action,” he said.
“I would have him consider whether he acts for the sake of justice,” she replied, “or for the sake of his own hurt.” The words struck deeper than she could have known.
Darcy felt them settle, heavy and unwelcome, against the structure of his resolve. Why do you act? He did not reply to her immediately.
Elizabeth watched him. “You believe I am wrong,” she said.
“No,” he said.
“Then what?”
Darcy’s gaze shifted, his expression tightening as he searched for a response that would neither betray too much nor deny too much. “I believe,” he said, “that there are circumstances in which action is required—regardless of the cost.”
Elizabeth studied him. “And you are in such circumstances?”
He met her eyes. “Yes.” There was no evasion in the answer. Only truth—partial, but undeniable.
Elizabeth’s breath caught again. “And when it is done?” she asked. “When justice, as you define it, has been served—what then? What will become of your life? Your soul?”
Darcy did not look away. “Then,” he said, trailing off. “I know not.”
Her gaze lingered on his face, searching, questioning, understanding more than he wished her to understand.
“I think,” she said after a moment, “that you have already begun to realize the cost of such ventures.” The words unsettled him more than any accusation might have done.
He turned, breaking the intensity of the moment. “You give me too much credit.”
“I do not think so.”