Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Given all that had transpired over the course of the last fortnight, Darcy found himself unexpectedly grateful for the hush of the evening.
It was his last night before the wedding, and for once he was not obliged to endure company.
He would not have objected had that company been Elizabeth, but it would inevitably have included her entire family, and while he had come to find most of them vastly more than tolerable, he could not regret this final night of solitude.
When he had sent for a few of his servants to attend him at Stoke during his stay, he had also taken care to have a supply of good brandy brought with them.
He had not forgotten the poor quality available in Meryton on his previous visit and was well satisfied now to have something better at hand.
It suited the evening—quiet, reflective, and entirely his own—as he considered the change that awaited him on the morrow.
Seated comfortably before the fire, his coat and waistcoat set aside, his thoughts turned over all that had passed since he had seen Elizabeth again at Pemberley.
A sudden knock at the door startled him enough that his glass nearly slipped from his grasp.
He caught it just in time, though a few drops spilled onto his shirt.
Setting the glass aside with a faint exhale, he rose, mildly irritated at the interruption.
That irritation vanished at once when he saw who stood in the doorway.
“Richard,” he said, genuine pleasure in his tone.
His cousin leaned casually against the frame, a knowing look already forming as his gaze dropped to Darcy’s shirt.
“You are to wed tomorrow and are already in your cups tonight?” he observed.
“That does not bode well for the success of this marriage. From your letter, I had understood it to be a love match.”
Darcy shook his head, unable to suppress a flicker of amusement at his cousin’s words.
He had written to Richard on Sunday evening and sent the letter off early Monday morning, yet had received no reply and had begun to doubt his cousin would attend.
He ought to have known better. Fitzwilliam never failed to appear when there was an opportunity to tease him.
Crossing the room, Darcy clasped his hand and drew him into a firm embrace.
“Despite the manner of your arrival, I am very glad you are here—particularly so that you may stand up with me tomorrow.” He glanced down at the stains on his shirt.
“I assure you, the state of my attire has more to do with your untimely pounding upon my door than with any apprehension on my part.”
Richard laughed. “And yet, on the night before your wedding, you choose to sit alone with a glass of brandy rather than seek out your bride? I confess, it does little to recommend your prospects for happiness. Why are you here alone? Where is Bingley—or any of your other friends who might have wished to attend?”
Darcy did not rise to the provocation. “My intended’s mother was quite firm in her opinion that my presence this evening would be more hindrance than help.
I was dismissed long before I would have chosen to go.
” He paused, his expression sobering slightly.
“In truth, the last fortnight has been so full that this is the first moment I have had to consider what tomorrow signifies. It is fortunate I remembered to write to you at all.”
“You are to be married on the morrow,” Richard said, his tone shifting, though not entirely losing its edge. “To Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Yes,” Darcy replied quietly. “At last.” His fingers tightened slightly around his glass before he set it aside.
Richard studied him more closely now, the teasing giving way to curiosity.
“I confess, I should like to understand how this has come about. When last we were together in Kent, I would have sworn Miss Bennet did not like you in the least. And you—” he gave a short shake of his head, “—you were in such a black humour after we left that I thought something serious had passed between you. It was not my aunt; you have endured her for years. What happened?”
Darcy did not answer at once. Instead, he turned back to the table, poured another measure of brandy for himself, and filled a second glass for his cousin. Only once they were both seated did he speak.
“There are few who know the whole of it,” he said more deliberately. “I would prefer it remain so.”
Richard inclined his head. “You have my word.”
Darcy considered his glass for a moment before continuing.
“I admired Elizabeth—almost from the beginning, though I did not properly understand it at the time. Unfortunately, I contrived to offend her at our very first meeting. I spoke carelessly, as I have too often done, and gave her every reason to think ill of me.”
He exhaled quietly. “What is worse, I did not correct the impression. I was accustomed to being sought after regardless of my behaviour and foolishly believed she would be no different. That, I think, was my first mistake.”
Richard made a small, knowing sound.
“After months of indecision,” Darcy continued, “I proposed to her at Hunsford.”
Richard sputtered slightly into his drink. “I did not know. You have been engaged since April?”
Darcy looked down at his glass, turning it slightly in his hand. “No,” he said at last. “She refused me.”
“She refused you?”
“She did,” Darcy replied, meeting his gaze. “With a frankness I had never before encountered. She accused me—justly—of arrogance, of interference in her sister’s happiness, and of conduct unbecoming a gentleman. At the time, I believed myself wronged.” He gave a slight shake of his head.
“I was not.” He exhaled slowly, as though the admission still required effort.
Leaning back, his voice softer now, he continued, “It took me some time to admit it, but she was right in every particular. I had convinced myself that treating those dependent upon me with fairness was sufficient, while allowing myself a degree of disdain towards others whose only fault was a lesser position in society. I saw it clearly only after she forced me to do so.”
“And how is it that you are engaged now?” Richard asked.
“We parted believing we should never meet again,” Darcy said. “We were both angry—but I found I could not remain so. Not entirely.”
Richard regarded him thoughtfully. “Yet you are to marry her tomorrow.”
Darcy allowed the faintest hint of a smile. “I am.”
He set his glass aside. “Elizabeth came to Derbyshire with her aunt and uncle. They were travelling, and her aunt wished to revisit Lambton. By chance, they came to Pemberley on a day I had returned earlier than expected. I encountered her near the house.”
“And?”
“And I resolved,” Darcy said, “that if I could not win her regard, I would at least deserve it. I could be civil. I could befriend her.”
Richard’s brow lifted slightly.
“We spoke several times over the following days. Matters between us… improved. There was an ease that had not existed before. I believed, at most, that we might become friends.”
“And yet you are to marry on the morrow? Surely you have managed to become more than friends.”
“A few days later, I called upon her,” Darcy continued. “I had not entirely settled my purpose—whether to seek her forgiveness, to establish a friendship, or…” He paused briefly. “Something more.”
“In the end, I asked for the last.” He paused, as though still not entirely accustomed to the memory. “And she accepted not only my offer of courtship, but that of marriage as well.”
Richard let out a low whistle. “It was all managed more easily than you expected, I imagine.”
“Considerably more easy, and not nearly as painful,” Darcy admitted.
He hesitated, his expression shifting.
“But it was not long before we learned of trouble at Longbourn.”
Richard straightened. “Trouble?”
Darcy nodded. “A potential scandal—though it appears matters have taken an unexpected turn.”
At his cousin’s look, he added more plainly:
“Amongst other things I have learned since seeing Elizabeth again,” Darcy paused, his expression shifting as his gaze dropped briefly before he met his cousin’s eyes again. “...one is of particular importance to you.”
After ensuring that he had his cousin’s full attention, he finished:
“Wickham is dead.”
“Wickham is dead?”
Richard Fitzwilliam stared at his cousin, certain he had misheard. That the man should die at all was surprising; that he should do so before answering for half his sins was something else entirely.
Darcy inclined his head. “He was poisoned, although no one knows by whom. After Mr Bennet told me what he had learnt, I wrote to the colonel of the militia to which he was attached and requested further details. There has not yet been time to receive a reply, but I hope to discover more than I presently know. It is possible the colonel knows nothing further—or may decline to answer my enquiry—but I would still learn what I can. I have also asked the local solicitor to make enquiries regarding any debts here, and requested that the colonel do the same.”
Richard let out a short breath as he took in the news, choosing—for the moment—to overlook the matter of Darcy involving himself in Wickham’s debts yet again.
Wickham had been poisoned. It was almost fitting—though he might have preferred something slower, something better suited to the man’s character, and that he should suffer in a manner more akin to what he had inflicted upon others.
“It is likely that many wished for his death,” he said, “and while I might have preferred a longer and less pleasant end, poisoning seems a just reward.”
“As I understand it, he did linger a bit, and his death was not pleasant—nor dignified, particularly not in the end,” Darcy replied.