Chapter Thirteen

Elizabeth

A s the carriage rumbled steadily northward, the atmosphere within remained thick with unspoken tension. The morning’s awkward revelations hung in the air like a dense mist, weighing down any attempt at casual conversation. Elizabeth, who had always prided herself on her ability to navigate social discomforts with ease, found herself at a loss. Mr Darcy, however, seemed determined to alleviate the mood, at least for little Maggie’s sake.

The child, now seated beside Mr Darcy, had developed an unmistakable fondness for him, her small hand clutching the edge of his coat as if for reassurance. The sight, though endearing, only added to Elizabeth’s bewilderment. Here was a man she had once thought cold and aloof, now behaving with the utmost tenderness towards a child who was not even his relation.

Mr Darcy, perhaps sensing the need for distraction, pulled from his coat a small, well-worn volume—a copy of The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes, a popular children’s tale of virtue. She’d seen him earlier that morning perusing a stack of books that had sat in the dining room at the inn for the guest’s use and assumed he’d taken it from there. His voice, deep and measured, filled the carriage as he began to read aloud.

“Little Margery Meanwell was born of honest parents,” Mr Darcy read, his tone even but tinged with a warmth that belied his usual reserve. “She was very young when she lost her father and mother and was left a poor orphan in the wide world.”

Maggie leaned closer to him her face illuminated by interest, hanging on every word. Her fingers played with the ribbons of her bonnet, which rested on her lap. Elizabeth watched the scene unfold with growing fascination. There was something disarming about Mr Darcy in this moment, his usual stoic demeanour softened by his attentiveness to the child.

How different he seemed now from the man she had first encountered in Hertfordshire, whose haughty pride had so easily ruffled her sensibilities. As the wheels of the carriage clattered over the rough road, Elizabeth allowed herself to observe him more closely, her gaze lingering on the way his features softened as he read.

“And she went on, being so good that all who knew her loved her…” Mr Darcy continued, his voice a low murmur, as if the story’s message of virtue were a lesson imparted not only to Maggie but, perhaps, to himself as well.

Maggie giggled, leaning into Mr Darcy’s side, clearly enraptured by the tale, and he looked up and cast a glance at Elizabeth, catching her eye for the briefest of moments. His expression was inscrutable, though there was a gentleness there she had not expected.

Elizabeth smiled faintly, though her mind was far from at ease. The earlier mention of Mr Wickham had stirred something deeply unsettling in the air. She had seen the sudden change in Georgiana’s countenance, the way the younger woman had withdrawn into herself, as if retreating from some unseen danger. What had passed between the Darcys and Mr Wickham? Elizabeth had her suspicions, but nothing concrete. What she did know, however, was that she had misjudged Mr Darcy—perhaps gravely.

Sitting beside Elizabeth, Georgiana stared out of the window, her posture stiff, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She had scarcely said a word since the unfortunate exchange, and Elizabeth, ever perceptive, sensed that the girl was burdened by far more than mere awkwardness.

Elizabeth was eager to dispel the growing silence, so she attempted conversation once more.

“Miss Darcy,” she began, keeping her tone light, “I wonder, do you find these northern roads as familiar as I imagine you might?”

Georgiana blinked, as though startled from some faraway thought, but her answer was short and devoid of emotion. “Yes, I do.”

Elizabeth hesitated, her instincts warning her that perhaps this was not the right time to press Georgiana into conversation. And yet, she could not help but feel a desire to reach out to the girl, whose sorrow seemed so deeply entrenched.

“I was just thinking how fond Maggie has grown of your brother,” Elizabeth continued, glancing at Mr Darcy. “He seems to have quite a talent with children.”

Georgiana offered the faintest of smiles, but her eyes remained downcast. “Yes, Fitz has always been very kind.”

Her voice was so low, so devoid of life, that Elizabeth could hardly think of how to continue. It was clear now that Georgiana was deeply troubled. Elizabeth’s heart ached for her, though she could not yet fathom the cause of her distress.

The only sound in the carriage was Mr Darcy’s voice, as he continued narrating the story of Margery Meanwell, but even his soothing tones could not dispel the weight of the tension that hung in the air. Elizabeth sighed inwardly, glancing again at Georgiana, who sat as still as a statue, her thoughts seemingly miles away.

The carriage continued its steady pace as they headed north, the noise of wheels on the road mingling with the low murmur of Mr Darcy’s voice and the occasional giggle from Maggie. The rhythm of the journey soon began to lull Elizabeth into a state of drowsiness. She had not realised how weary she was until her eyelids began to droop, her body leaning ever so slightly into the cushioned seat.

Before long, despite the tension that still lingered, Elizabeth succumbed to the gentle rocking of the carriage and drifted into a light slumber. The last thing she heard was the soft cadence of Mr Darcy’s voice, weaving in and out of her dreams like a distant melody.

***

When Elizabeth awoke, it was with a start. A light touch on her arm had stirred her, and she blinked rapidly, momentarily disoriented. The interior of the carriage, once warm and cocooned, felt strangely distant, and she had the odd sensation of having been adrift between sleep and wakefulness for some time.

“Miss Bennet,” Mr Darcy’s voice reached her, low and steady. His hand still rested lightly on her arm, though he withdrew it the moment her eyes opened fully. “We’ve stopped to rest. I thought you might like to stretch your legs.”

Elizabeth, still foggy from sleep, nodded, though she needed a moment to gather herself. Her heart raced slightly—perhaps from the suddenness of her waking, or perhaps from the lingering sensation of Mr Darcy’s touch. She pushed the thought aside and made an effort to straighten her rumpled gown, feeling Mr Darcy’s eyes on her for a fraction too long.

Outside the carriage, the air was brisk, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of winter—damp earth, pine, and the faintest hint of wood smoke. Elizabeth shivered slightly as she descended, but the cold air was invigorating after the warmth of the carriage. Mr Darcy had already stepped out and was now helping Maggie down with a gentle hand, his tall frame bending slightly to accommodate the eager child.

They had arrived in a small town, their carriage had halted at a coaching inn on a bustling high street. Over the other side of the road there was a small park. “Where are we, Mr Darcy? Elizabeth asked.

“We are in Newport Pagnell,” Darcy answered.

“What a charming town,” Elizabeth exclaimed. It was indeed quite a delightful place and she was quite happy to stretch her legs after the confinement of the carriage.

Maggie, now fully awake and brimming with energy, immediately began pulling at Mr Darcy’s coat, her small face lit up with excitement. She gestured animatedly towards the park and a beech tree, whose bare branches twisted upwards into the grey sky like skeletal fingers.

“What is it, Maggie?” Mr Darcy asked, his voice softening in a way that caught Elizabeth’s attention. He crouched to the child’s level, his manner attentive and patient as Maggie pointed towards the trees.

“She’s found a bird’s nest,” Elizabeth murmured with a smile. “It is all right, Mr Darcy. You can go with her. I’ll join you both shortly.”

Mr Darcy glanced at her, his brow lifting slightly as if to ask whether she was certain. Elizabeth nodded, feeling oddly touched by his consideration. Without further hesitation, he allowed Maggie to lead him towards the park.

Elizabeth watched them for a moment, her heart unexpectedly warmed by the sight of Mr Darcy—so often reserved and distant—being so tender and attentive to Maggie.

As they moved towards the nest, Elizabeth noticed Georgiana seated alone on a wooden bench beneath a large oak tree beside the park entrance. The branches above her were bare, save for a few clinging leaves that rustled faintly in the wind. The ground beneath the bench was frosted, and the air smelled of pine and cold earth. Despite the peacefulness of the scene, Georgiana’s posture was anything but relaxed. She sat stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her face pale and withdrawn.

With resolve, Elizabeth made her way over to Georgiana. As she approached, she noticed the younger woman’s distant gaze fixed on the ground, her delicate features shadowed by a hint of sorrow.

“Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth began softly, her tone gentle, “may I join you?”

Georgiana looked up, her blue eyes shimmering with an unreadable emotion. For a brief moment, Elizabeth saw a flicker of uncertainty cross her face. “Of course, Miss Bennet,” she replied, though her voice was barely above a whisper.

Taking a seat beside her on the bench, Elizabeth regarded Georgiana closely. “I know this is a difficult time for you,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I did not mean to bring up anything distressing regarding Mr Wickham. I am truly sorry if I have caused you any pain.”

Georgiana’s fingers twisted nervously in her lap, and she inhaled deeply, drawing her courage. “It is not your fault, Miss Bennet. I should not have reacted so strongly. It is just…”

“Just what?” Elizabeth prompted gently, sensing the turmoil beneath Georgiana’s composed exterior.

“Mr Wickham and I have a complicated connection,” Georgiana confessed, her voice trembling slightly. “I allowed myself to trust him on account of our long history, for we have known one another since we were children. I allowed myself to be used. And now—” She paused, her gaze drifting back to the frost-kissed ground, as though the earth might provide her with answers.

Elizabeth felt a surge of empathy for the younger woman, a profound understanding of the weight she carried. Her thoughts went back to Miss King and the tales she’d heard about Mr Wickham and his attempts to compromise her. “You do not have to speak of it if you do not wish to,” she offered, her heart aching for Georgiana’s evident pain. “But if you would like to share, I am here to listen.”

Georgiana glanced sideways at Elizabeth, her expression one of mingled gratitude and trepidation. After a moment, she took a shaky breath and began to speak, her voice soft yet resolute. “I have not spoken of this to anyone, not even to my brother. Although of course he is aware of the story, having come to my rescue. Still, we never spoke of it thereafter. But I think perhaps… perhaps it would be a relief to share it with you.”

Elizabeth nodded, encouraging her to continue. “Whenever you are ready.”

Georgiana exhaled slowly, as if gathering the threads of her memory. “It began when I was just a child, not much older than Maggie. I had just lost my mother, and in the turmoil that followed, Mr Wickham came into our lives. He too had lost his mother at a young age when he and his father arrived at Netherfield. Mr Wickham senior was my father’s steward, you see. My father was very fond of him and of George. I grew fond of him too, though Fitz never quite cared for him. He was always like another brother to me. When his father died, my father took charge of his schooling.”

Elizabeth recalled Mr Wickham telling her how fond Mr Darcy senior had been of him, and how he’d meant for him to take a living at Kympton only to be thwarted by Mr Darcy out of spite.

“I heard he was to be a vicar,” she said carefully.

“He was, that is what my father wanted for him. But he wanted to read the law. Or so he said. In any case, he and my brother went to Cambridge. What happened between them there I know not, but I did not see Mr Wickham for a long while. Eventually, however, he returned.”

Elizabeth braced herself for what she knew was to come.

Georgiana nodded, her expression darkening. “I was lonely. My brother was often away on business, and I had no one to turn to. Mr Wickham was a welcome distraction in a time of great sorrow. He made me feel special. Soon, I thought myself in love with him. I thought he loved me too. I was too young to understand his motives. Mr Wickham grew bolder in his attentions.”

Elizabeth instantly placed her hand on top of Georgiana’s as if to give her courage.

“Mr Wickham told me that he loved me, that we could be together if only I were brave enough to defy my brother.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And so, I… I confided in him. I shared my hopes, my dreams. I thought I had found a friend, a man who might become my husband. But then—” She paused, biting her lip, her breath hitching.

“You do not have to tell me anything more, Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth whispered, leaning closer, her heart racing.

“He pressed me to elope with him, to leave Pemberley behind. He claimed that it was the only way we could be together. He met me at Ramsgate, where I stayed with my attendant Mrs Younge. I would have done it, I would have eloped with him if not for my brother. He came to call on me and when he saw Mr Wickham and I together he knew at once. I could not keep secrets from Fitz, not when we were face to face, to I told him everything.”

The tears that had been gathering in Georgiana’s eyes began to spill over, tracking down her pale cheeks.

“I overheard them argue and Mr Wickham admitted he did not love me, that it was all a plot for money. I was so silly, Elizabeth. I made a cake of myself.” Elizabeth felt her heart clench at the sight. “Oh, Miss Darcy,” she murmured, reaching out to clasp the younger woman’s hand. “You were just a child.”

“I was so ashamed,” Georgiana continued, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand. “Mr Wickham made threats as well. He told Fitz that he would ruin me, that he would expose our conversations and twist them into something ugly.” Georgiana shivered at the memory, her voice lowering to a whisper. “Fitz did not allow that to happen. He made it clear that Mr Wickham was no longer welcome at Pemberley, and if he dared sully my reputation, Fitz would ensure Mr Wickham would regret it. It worked. He left and we have not heard anything from him since—until you mentioned him earlier.”

“I feel dreadful for having brought this back to the forefront of your mind,” Elizabeth shook her head, feeling a fierce protectiveness towards Georgiana. “I too fell for his lies and pretty words. He told me awful things about your brother, and I believed them. So you see? You are not the only one taken in by that man.”

Georgiana’s gaze met Elizabeth’s, and for the first time, a flicker of something like hope shone in her eyes. “Thank you, Elizabeth. May I call you Elizabeth? It seems fitting since you now know my most shameful secret.”

“Of course, if I may call you Georgiana,” she said.

“You may. Thank you for listening. It means a great deal to know that someone understands.”

Elizabeth offered a small smile, feeling a sense of warmth envelop them both. “We all have our burdens to bear but sharing them with someone we trust can lessen their weight.”

“I suppose,” Georgiana said slowly, her voice softening. “It is good to talk about it. I have kept it locked away for so long, but perhaps I can learn to leave that unfortunate episode firmly in the past.”

“You can,” Elizabeth affirmed, her heart swelling with compassion for the young woman beside her. “You are not alone, Georgiana. You have your brother, and now you have me. And I am more than willing to listen, should you need it.”

And thus, Elizabeth found herself confronted with a whole new side of Mr Darcy she’d never expected—that of the caring, loving brother. A man who had stood up to Mr Wickham and who had yet suffered at the scoundrels’ hands for if Elizabeth had believed his lies, who could say how many others had fallen prey to Mr Wickham’s horrid tales about the Darcys?