Chapter 52

Elizabeth tapped on the door of Darcy’s study. It had not been easy, finding a time when she was certain he was alone with no footman languishing nearby. Neither did she wish to wait until he found a private moment, smiling and expectant of her giving kisses rather than causing pain. Almost, she had written him a letter instead, before deciding that it smacked too much of cowardice. This meeting necessitated the utmost in both privacy and formality.

If she was going to break her own heart, she required no witnesses.

“Enter,” he called.

He looked up in some surprise, standing. “Elizabeth!”

He must have read something in her expression, because he made no move to come round the other side of his desk, keeping the vast expanse of polished wood between them.

“I apologise for interrupting, but I need to speak to you.”

He considered her for just a moment, his face impassive. Then, he did come round and pulled out her chair. Instead of returning to his usual seat, he pulled another out, facing hers, and sat directly across from her. Her courage faltered a little, to be so close, to know that if she made the slightest sign, he would put his arms around her, hold her, lavish her with every expression of affection. She had some power over him, she knew; he wanted her, he had said. He always would, he had promised.

But it would not be right.

Instead, with hands slightly trembling, she passed over the letters she was clutching. There were five.

He looked at the direction of the first, and his brows raised. He thumbed through them all.

“These are all directed to Mr Pennywithers, care of the Herald,” he said. “Your uncle sent these to you?”

So, he had already presumed that Mr Gardiner was in fact Mr Pennywithers; he must have heard that she received mail from him this morning. It would be so very easy to let him keep thinking it.

She was not ashamed of Pennywithers; he was a part of her. She would not blame Darcy for being disgusted by it, but she would not be dishonest. If Pennywithers could help him in any way, she would own the identity—even if it destroyed her other hopes.

“He did,” she said. “He sends me all the letters he receives from Mr Bowen of the London Herald. They are mine. I am Mr Pennywithers. Or he is me.”

She knew Darcy well enough now to recognise the slight widening of his eyes before he shuttered his expression. It was the only sign he gave of surprise.

“I see.”

It was all he said, but she heard much more in those two words than perhaps he meant her to. Shock, certainly. Disapproval, absolutely.

He bent his head to look more closely at the first letter, then opened it, and began to read. His expression turned thunderous.

He flipped to the next one.

“I have numbered them,” Elizabeth said solemnly. “Numbers one and two are written in the same hand, presumably by the same person. They were received first, several weeks apart. Mr Bowen never sent them to me, because your solicitors have sent letters—threats—to other papers that have published gossip about you, and he wanted nothing to do with it, and besides, he knew it was not something I—‘Pennywithers’—was likely to take any interest in. The second letter arrived two weeks ago, and, noting the same writing, he set it aside. But then the third, fourth, and fifth ones came, all in different hands. The third tells very much the same story as the first two—perhaps with less venom. The fourth makes sordid, but completely different accusations. The fifth is the opposite—a passionate defence of your character. If I had to guess, I would say the first letters are in a masculine hand, and that three different women wrote the others.”

Darcy opened the third letter and she watched his anger turn to white-faced fury. He stood, pacing, reading it through with a curl of distaste to his lips. Then the fourth, which he seemed to skim. His fury abated, just a bit, as some confusion replaced it. Finally, he read the fifth. If she was not mistaken, she would have to say his surprise upon reading it was great.

Elizabeth was curious, of course she was. But, she realised, this was no longer any business of hers. She stood.

“Of course, ‘Pennywithers’ will not publish any of it. I would not have, even had I never met you. I do not much care for unsubstantiated attacks and for those trying to use me as a weapon. I am hopeful that some of this might be helpful to your solicitors, possibly in preventing a future repetition of these charges in some other publication.” She turned to leave.

“That is all?” he asked harshly. “You intend to toss these letters at me and walk out?”

She slowly turned back to face him. “I assumed that you would prefer I do so.”

“Your assumptions,” he said coldly, “are complete rubbish.”

She tried not to be too hopeful; his expression was anything but warm. He was obviously furious, and her role—her deception—likely was a part of it. Perhaps he was simply not finished venting his disgust.

“Do you recognise any of the handwriting?” she dared to ask.

“Oh, yes,” he said bitterly. “The first two were written by my old friend, George Wickham. Have you heard of him?”

She simply shook her head in the negative, and he related a horrific tale of blackmail and seduction, a man who had abused Darcy, his father, and even Georgiana, in nearly every way a man could.

It was her turn to pace the room; astonishment, apprehension, and even horror oppressed her. “He is horrible! He ought to be prosecuted! No, of course you are unable to, but surely there is something to be done! His is the name which ought to be published, with his heinous deeds recorded for all to see! There ought to be nowhere in England he could go, no one else whom he could fool.”

Darcy moved into her path so swiftly that she nearly stumbled into him; he clasped her shoulders, his dark eyes serious…and steadier now, not so stormy—as if he had unburdened some of his wrath with his disclosures. She remembered the times he had touched her physically—holding her hand, even holding her—in response to some admission of her own. It seemed impossible to leave him alone with these confessions without offering more than simply words. She wrapped her arms around his neck, clasping him to her. There was no hesitation in his return embrace.

Comfort quickly became something else entirely, his mouth upon hers, his big body surrounding her in heated welcome. Control, so much a part of him, lost its hold, and almost before she realised it, they were on the leather sofa before the fire, her face cupped within his hands as he kissed her passionately, wildly—kisses she returned in full. Until an awful thought struck her.

Now that he knows you are a scribbler, truly not a lady, he can take advantage with impunity. The notion was like a plunge into an icy river.

But as even she swallowed against the awfulness of the notion, he pulled away.

“I apologise,” he said, still breathing hard. He sat upright, turning away from their mutual embrace and instead facing the fire, bracing his forearms on his knees.

Her fickle heart grieved the loss of his warmth, his passion, her confidence wavering as a voice in her head whispered that he had remembered that she was no longer who he had thought her to be, cooling his ardour.

Stubble it, she told herself, setting her hand upon his broad back in what she hoped was a consoling gesture. She was Elizabeth Bennet, and she was enough. If not enough for him, it would be his loss.

And mine.

Neither of them spoke, the gently crackling heat of the coal fire the only sound between them.

At last he sighed heavily and leant back, nestling her into his embrace. She toyed with the overlong curls at his nape, wishing it could always be like this.

She knew he cared; she knew she did, and probably always would.

They would always have this moment, no matter how it turned out.

“The third letter, the one repeating the lies of the first, was in Miss Bingley’s hand.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.” He sounded utterly discouraged. “When I was at my wit’s end as to how to pay my debts without revealing to my father what I had learnt of him, I turned to Joseph Bingley. He loaned me a sum so large, I could not sleep at night, that I might participate in one of his high-stakes ventures. He was certain it would pay, and he was right. Not only did he loan me the blunt, but he showed me, taught me what to look for in such schemes, what the elements of a great investment were so I could recognise them myself. He did not have to bring me in—obviously, he could have obtained those profits for himself. He invested in me. The only ‘return’ he desired was the advancement of his children. I have failed him.”

Elizabeth leant forward a little, meeting his gaze. “Miss Bingley failed him. Her father did everything he possibly could to bring her forward. I expect, if he was a good man, he would have been appalled and embarrassed by her actions now.”

He only sighed once more.

“Did you recognise the hand of the fourth letter writer?” she asked, more to distract him than anything. “The accusations in that one were more in line with what the other publishers have printed—dark hints of smuggling and vice.”

“I am quite sure that I have never seen that handwriting before in my life.”

“And likewise the fifth?”

“Ah. That is the most curious one of all. I would wager it was written by Anne de Bourgh.”

“Miss de Bourgh? Really?”

“Yes. I suspect Miss Bingley told Anne of her vicious intent, and she tried to fix it.”

Elizabeth laid her head back against his chest once more. “I feel sorry for your cousin. She is under the thumb of her mother, and her companion is just awful—she treats her like an infant. It is no wonder Miss de Bourgh wanted Miss Bingley’s friendship so desperately.”

But the other letter writers could not long distract him from Miss Bingley’s perfidy. “I suppose she met Wickham one of the times she went into Lambton. I thought he had left the county—I am sure he did, at least briefly. He must have returned.”

“I suppose she did meet him, since his claims against you are unique, and she repeats some of them. I do not know why she wished you harm, when you have been all kindness to her and her family.”

He looked at her a bit wryly. “Can you not? Jealousy, it seems to me. She believed Pennywithers would publish the salacious story and then I would blame you. Had it not occurred to me, she would have been sure to plant the idea in my mind. But even if she had some other motive, what does it matter? I do not care so much about her accusations that I refused to give Wickham Pemberley’s living—but that she should implicate Georgiana is reprehensible. I cannot forgive it.”

“Even Wickham did not dare mention Miss Darcy in his letters.”

“He did not. He would not have, at least publicly, lest I call him out. Probably though, he told Miss Bingley enough to hope that she might gossip.”

“What will you do?”

“Show it to Bingley. Endure the scene when he calls Miss Bingley to account for it. Banish her from my life entirely. I have no choice, really. I have not trusted her completely for some time, but foolishly hoped I was wrong. I dread it, but shall not hide from doing what must be done.”

Elizabeth hated the sadness in his voice. “She is yet young, and might someday understand her mistakes.”

“How could I possibly ever trust her again?”

Elizabeth pondered this for some time. “I do not advise trusting her, but eventually you might find forgiveness. What is the saying, ‘By their fruits ye shall know them’? A life filled with family, charity, and dear friends speaks for itself. As you maintain your friendship with Bingley, you might simply recognise her improvement when you hear of it. And if not…you can easily maintain a distance that precludes her ever again using your name or reputation to benefit her own.”

He dragged her up his chest, holding her snugly against him. “She has been nothing except foul to you. Do you see why I love you? You are too good for me.”

“Not so good. I was very tempted never to tell you the truth about Pennywithers,” she admitted. “To simply let him die. It is why I asked for time—I wanted my uncle’s opinion on whether I could in good conscience, let your assumptions about Pennywithers’s identity stand. I am so weak when it comes to you. I did not want to lose you.”

“I could tell that you assumed your confession was a death knell to my feelings. Do you think I would remain here with you, holding you, making love to you, sharing my deepest confidences, without every intention of marrying you? Truly? Elizabeth, have I been ambiguous? Have I ever said one word which led you to believe I was disgusted by your presumed kinship to a reporter? I thought Pennywithers was your uncle, who is like a father to you. I did not care.”

“I suppose I am afraid,” she said, her mouth inches from his. “I do not like to admit it. I try very hard not to be—but I feel I must always prepare myself for the worst. The shock of seeing my entire life snatched away left some scars, I suppose. That experience can affect one’s confidence in the future.”

He gently kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips in affectionate comfort. “None of us know the future, do we, darling? I understand, I truly do. One minute, I was the favoured, wealthy son of Pemberley with hardly a care. The next, my best friend was extorting me for every cent I had, while my father—whom I had never dreamt would fail me, was shown up for his weakness. Like you, I had no one to turn to. We both did what we had to in order to survive. We both, instead, thrived.”

That he should claim her work as Pennywithers as ‘thriving’ caused Elizabeth’s few lingering doubts to shrivel. “That is true,” she said, struck by the notion. “We did well. Both of us did well during a very hard time.”

“Yes. We both have learnt that we only have this very minute to be happy in, for we cannot predict nor control the future. Say you will marry me. We will cherish every ‘today’ we are given. I trust you by whatever name you call yourself, but the one I wish for most is ‘Mrs Darcy’. Say that you trust me, and my love, in return.”

Slowly, her smile grew—starting not at her mouth, but deep inside, where a certain coldness melted. “I do,” she whispered, and pressed her lips to his, joining them in a kiss that was also a promise.