Chapter Eighteen

July 15, 1813

The Lake House

Ramsgate

Elizabeth

Elizabeth strolled through the park, her hand resting lightly on Mr Blandishman’s arm as he rambled on. She nodded absently whenever he seemed to need a response, her thoughts elsewhere. The objections she had voiced over the past months had faded—or perhaps she had simply grown more tolerant of his company. There was nothing overtly wrong with the gentleman; he was neither evil nor wholly undesirable. And whilst she did not love him, she had developed an awkward sort of affection for him. Mr Blandishman, for his part, had seemingly accepted that Elizabeth’s feelings would never deepen beyond friendship. He no longer pressed for more and now only called at the Lake House once or twice a week.

Elizabeth was relieved that particular burden had lifted. She knew it would be many years before another could truly touch her affections. Mr Darcy still filled her thoughts and heart, and no one could claim the space he held within her.

Her sister and brother appeared unaware of Elizabeth’s subtle change in demeanour. The once cheerful and optimistic young woman had become a quieter, more sedate version of herself. Her spirits, though not outwardly troubled, had become undeniably dimmed. She believed she masked her sorrow well, but from time to time, she noticed a flicker of concern in Smythe’s gaze. The faithful butler continued to deliver the post to her personally, even though Mrs Bingley had long since assumed full management of the household. Perhaps he hoped that a letter from a friend would bring Elizabeth comfort. But Elizabeth carefully hid the letters Mr Darcy continued to send, even from Smythe. And not even Jane knew of the secret correspondence that still bound Elizabeth to the man she loved but could never have.

The Bingleys walked ahead, leaving enough distance to afford some measure of privacy whilst still maintaining proper chaperonage. Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted, her mind wandering to the unopened letters hidden at the bottom of her trunk.

Mr Darcy had not ceased writing to her, despite her farewell. His once-steady handwriting had grown increasingly erratic, at least on the exterior of the missives. Elizabeth could not to bring herself to open any of his letters, the wound in her heart still too raw. She longed to heal, but to do so, she knew she could not continue to open the wound by revisiting his words. Eventually, the letters had ceased, but rather than bring her relief, it had only compounded her distress.

“Ho there!” Bingley cried out, brimming with delight. Elizabeth immediately snapped back to the present, her gaze following her brother’s enthusiastic wave towards a fashionably dressed couple yet approaching from the distance.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam! Miss Darcy! How do you do? I never thought to see you here!” Bingley bowed, then eagerly shook the gentleman’s hand.

Hearing their names drew Elizabeth’s attention. Miss Darcy was everything her brother had described—tall, graceful, and poised. The man beside her, Colonel Fitzwilliam, was clearly Mr Darcy’s cousin, the very man of whom he had written so often.

“How do you do, Bingley?” the colonel replied, his smile broad and easy. “It has been far too long, has it not?”

“More than a year,” Bingley agreed, his cheerful expression sobering as he stepped aside. “May I introduce my wife, Mrs Jane Bingley, her sister Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and Mr John Blandishman.”

A glint flickered in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eyes, and for a moment, Elizabeth wondered if Mr Darcy had confided in him. But the notion was discarded quickly—who would believe such an extraordinary tale?

“What brings you to Ramsgate?” Charles asked. “Will you join us at our home?”

“We have come for the summer,” Miss Darcy answered. “My cousin and I are staying at the hotel until the tenants vacate the Lake House. Afterwards, we will make preparations for its sale.”

Jane gasped, her eyes wide with surprise, but Elizabeth remained composed. She had known all along who owned the home they had been leasing.

“Why, we are leasing Lake House!” Bingley exclaimed, visibly shaken. “I had no idea. My solicitor handled all the paperwork, and I did not know the identity of the owners.”

Mr Blandishman interrupted the conversation with a regretful look. “I fear I must take my leave. I have an engagement that cannot be delayed.” He bowed politely to the group, bidding them a good day before striding briskly away.

“We would be pleased to take tea with you,” the colonel said, “but unfortunately, we have a prior engagement as well. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“That would be most agreeable,” Jane answered, her tone warm and welcoming. “Shall we expect you at two o’clock?”

With the arrangements made, Miss Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam took their leave, and Elizabeth found herself trailing behind her brother and sister on the walk back to the Lake House. They had scarcely stepped inside when Charles’s agitation became evident.

“Had I known who owned Lake House, I could not have dwelt here with any equanimity,” he burst out, looking truly distressed. Jane immediately slipped her arm through his, guiding him to the sofa.

“What is it, Charles?” she asked softly, her voice full of concern. Elizabeth seated herself in a nearby chair, her attention fixed entirely on her brother-in-law.

Charles drew a deep breath. “Do you recall when we first met? I was… not quite myself. I had recently suffered a terrible loss.”

“Yes, you could not speak of it,” Jane said gently. “Will you tell us now?”

Charles nodded; his expression was sombre. “I was friends with Miss Darcy’s brother. Fitzwilliam Darcy was as good a man as you could find—and an even better friend. He was a dedicated brother, a fair master, a responsible landlord, and a shrewd businessman. Despite my humble origins, we formed a strong bond of friendship. In fact, it was he who encouraged me to lease Netherfield Park.” Charles reached for Jane’s hand, his eyes reflecting his love for her. “It is he for whom our son—William—is named.”

“He was staying with me that summer at my brother’s estate in Surrey. Darcy was… not himself. His moods were dark, and I could see the constant strain that marred his countenance. I thought it was because he had left Miss Darcy in Ramsgate, but I had the sense that there was more to it.”

Guilt stabbed at Elizabeth’s heart. She was the reason Darcy had been morose that summer.

Charles lifted his gaze to the ceiling, as if searching his memory, before continuing. “After hearing of Netherfield, his spirits seemed to rally, and he even resolved to visit once I had settled the estate. But the next day, he left for Ramsgate to see his sister… and I never saw him again.”

His voice faltered as he wiped at his eyes. “I do not know all the particulars. From what I have heard, when he arrived, Darcy found a man in the house. The whole of the ton was buzzing with the story for months. It was said the man was a paramour to Miss Darcy’s companion. Darcy confronted him, and they fought. During the scuffle, Darcy was pushed—he fell and struck his head… and never regained consciousness.”

Charles paused; the weight of his sorrow evident. “They hanged the dastard not long after, though I do not recall the official charge.”

Elizabeth struggled to breathe. Her vision blurred with spots as she fought to maintain her equilibrium. “I shall call for tea,” she managed, standing abruptly. Her departure went unnoticed, Jane still occupied with comforting her distraught husband.

Her mind whirling, Elizabeth rushed to the parlour where her writing case lay. She did not bother to be neat; urgency fuelled her as she hastily scrawled a note to Mr Darcy. It was the fifteenth of July. If there was any justice in the world—any higher power watching over them—she prayed that this letter would reach Mr Darcy’s waiting hands in time.

~

July 15, 1811

The Lake House

Ramsgate

Darcy

Darcy entered the house and removed his hat and gloves. The silence unnerved him, and he wondered where Smythe and the footmen had gone. As he placed his gloves inside his hat, his eyes caught sight of the salver—and froze. There, resting on the otherwise empty tray, was a letter. The handwriting was instantly familiar. Without hesitation, he snatched it up, all thoughts of greeting Georgiana forgotten.

July 15, 1813

My dear Mr Darcy,

I pray this letter reaches you in time. Today has been otherworldly, and I finally understand why you did not come in March. You did not come because you could not. Allow me to explain.

Today, whilst strolling in the park with my sister and her husband, we encountered your sister and your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. The meeting was stilted and somewhat awkward, and left Charles overcome with emotion when we returned to the Lake House. I did not know you and my brother were friends, or I would have mentioned it sooner! He did not realise this house was yours and has now told Jane and me everything.

“When you return to Ramsgate in 1811, you will find an intruder in your home. Charles says the man has some improper connexion to Miss Darcy’s companion, though much of the incident has been deliberately hushed. There will be an altercation—during which… you lose your life.” Elizabeth paused, her heart constricting painfully. “You die, Fitzwilliam. I cannot even begin to describe how it feels to write those words, to imagine a world where you no longer exist.” Tears blurred the ink as she pressed on.

“That is why you did not come! You are neither married nor ill. I beg you, if this letter finds you before that fateful moment, seek aid and do not confront the intruder. You must stop him. Find help. Do not face him alone—please! Once you have expelled the blackguard and secured your house, know that I am here waiting. Pray, wait for me. I am here at the Lake House, waiting for you.

Love,

Elizabeth

Darcy reread the missive, his eyes lingering on Elizabeth’s words before he slowly lifted his gaze towards the empty hallway. Moving silently through the house, he searched for Smythe or Mrs Palmer, but found neither. His steps finally took him to the kitchens, where he discovered James and John sharing a meal with Cook.

“Master!” James cried, rising quickly to his feet.

“James,” Darcy acknowledged. “Where is everyone?”

“Mrs Younge gave us a free afternoon,” John supplied. “She does that every Wednesday. Tells us to go out, she does. ‘Enjoy the day and see yer families,’ she says.”

“And yet you and your brother remain.”

James shrugged. “We stayed in, sir.”

Darcy’s frown deepened, his thoughts whirling. He glanced down at the crumpled paper still clutched in his hand, and with a quick motion, gestured to the burly footmen. “Come with me,” he ordered. The twins exchanged uneasy glances but obeyed as Darcy led the way back to the public rooms. Voices filtered through the corridor, and as he recognised the intruder’s voice, his blood ran cold.

He threw open the door, fury rising as he took in the sight before him. George Wickham sat in his parlour, with Georgiana perched on his lap. Wickham had his arms around Darcy’s sister, with his chin resting insolently on her shoulder.

His vision clouded with rage, the letter in Darcy’s hand crumpling further into his tightening fist. I am here at the Lake House, waiting for you . Elizabeth’s plea echoed in his mind. He stepped forward but paused as Wickham and Georgiana turned to face him.

“Brother!” Georgiana exclaimed, pulling out of the blackguard’s embrace and standing. She came towards her brother. “You have come! Now I need not marry without you!”

“James, John,” Darcy said coldly, his voice steady despite the fury bubbling beneath. “Detain Mr Wickham.”

The twins stepped forward and seized his foe by the arms, pulling him out of his seat. Wickham struggled briefly but stilled when it became clear he would not easily escape them.

“No!” Georgiana protested. “We are betrothed, Fitzwilliam! You must be kind. George has explained everything to me—your past quarrels—and he wishes to make amends. Set aside your resentful temper for one moment and allow him to speak!”

Darcy’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Will you tell her, or shall I, George?” he asked, sarcasm lacing each word.

Georgiana looked between the two men, her eyes wide with uncertainty. “B-brother?” she stammered. “George said you would object. We were to go to Gretna Green in two days. Was he right? Will you now deny your blessing, knowing that we love each other?”

“Did Wickham tell you why I would object to your marrying him? Did he tell you he has squandered a legacy of four thousand pounds? Or that he has left women ruined—from ladies to servants—across Lambton and London alike? Did he tell you he came here last year to claim the living he abandoned, vowing revenge when I refused? Did he tell you he is penniless? And do you realise that if you marry him without the protection of a marriage settlement, he will have complete access to your dowry, leaving you utterly at his mercy?”

Georgiana paled as Darcy spoke the hard truths his sister needed to hear. “Where is your companion?” he asked quietly.

“She has gone out,” Georgiana whispered, barely audible. “She always does. Mrs Younge says it is perfectly acceptable since we are… were betrothed.”

“I will deal with her when she returns. Go to your room, Georgie. I need to remove this miscreant from our home.”

Georgiana burst into tears and fled the room. James and John stepped forward, hauling Wickham to his feet. “I ought to flay you alive,” Darcy hissed, low and menacing. “I ought to see you rot in Marshalsea for every debt I have paid on your behalf.”

“But you will not,” Wickham sneered. “Your memories of your father hold you too much in thrall.” Wickham yanked his arm free, his elbow slamming into John’s face and opening a deep cut above his eye. The footman, startled by the blow, loosened his grip. Wickham struggled wildly in James’s hold, raining punches on the other man with his free hand. As James tried to hold on, Wickham managed one final wrench, freeing himself from the grasp but losing his balance in the process. He stumbled towards the fireplace, tripped over the edge of the hearth, and crashed headfirst into the gilded corner of the mantle. Darcy cringed inwardly as the sound of bone meeting wood echoed through the room. He watched in horror as Wickham crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from the gash in his forehead.

Darcy knelt beside his childhood friend, checking for any sign of life. Wickham’s chest lay still, his breath no longer rising or falling. Sighing, he stood and turned to John, who sat holding a bloodied handkerchief to his injured eye.

Darcy handed his loyal servant a fresh cloth from his own pocket. John grimaced in thanks and replaced the soiled one. “I am sorry I did not step in to assist you,” he said.

“No matter, sir. You’ll have no trouble tellin’ the two of us apart now, sir,” John joked half-heartedly.

“What shall we do with him, Mr Darcy?” James asked, jerking his head towards the body on the floor.

“Summon the undertaker,” he replied wearily. “I shall handle all the arrangements.” James nodded and disappeared out the door.

Darcy barely had a moment to breathe when the door swung open, and Mrs. Younge appeared. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene—Wickham’s body, John’s bloodied face, and Darcy’s cold stare.

“Mr. Darcy, what—what has happened?” she stammered.

Darcy straightened. “You know full well what has happened, Mrs. Younge,” he said icily. “You allowed this. You abandoned your duty, left my sister vulnerable, and now we see the result.”

“I—I didn’t know—”

“You knew enough,” Darcy interrupted, his voice sharp. “You will leave this house at once. Be assured, Mrs. Younge, you will not find respectable employment again.”

Her face paled, and without another word, she turned and fled.

As John went to fetch ice from the icehouse, Darcy retreated to his chambers to gather his wits. His thoughts were in turmoil. He still clutched Elizabeth’s letter, realising the profound impact they had each just made on their future. What would happen next, he could not say, but come September, he would see her.