17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Longbourn 26 September

M y dearest Lizzy,

I hope this letter finds you well, or at the very least, in better spirits than when we last parted. I have so much to tell you, though I scarcely know where to begin. I have returned to Longbourn at last. Aunt and Uncle Gardiner thought it best, given the unfortunate stir your… situation has caused. They have been so kind, never once uttering a word of reproach, though I know the scandal has cast a shadow over some of Uncle's business dealings. They would never confess it openly, of course. When I suggested that perhaps I should return home, they merely agreed with me, as if it had been their own idea all along. My only sorrow in leaving was, of course, knowing I should never again see Mr Bingley.

But, dear Lizzy, you cannot imagine what I have to tell you next! It seems that fortune has not abandoned me entirely. Only this morning, word arrived that Netherfield Park has been let—to none other than Mr Bingley himself! I could hardly believe it at first. It seems he has chosen to take that country house he talked about, after all, and he chose Hertfordshire to settle in. Oh, Lizzy, I scarcely dare to hope, but what else could this mean? I have said nothing of this to Mama, for you know how she would fly into a fit of matchmaking the moment she heard, but I did confide in Papa. He was as he always is—that is to say, he gave no assurances, but I believe he understands my feelings well enough to call on Mr Bingley as soon as he is settled. I do not presume too much, but I am hopeful that Mr Bingley wishes to renew his courtship, despite everything that has transpired. Perhaps not all is lost, after all.

Enough of my own news, though I wished to share some cheer with you. How are you, Lizzy? I have been loath to inquire too directly, not wishing to upset you further, but you must know how I worry for you. I do hope you have found some measure of peace at Pemberley, though I know how difficult things must have been. Do you feel settled there? I pray that Mr Darcy is treating you well and that you feel safe, at least, even if all else is uncertain. I know the past weeks have been a trial beyond anything either of us could have imagined.

Sadly, it seems no one in London has believed the truth of what happened that night. They all persist in believing that Captain Darcy was the cause of your ruin. I am mortified to report that there are even some who claim he… ravished you out there, and that you were saved from further disgrace only by a hasty marriage to conceal what they suppose must come next. Some, knowing the wealth of the brother, even claim you planned such an incident for personal gain.

It is the most dreadful falsehood, but no one will be swayed from it. I am heartsick that such rumours continue, but perhaps there is a small mercy in this: the scandal has not followed us here to Hertfordshire. Not, at least, in all its particulars. Instead, Mama is almost insufferable in her triumph. It seems she cares little for what the world says about you, so long as she can boast of having a daughter married to a man of ten thousand a year. There are even those (not friends of mine, I assure you) who whisper that you must have been very clever to secure such a husband by… whatever means necessary. I blush to write it, but you know how people can be.

Still, the scandal has done nothing to dampen the spirits of Kitty and Lydia. They remain as wild and heedless as ever, and I fear that nothing short of a miracle will bring them to any sense of propriety.

Papa sends his love and promises to write "when he has a spare moment," though you know as well as I do that is merely a euphemism for "when he can bear the thought of losing you well enough to put it down on paper." Do not read anything personal into his oversight—scandal or no, he speaks of you fondly, Lizzy, and I hope you know how much you are missed here. Please, write soon, and tell me how you fare. I long to hear from you and know what is truly in your heart.

With all my love, Jane

E lizabeth laid Jane's letter gently on the desk, her fingertips lingering on the edges as she stared down at the familiar handwriting. A fortnight had passed since her arrival at Pemberley, and despite the chaos of her entrance into this strange new world, she could not deny the beauty that surrounded her. Aunt Gardiner had been right—Pemberley was more than an estate. It was a world unto itself, a place so vast and magnificent that Elizabeth felt at once a sense of awe and, strangely, a creeping loneliness.

She stood from the desk and moved toward the window, gazing out across the grounds. The autumn light stretched across the vast lawns, casting the house and the surrounding gardens in a soft, golden glow. She had begun to learn her way around the estate, taking long walks along the paths winding through the woodlands and toward the sparkling lake. She marvelled at the natural beauty, but it was the quiet that often lingered with her after these strolls. It was a quiet that both soothed and unsettled her, reminding her at every turn how little she truly belonged here.

Elizabeth could not deny that she had already come to know more of the household staff, at least. Mrs Reynolds had been patient and kind, introducing her to the daily responsibilities that would now fall under her care. Just yesterday, the housekeeper had shown her the journals kept by the late Mrs Darcy—Fitzwilliam and Harry's mother—detailing her role as mistress of Pemberley. The records of her routines, her wisdom in managing both the estate and the people who depended upon her left Elizabeth feeling both grateful and wholly inadequate. It was a world so foreign to her that, even with guidance, she feared she could never live up to such an example.

Yet, the greatest mystery of all to her remained her husband.

Fitzwilliam Darcy had been nothing if not kind since their conversation about the scandal that had ruined her reputation. He could have shunned her, like everyone else. But he had responded… rather like his brother. He had listened, he had respected, and he had not pressed her further. In fact, if anything, he seemed to be warming to her by slow, cautious degrees, his demeanour gradually softening. But even as he showed kindness, even as he grew more familiar with her presence, he remained distant. Polite, but never more than that.

There had been no further talk of an annulment—not even a hint, in fact. And though Elizabeth had expected at some point he might again broach the subject, despite his prior assurance to the contrary, he had done nothing of the kind. Instead, he had ordered a modiste to Pemberley to create new garments for her, each one suitable for her role as mistress of a house in mourning. He had taken steps to ensure she was properly dressed, properly positioned, and properly cared for.

That very morning, as she had been preparing for the day, he had approached her with the household accounts—a thick ledger in which the domestic finances were recorded. He had handed it to her almost casually, explaining that Mrs Reynolds had handled it until now, but it would be Elizabeth's responsibility going forward. There had been no ceremony to the act, no hint of reluctance, but it was clear in his gesture that he intended her to step into this role, to stretch and grow into the position of his wife.

For that, she could not complain. He was respectful, thoughtful, and generous. He was everything one could want from a husband in terms of duty and care. But he never spoke to her beyond the necessities. She felt as though she were living beside him rather than with him, and though she had nothing to reproach him for, she could not help but feel the yawning gulf between them.

She sighed softly, returning to her desk and picking up her pen. Jane deserved a letter, especially after such warm, encouraging words. But what could she say without alarming her sister? Without revealing how hollow and isolated she felt, despite the beauty of her surroundings?

Elizabeth dipped her pen in ink, the words coming slowly at first.

My dearest Jane,

I hope this letter finds you well, wrapped in all the comforts of Longbourn, though I daresay even the familiarity of home cannot entirely ease the strain of your sudden departure from London. I am deeply sorry that Aunt and Uncle Gardiner's position was compromised on my account. They are far too kind to admit it openly, but I know their burden has been heavier than any of us could wish. And I can only imagine your regret in leaving Mr Bingley behind—such a gentleman in every sense, and the only man I ever fancied who might be worthy of my dearest sister.

But what delightful news to learn that Netherfield has been let to none other than that same gentleman! My dear Jane, this is no small coincidence. I confess it brings quite a smile to my face. I can hardly suppose a man of his means would settle so near without some particular aim. How modest you are in your hopes, but I cannot help feeling certain that you are on the verge of great happiness. Though I do hope, for all our sakes, that Mama does not get wind of this just yet. You may, perhaps, enjoy a short time of privacy… at least until everyone sees you in the gentleman's company, then all hope of discretion will be long gone.

As for myself, I must report that I am remarkably well for a woman who has landed in so grand a place quite by accident. Pemberley is truly everything Aunt Gardiner claimed it to be—dare I say, even more? The lake, the gardens, the sweeping woodland paths—Jane, you could live here a lifetime and still not see every inch of its beauty. How anyone could ever tire of it, I cannot imagine!

The housekeeper, Mrs Reynolds, has been most kind in introducing me to the responsibilities of the mistress. (I daresay she is determined that I shall succeed in the role whether I like it or not.) Just yesterday, she placed in my hands the journals of the late Mrs Darcy—no light reading, I assure you! I admit, the task feels rather like stepping into a stranger's shoes, but I am told that with time, one grows accustomed to it.

Now, I must address the matter you are surely most curious about: Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. He remains something of an enigma to me. He has been kind, unfailingly so, but Jane, he is more reserved than I ever imagined. I cannot pretend to understand him—though I do wonder if that, too, might come with time. He treats me with every courtesy, and you may rest assured that I am perfectly safe here.

Mr Darcy is grieving, that much is certain. I would not expect anyone to recover from such a loss so quickly. One great comfort to him, I believe, is Colonel Fitzwilliam's company. Perhaps you may recall that Captain Darcy spoke fondly of his distinguished cousin, and I daresay none of his praise of that gentleman's fine qualities was overstated. He has, I believe, brought some measure of relief to a mournful household. However, I understand he is to leave us to return to his regiment on the morrow, and I can but hope for better days ahead, even as my rather stoic husband and I must learn to get on without the colonel's leavening presence.

Please give my love to Mama and Papa, and to our dear sisters. I am greatly relieved that the entirety of the scandal has not followed you back to Hertfordshire with all its vicious tales, and I trust Mama will continue to shine the best possible light on the affair, however little circumstances deserve it.

As ever, I send you all my love and shall eagerly await your next letter—especially if it contains news of a certain gentleman's intentions.

Yours always, Elizabeth

With a soft sigh, Elizabeth folded the letter, sealing it carefully. Time would tell if the hopes she had woven into her words would ever be more than that.

" N othing. No sign of anything unusual in the letters, maps, stray bits of rubbish or even personal mementos I brought back from Harry's flat."

Richard growled and crossed his knees. "You said some of Wickham's things were in that mix. Anything of interest?"

Darcy kept pacing. "Not unless you count a battered flask that smelled as if it had been used to store soiled stockings. A cravat that was hardly worth the laundress's bill, and a shirt or two that would serve better as boot rags."

"I assume you checked all the pockets of all the garments?"

"What do you think? I've written to my friends at the club," Darcy said, pausing mid-stride, his hand resting on the back of a nearby chair. "Some of them knew Harry in his last months in London—when he first returned from the Continent—but no one seems to have answers. Yet."

Richard stared at his glass. "What does Bingley say?"

"Bingley corroborated Elizabeth's version of events," Darcy began, his voice tightening slightly.

"Were you expecting otherwise?"

Darcy sighed. "No. No, I already believed her. But he did embellish some details that she had left out. How the scandal spread after she was found with Harry on that portico. Elizabeth was shunned, as you would expect. According to Bingley, even the Gardiners—despite their loyalty to her—became deeply cautious about whom they associated with, for fear of further damaging their reputation. His business saw some… setbacks."

Richard raised an eyebrow but remained silent, his gaze fixed on Darcy as he continued.

"Bingley tried to defend her, of course. He called on her and Miss Bennet at the Gardiners' house, hoping to provide some support, but even Mr Gardiner refused to receive him. He feared Bingley's association with Harry would only worsen the situation."

Richard's expression darkened slightly. "So the blame fell squarely on Harry."

Darcy nodded gravely. "Yes. And it did not help that Harry came to the Gardiners' house the very morning after the scandal broke to offer for her. They would have excoriated him if he had not done so, but naturally, it gave the appearance of a guilty conscience. In truth, Bingley said it was an impossible situation. Society was determined to think the worst of her—and of him."

Richard shook his head, his face grim. "And now you, Darcy. You understand that, do you not? You have assumed whatever disgrace was heaped on them."

Darcy swallowed. "It is not as if I stand to lose anything but my pride. My investments are secure, and I have no other siblings to marry off. Give it time. Another scandal will rise in this one's place."

Richard emitted an almost soundless chuckle. "It's always like that, isn't it? But this one will not be forgot quite so easily as you seem to believe. The truth is often irrelevant once the whispers start. But did Bingley know anything about Wickham? Would he even recognise him if he saw him?"

Darcy shook his head. "He knew Wickham in school, of course, but said he never saw him at all in the last five years. Claimed he did not even know Wickham was in London until after that evening, when Harry told him what happened. I find that odd because Wickham and Harry used to be thick as thieves. How did Bingley not associate with Wickham as well as Harry last summer?"

Richard grunted. "Whatever happened between them must have begun when they were in Spain together."

"Agreed."

"I have made some inquiries of my own. There is a young sergeant of my acquaintance who, I believe, was at Badajoz with Harry. Perhaps he can shed some light on matters."

Darcy grunted. "A sergeant? He would have to have been close to Harry or Wickham for his observations to be of any use to us. I am not pinning my hopes on that connection, but it is something."

"Something, yes. Had Bingley nothing else to say?"

"Only that Harry was adamant about the marriage. He told Bingley directly that he intended to go through with it, that he was determined to protect Elizabeth from his mistakes. Bingley… he seemed to think Harry felt responsible for more than just the scandal."

Richard's eyes narrowed. "You mean because of Wickham?"

Darcy nodded slowly. "Yes. But no one seems to know why Harry was at odds with Wickham. Bingley only remembers Harry becoming more agitated whenever the subject of Wickham arose, as if Harry was holding something back. And now we may never know what it was."

Richard leaned back in his chair and took a measured sip of his drink, watching Darcy's relentless pacing with a mild, almost exasperated expression. "And yet, here you are, determined to chase this phantom of guilt. You know Harry would never have laid this burden upon you, Darcy."

Darcy's lips pressed into a thin line. "I cannot let it go so easily. Whatever Harry was involved in—whatever led to that confrontation with Wickham—I owe it to him to set it right. I owe him at least that much."

Richard sighed and set his glass down on the side table. "You owe him your grief, yes. But Harry is gone, cousin. You cannot rewrite the past by unravelling his secrets."

Darcy's hand tightened on the chair back as he stared at the floor, frustration rippling through him. He had always prided himself on his ability to handle things—his family, his estates, his responsibilities. Yet now, he felt powerless, constantly one step behind the truth. Harry had always been reckless, but what had driven him to risk everything? Why had Wickham been involved? None of it made sense.

Darcy resumed his pacing, only stopping again when he approached the window. His gaze drifted outside, across the lawn, where he saw Elizabeth walking alone.

For the first time all day, some of the burdens twisting his gut into knots seemed to ease, if only slightly. There she was, striding across the grounds with that same quiet confidence he had begun to associate with her alone. Her long strides, the purposeful way she carried herself—it struck him that she had grown to be a part of Pemberley's vast expanse, comfortable enough to walk it as if it were her own.

A book was tucked under her arm, and a warm cloak hung about her shoulders as if she intended to be out for some time. Her path led towards the lake, though the sky had begun to darken with the threat of rain. Darcy's gaze lingered on her figure. Somehow, seeing her billowing cape, the springy way she moved, as if daring the elements to challenge her, chipped away at the tension that had gripped him all day.

He couldn't quite understand it. Where once he had regarded her presence with mistrust—perhaps even resentment—he now found a strange sense of reassurance in her unflinching honesty. Elizabeth had been in his home for a fortnight, and during that time, her candour had stripped away the artifice he was so accustomed to in others. There was something almost comforting in the way she moved across the grounds as if she belonged nowhere and everywhere all at once. She faced the world as she faced him—with a straightforwardness that, rather than feeling confrontational, now struck him as deeply genuine.

For reasons he could not yet name, her presence calmed the storm of his thoughts. She was not the enemy he had once believed her to be. No, she was something far more disarming—someone he could… almost trust.

"Interesting sight, is it not?"

The voice startled him, and Darcy turned to see Richard standing silently beside him, his gaze also fixed on Elizabeth's retreating form.

Darcy tore his eyes away, giving Richard a quick glance before looking back at Elizabeth. "What did you say?"

Richard smiled wryly. "You know, it would be no dishonour to Harry's memory if you allowed yourself to fall in love with her."

Darcy blinked, stunned by the remark. "What? What are you talking about?"

"You heard me the first time," Richard said, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "It is only an observation."

Darcy scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Love? Since when has love ever been a requirement for marriage? I meant to honour her, to offer her protection. That is what Harry wanted. That is enough."

Richard arched a brow. "Perhaps for some people, yes. But not for you, and you know it."

Darcy's mouth tightened, and he crossed his arms defensively. "Elizabeth and I are nothing alike. I do not even know what sort of things she enjoys or what sort of family she comes from."

"Well, you could always ask her."

Darcy said nothing, though his eyes found Elizabeth again as she continued walking toward the lake. It was true… he could ask her. Thus far, he had supposed that bringing up anything of her past must necessarily also bring pain. But that could not possibly be true, because he had heard her laughter ringing in the halls of his home. And Harry had spoken of her as a ready wit, an engaging personality. A woman with such an effortless, artless laugh had to have some root for that sort of pleasure. Something in her upbringing or background that gave joy rather than grief.

Richard gave a soft, knowing hum, his voice lowering. "I have seen you watch her, you know."

Darcy's brow furrowed, his gaze snapping back to his cousin. "Why should that be remarkable? She is my wife. I watch over her, as is my duty. She has been thrust into circumstances no one could have prepared for."

"That is not what I mean. You watch her, Darcy, and I see something else in your eyes. You breathe differently when you look at her. Slower, more relaxed. I daresay even your pulse is calmer. There is no need to deny it."

Darcy stared at Richard, words caught in his throat, as his cousin's casual observation struck a deep, unsettling chord. He had not realised it himself, but now that it had been said aloud, it felt… true. How many times over this past fortnight had he found himself watching Elizabeth without meaning to? How often had the sight of her calmed the tempest in his chest?

"I—" Darcy began, but he stopped, shaking his head as he turned back toward the window. "There is nothing more to discuss."

"Very well," Richard said, stepping away with a small shrug. "If you have no further need of me, I will see to my packing. Early morning tomorrow, after all."

Darcy did not respond, his eyes fixed once again on Elizabeth's distant form as Richard quietly left the room. Alone now, Darcy continued to stare after her, a swirl of emotions stirring within him that he could not quite name or understand.