26. Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

E lizabeth sat quietly in the morning room, the fire crackling in the hearth, casting a gentle glow over the room. She glanced toward the door just as Mrs Reynolds entered, leading Clara Henshaw and her mother into the room. Elizabeth could sense the nervous energy radiating from them as they entered—Clara's mother avoiding her gaze, and Clara herself wringing her hands, her knuckles white against the dark fabric of her dress. They clearly expected a reprimand, perhaps even worse.

"Thank you, Mrs Reynolds," Elizabeth said, dismissing the housekeeper with a kind smile. The older woman curtsied and left the room.

"Good morning, Mrs Henshaw, Clara. Please," Elizabeth gestured to the chairs before her, "make yourselves comfortable."

Clara and her mother exchanged a look, their hesitation painfully clear. With visible reluctance, they sank into the chairs, Clara keeping her gaze firmly fixed on her lap, while her mother glanced nervously around the room.

Elizabeth moved toward the tea tray, deciding to break the stiffness with a simple gesture. "I thought we might have tea. I'll serve."

Their bewildered looks did not go unnoticed by Elizabeth as she poured, but she remained calm, offering them both a delicate china cup. They both accepted, though Mrs Henshaw's hand trembled as she reached for the cup.

"There is no point in beating around the bush," Elizabeth said gently but directly, watching as both women tensed immediately, their bodies stiffening as though bracing for a storm. "I understand Miss Clara is…" She cleared her throat and smiled.

Clara's face drained of colour, and her eyes darted to her mother before returning to the floor. "Yes, ma'am."

"You've nothing to fear from me, either of you. I have hardly asked you here to cause you more discomfort or pain. Quite the opposite." Elizabeth sipped lightly from her cup before lowering it. "I should like very much to help, but there is something I must know. How far along are you, Miss Clara?"

The girl swallowed. "Four months gone," she whispered after a moment, her voice barely audible.

Elizabeth nodded, calculating quickly. July, as she had suspected. Her mind turned over the possibilities, the suspicion of what she had feared most sitting heavy in her heart. She met Clara's nervous gaze and offered a small, reassuring smile. "I see. I cannot imagine how difficult this has been for you both."

Mrs Henshaw stammered a reply, "We—we are grateful for your kindness, ma'am. ‘Tis… most unexpected."

"I wish to help," Elizabeth continued. "I have five sisters of my own, and I cannot think what it would be like for any of them to be in need of help and find themselves shunned." Elizabeth's words seemed to reach them, as both Clara and her mother visibly relaxed, the rigid tension in their postures easing.

Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap, glancing briefly between the two women before laying her cards on the table. "There have been rumours, you see, about my brother-in-law, Captain Darcy." She watched their reactions closely. "I am trying to protect his name, as well as your own."

At the mention of Harry, Clara's eyes widened, and she immediately shook her head, her voice breaking through with sudden emotion. "No, ma'am, never. Captain Darcy was never anything but kind to me. He would not… He would never…"

Elizabeth's expression remained kind, but she pressed gently. "I am not asking if he forced himself upon you, Clara. I am asking if he may have… seduced you. It would reflect poorly on him, even if you were willing."

"Capt…" She gulped. "Darcy, he…" At this, Clara began to crumble, her face crumpling in tears as she collapsed against her mother's shoulder, sobbing. Mrs Henshaw's eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she brushed away her daughter's grief, urging her gently, "Go on, Clara. Tell Mrs Darcy the truth."

For a few moments, the room was filled with Clara's quiet, gasping sobs. Elizabeth rose and moved to comfort her, but Mrs Henshaw lifted a hand, her arm wrapped protectively around her daughter's shoulders. Clara took a deep, shuddering breath, composing herself just enough to speak.

"It wasn't… it wasn't Captain Darcy," she said in a shaky voice. "I haven't seen him in over two years."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed. "Then… who was it?"

Clara hesitated, her face twisting with shame, but after a moment, the words tumbled out. "It was his friend. Lieutenant Wickham."

Elizabeth's stomach clenched as the pieces began to fall into place. Wickham. Of course.

Clara swallowed hard and continued. "He was riding up the lane one day. He was in uniform, and from a distance, I thought it was Captain Darcy, come back to the manor. I ran to him, waving to greet him. He was always so kind to me—like a brother—but when I got close, I saw it was Mr Wickham."

Elizabeth remained silent, her gaze steady as Clara spoke, her heart breaking for the girl.

Clara's voice grew shakier as she went on. "He called me over, said that Harry had just been speaking of me and that he had a letter from him. He promised to find it in his bag if I came closer, so I did."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. "And that sounded… credible to you?"

Clara looked miserable. "No, ma'am, but… why would he say it if it wasn't true? I wanted to find out if…" Clara broke off, covering her face as fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. "He… He grabbed me, ma'am. I couldn't get away."

Elizabeth felt a surge of anger twist inside her chest, but she kept her voice gentle as she knelt beside the weeping girl. "It's all right, Clara. You've done nothing wrong. I will help you."

The room fell into silence, broken only by Clara's quiet sobs. Elizabeth rose and smoothed the girl's hair with gentle fingers, offering whatever comfort she could.

"There is a place, in another town," Elizabeth said after a moment, "where girls in circumstances like yours can go for a time. I will pay for your expenses if you choose that path." She hesitated, watching Clara closely. "Or, I could provide you with a dowry and help you find a husband who will treat you and your child with dignity and kindness."

Clara's sobs softened, and she blinked through her tears, wide-eyed at the offer. "You… you would do that for me?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Think on it tonight, and come tomorrow to tell me what you wish to do. I only ask that if you find yourself in need, you come to me. You must promise."

Clara's mother gripped her daughter's hand tightly and nodded through her tears. "We promise, ma'am. Thank you… thank you."

As they gathered themselves to leave, Elizabeth saw them to the door, offering one last reassuring smile. Once the door closed behind them, she let out a long, slow breath, her body still trembling. She didn't turn right away but instead waited, knowing he would come.

From the back of the room, Darcy emerged from the hidden door that led into his study. His footsteps were quiet, his face drawn but attentive, and as he came to stand beside her, their eyes met—his dark with concern.

"She named Wickham," Elizabeth said. "And it was not… voluntary."

Darcy nodded, his jaw tightening. "I feared as much," he murmured. "I wanted to be sure, just in case Clara could not name the man or could only describe his face. You handled it well, Elizabeth."

She gave a small smile, grateful for his presence, his support. He hadn't needed to speak, but his quiet vigilance had meant everything.

"That brings up two questions." He paused, staring at the floor as his mind worked. "First, if Wickham was here in July, what was he doing? Was he trying to approach Pemberley?"

"And second," Elizabeth added, meeting his gaze with her own troubled thoughts, "this might mean that Harry did not father the child in that letter you found. Could it be that Wickham has been deceiving everyone, trying to frame Harry to ruin him?"

Darcy's jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. "It would explain much… including why Wickham was so determined to ruin you. All of it—everything he did to you, to those other girls—was meant to weaken Harry's credibility."

Elizabeth nodded. "Can we find the other girl? And what can we do about the rest?"

He pulled her into his embrace, kissing the top of her head and letting his chest sink in a sigh that dropped her heart rate. "We can try. I've written to Richard, and as soon as you've had your second meeting with the Henshaws, we are bound for London. I mean to put this right."

T he storm outside Darcy's London townhouse had been raging since the early morning, but the drumming of rain against the windows was a dull background to the storm in Darcy's mind. He had travelled four days from Derbyshire to London with Elizabeth, but after days of being strung taut as a bowstring, his toes tapping anxiously on the floor of the carriage with every mile, there had been little rest since their arrival. He had written to Colonel Fitzwilliam before leaving Pemberley, and after several agonising days of waiting, Richard had finally arrived in Town.

Darcy's study, usually a refuge of order and calm, was cluttered with letters, maps, and scattered correspondence. His focus was drawn to one thing alone: Harry's legacy, his reputation, and the truth that lay hidden somewhere between those papers. Now, at last, Richard was here, and Darcy hoped his cousin's military insight would shed light on what Harry had been facing before his death.

The door to the study creaked open, and Richard strode in, his military boots muffled on the thick carpet. His coat was damp from the rain, and his dark hair was slicked back, water droplets clinging to his brow. "Darcy," Richard greeted as he stepped into the room, then shut the door behind himself, sealing them both in.

"Richard," Darcy replied, nodding. He gestured toward the desk piled with papers. "You got my letter. Did you find anything?"

Richard tugged off his wet gloves and sighed, rubbing his temples. "I have, and what I've uncovered… well, we have much to discuss. But first, I need to know—what exactly did you find among Harry's things?"

Darcy's jaw tightened as he turned toward the desk. He picked up the worn letter that he and Elizabeth had discovered hidden in Harry's uniform coat, its edges still creased from where it had been folded and tucked away. "This," he said quietly, handing it to Richard. "I wasn't certain of its significance at first, but after your last letter, it seems clearer."

Richard took the letter, his brow furrowing as he began to read. The minutes stretched in silence, the only sound the crackling fire in the hearth and the rhythmic tapping of rain against the window. Darcy watched his cousin's face carefully, noting the deepening furrow in his brow as Richard's eyes flicked over each line.

When he finished, Richard set the letter down with a long exhale. He leaned back in his chair, the creaking of the wood barely masking the gravity of his thoughts. "This explains a great deal," he murmured.

Darcy's pulse quickened. "Explain it to me, then. I need to know the full truth of what Harry was caught up in."

Richard steepled his fingers and considered for a moment. "This letter… it's more than just a record of some minor mistake. It's a damning piece of evidence about a cover-up during the siege at Badajoz. Friendly fire, Darcy—Harry witnessed it. He tried to stop it, tried to order a cease-fire to avoid more casualties, but his orders were countermanded by a superior officer. And when the battle ended with heavy losses, and the truth became apparent, they promoted him, likely to keep him from reporting the truth."

Darcy clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "Promoted to keep him silent. That makes sense now, but I still do not understand… why treason? Why is my brother's name being dragged through the mud like this?"

Richard leaned forward, his voice lowering as if to shield the words from the storm outside. "After the battle, rumours began to circulate—rumours that Harry had deliberately allowed the French to breach the walls, that he had collaborated with them. It was all lies, of course, but lies spread quickly, especially when the men involved in the cover-up had much to lose if the truth came out. And…" He thinned his lips and lowered his voice. "Harry was no longer here to defend himself. Throwing him to the wolves—why, I suppose it was a way to make sure nobody else was ever able to bring truth forward, either. You know Harry was not the only one who could have reported this. He was just their scape goat because he was the first to raise the alarm."

Darcy swore under his breath, pacing in front of the fireplace. "And Wickham? Where does he fit into this?"

Richard's expression darkened. "That's where things take a more personal turn. Wickham was with Harry during the siege—some reports place him within an arm's length of Harry, though I've not been able to discover whether Wickham tried to stop the mistake or just carried forward with the attack—I am supposing the latter, because it explains the rest better."

Darcy narrowed his eyes. "How? What ‘rest'?"

"My contacts confirmed that Wickham was involved in spreading the rumours. He clearly stood to gain from discrediting Harry—perhaps even blackmailing him. If Harry tried to expose the truth, Wickham would have used those rumours to destroy him."

Darcy froze mid-stride, his heart thudding with fury. "Wickham." The name hissed from his lips like venom. "That blackguard has haunted my family for years. He was looking for these papers when he tore apart Harry's flat. When he didn't find them, he ran. And now, he's been reassigned to Birmingham."

"A convenient assignment, just a day's ride from Pemberley. But he cannot hide forever. Not now that we have this."

Darcy stopped pacing and turned to face his cousin. "I want his head for this, Richard. Harry died with the accusation of treason hanging over him. He died knowing he would be betrayed, slaughtered on the altar of public opinion and ‘military justice' if he told the truth. I will not rest until Wickham and whoever else is responsible are brought to justice."

"You always were the protective older brother, Darcy. But you'll need more than vengeance if you're going to clear Harry's name. We have this letter, but it's not enough to expose the entire cover-up. We'll need corroboration from others who were at the siege—officers who can confirm what really happened."

"Then we find them. Every last man who was there. I don't care what it takes. We will clear Harry's name."

Richard stood, placing a steadying hand on Darcy's shoulder. "We will, cousin. But we must move carefully. Whoever these men are who are protecting their careers, their reputations, they will not go down easily. You could be going against some rather formidable names. They promoted him, Darcy—promoted him to keep him quiet. Do you think this will stop with some field commander? No, I tell you, it goes much higher up the chain. Why Wickham is so vested in this, I've no idea, but he is slippery. He'll run if he thinks we're onto him, and he'll talk if he suspects we're looking about for answers."

Darcy straightened, resolve hardening in his chest. "Then we'll strike before he has the chance. Find someone trustworthy, someone you can bring this evidence to who has the authority to set the matter straight."

Richard gave a curt nod, his eyes narrowing with determination. "I've already reached out to a few men from the War Office—men we can trust. They're beginning to gather information on that battalion's movements, and I've asked for a complete list of men from that regiment. If we move quickly, we can expose this whole mess before it festers any longer."

Darcy allowed himself a small sigh of relief. It wasn't over—not by a long shot—but they finally had a way forward. They had a plan. And for the first time in weeks, Darcy felt the faintest flicker of hope.

E lizabeth stepped into the grand entrance hall of Matlock House, her hand resting lightly on Darcy's arm. The interior was as grand as one might expect of an earl's residence—ornate plasterwork and towering portraits of stern-looking ancestors lining the walls. Yet, despite its grandeur, an undeniable chill settled in Elizabeth's stomach. This meeting held more weight than any previous introduction, and she was painfully aware of the judgment hanging in the air.

Darcy stood tall beside her, his features perfectly composed, though occasionally his jaw shifted, and his gaze flicked to her as they waited. The moment they had entered Matlock House, his grip on her arm had tightened ever so slightly. It was a signal, not of fear, but of quiet determination. He would stand by her—he had made that clear. And for that, Elizabeth felt a swelling of gratitude and love for the man who had defied society, his family, and even himself to claim her as his wife.

Lady Matlock entered the hall with a measured step, her gown sweeping behind her in a rustle of silks. Her features were striking, her expression one of guarded politeness, though Elizabeth did not miss the flicker of reluctance in her eyes. The older woman's gaze shifted briefly to Darcy, perhaps searching for a clue as to why he had chosen this particular path. But it wasn't Darcy who had to prove himself—it was Elizabeth, the family spectacle, who must now prove she belonged.

"Mrs Darcy," Lady Matlock greeted her at last, her voice cool but not without civility. She extended her hand with the practised grace of someone who had long been accustomed to receiving guests of all ranks. "How kind of you to come. Such a… surprise."

"Lady Matlock," Elizabeth responded, taking the offered hand as she dipped a curtsey. "It is a pleasure to meet you." She was proud of how stately her voice sounded, though inwardly, her nerves danced. This was no ordinary meeting of polite society. This was her husband's family—the people whose acceptance or rejection would ripple through their social sphere.

Lady Matlock inclined her head. "The pleasure is ours," she said, though there was no mistaking the slight emphasis on the word ‘ours' as though she spoke on behalf of her husband's more pragmatic considerations rather than any personal warmth.

As if on cue, Lord Matlock appeared, his demeanour slightly more welcoming but tinged with the pragmatism that Elizabeth expected. He smiled, though it was the kind of smile one reserved for an important business association rather than family.

"Darcy," the earl greeted his nephew with a firm handshake before turning to Elizabeth. "Mrs Darcy, welcome to Matlock House."

His words were polite enough, but Elizabeth could see it—the calculation in his eyes. She understood it. Darcy had forced his hand, after all, by just appearing here unannounced. To openly snub Elizabeth now, given her position as Darcy's wife, would be to risk severing their financial and social ties, a prospect the earl would be reluctant to entertain.

She felt a surge of pride in her husband at that moment. Darcy had brought her here, not as a mere gesture, but as a statement of defiance against those who sought to undermine her reputation and the Darcy family name. He was staking his loyalty to her in the heart of the very family who had questioned his decision. He had made his choice clear.

"Thank you, my lord," she said with a smile. "I am deeply honoured to meet you again."

Lord Matlock gave a nod, turning back to Darcy. "Your timing is... unexpected, but we are, of course, always happy to receive you."

"I thought it time," Darcy said evenly, his hand reaching for Elizabeth's, "that you meet my wife properly."

The subtle tension between the words was not lost on anyone. Lady Matlock's eyes lingered on Elizabeth as if weighing every inch of her, not with malice, but with the practical judgment of a woman who had spent her life assessing the worth of those who entered her circle. But Elizabeth refused to shrink under her gaze. She met the older woman's eyes with quiet confidence.

"Indeed," Lady Matlock said, at last, her voice softer now, though still reserved. "I hope you find Matlock House agreeable, Mrs Darcy. Perhaps you would join me for tea while we become better acquainted?"

The conversation was formal, stilted, but not entirely unkind. Elizabeth could sense the delicate dance they were all engaged in. No one wished to openly acknowledge the scandal that had surrounded her name in London, nor the fact that her presence here was a deliberate challenge to the unspoken rules of their world. And yet, by standing here, by being welcomed—however reluctantly—Elizabeth had crossed a threshold.

Darcy's loyalty had carried her across it.

They were ushered into the drawing room, where Lady Matlock offered Elizabeth a seat beside her. The gesture, however minor, was not lost on Elizabeth. It was a small step, but a step nonetheless.

As she sipped her tea, Elizabeth glanced across the room to where her husband and Lord Matlock were quietly retreating to the study. He looked once over his shoulder, just before the door closed behind him, and she caught just the edge of his smile. That was all the reassurance she wanted.

Lady Matlock set her cup down with a soft clink, drawing Elizabeth's attention. "Your husband appears to hold you in great esteem," she remarked, her tone no longer sharp, but softened, as though some invisible barrier had been quietly lowered.

Elizabeth returned the older woman's gaze, a faint smile on her lips. "As I do him, my lady."

D arcy stood by the window in Lord Matlock's study, his hands clasped behind his back. The faint hum of the city filtered through the glass, a distant reminder of the world outside this room, but his mind was entirely focused on the man sitting across from him. Lord Matlock remained in his chair, his posture stiff, though not entirely hostile. A fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth doing little to thaw the coolness that had settled between them since Elizabeth had entered Matlock House.

"You've brought her here," the Earl began, his tone low and measured. "You must know what that means."

"I do," Darcy replied, turning from the window to face his uncle. "It means I expect her to be welcomed. She is my wife, and I will not have her slighted. By anyone."

The Earl's lips tightened, and for a moment, silence fell between them, save for the crackling fire. "It is not that simple. The girl's reputation precedes her, and you've put yourself—and your family—in a difficult position. Do you truly think this will be forgiven so easily? That society will simply look the other way?"

Darcy crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, stopping just short of his uncle's desk. "Society can think what it likes. I care little for its whispers, and if any man has the audacity to question my wife's honour, he will answer to me directly."

"You always were stubborn," Lord Matlock muttered. "But it is not just about you. The Darcy name means something. You've always known that. It carries weight, responsibility. Your actions affect more than just your own household."

Darcy's jaw clenched, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a steady voice, he replied, "Do you think I take that lightly? The Darcy name means everything to me, but it will not be sustained by cowering in the face of false judgment. Elizabeth is my wife—she deserves respect, not condemnation. And I will not allow anyone to treat her otherwise."

Lord Matlock studied him, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned back in his chair. "Respect? Do you think respect is all that is needed to silence the rumours? There are things being whispered about her... about Harry. You will need more than respect to counter those."

Darcy's gaze darkened at the mention of his brother. "Yes, I am aware of the rumours," he said, his voice cold. "And I mean to put an end to them. But I need your support, Uncle. You have always been respected—if you stand with me, with Elizabeth, it will go a long way toward quelling the gossip."

The earl exhaled sharply and stood, moving toward the decanter on the sideboard. "And what of Harry? These accusations that have come to light…"

Darcy stepped closer. "I know the truth. I have the evidence to clear Harry's name, and I intend to do so. Harry was no traitor, Uncle. He tried to stop his commander from firing on their own troops."

Matlock's brow puckered. "What?"

"I showed everything to Richard—Harry's maps, his letters, and the statement he wrote out, probably intending to publish if he were ever pressed to do so. Richard believes a squadron was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was dusk, with smoke in the air, so it was difficult to see them properly, and the riflemen behind the wall were ordered to fire on them. Harry saw what was happening and ordered a cease-fire but was overruled, resulting in… egad, there is no way of knowing how many unnecessary fatalities."

"Is this… verifiable?"

"I have a copy of the initial report. Harry must have spirited it away before it was destroyed, but it bears the colonel's signature."

"Good Heavens." The earl's face fell, and he bent to rummage in his desk drawer for a cigar to puff away his thoughts. He never even bothered offering one to Darcy—not that he would have accepted. He was too angry, too bent on his purpose to puff away on tobacco as if this were a leisurely afternoon of drinks at the club.

"And this… this report," his uncle mumbled as he cut the end of his cigar. "What do you mean to do with it? Make it public knowledge?"

"As public as public can possibly be. But first, I need the names of all those responsible for slandering Harry, so I know whom I may trust. Do you recall Wickham, son of my father's steward?"

Matlock frowned. "Disreputable cad. Never understood why your father tolerated him."

Darcy's voice lowered, thick with frustration. "Neither did I, and Harry's trust in him was his undoing. Wickham may not have ordered the attack, but he is the one who let the accusations fester. He knew—he had to know Harry's attempts to stop the attack, and he still stood by while the rumours of treason spread. I daresay he was the one who pointed the finger at Harry when the general demanded answers about the high death toll."

The Earl paused, the smoking cigar halfway to his lips, his brow furrowing as the implications sank in. "Wickham?" he repeated, slowly. "I never liked the blighter, but you believe him capable of betraying his own friend?"

"More than capable. What he did to Mrs Darcy—he was threatening Harry with the very gossip you have been hearing for the past several weeks. It was at a party, outside on the portico. She saw it, tried to put a stop to the fight, and Wickham cut her gown open and threw her at Harry, just for the pleasure of ruining both of them. I daresay you were told quite a different version of events."

A puff of smoke briefly concealed the earl's clouded face. "Aye." He stabbed out his cigar and leaned forward on his desk. "All the talk has her ravished and likely pregnant. I never could have guessed…"

"Now, do you see, Uncle? I want my brother and my wife dignified with the truth."

The earl sucked in a breath, releasing it slowly as his chest fell. "Very well. Wickham, then. What do you mean to do?"

"He's in Birmingham on some sham assignment. I shall have to confront him later, but he's only part of it. There are men with far more to lose than Wickham—higher ranks that orchestrated this, used Harry as a scapegoat to cover their own blunders. Wickham merely seized the opportunity, throwing Harry to the wolves while he protected his own skin."

Lord Matlock set his glass down, his gaze sharpening. "And you mean to bring this all into the open, do you? How do you plan to preserve even a scrap of your family dignity when you shed light on everything?"

Darcy swallowed. "Carefully, uncle."

Lord Matlock stared at him for a long moment, then downed his brandy in one swift gulp. "You're playing a dangerous game, Darcy. But if you're determined to see it through, you shall have my support. I only hope you know what you're doing."

Darcy nodded, his expression grim. "I appreciate that. So do I."

The earl set his empty glass aside and turned toward the window, his voice softening slightly. "And your wife… Mrs Darcy. I hope, for your sake, that she's as strong as you believe her to be."

Darcy's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Stronger, Uncle. Much stronger."