30. Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

D arcy awoke to the now familiar fog of illness that had clouded his mornings for weeks. The pain in his head was a dull, insistent throb, pulsating behind his eyes and making every blink feel like an effort. He lay still for a moment, hoping that by some miracle, the heaviness in his limbs might lift and the world might stop spinning. But as his vision slowly cleared, the reality of his condition settled over him like a shroud.

With a weary sigh, he forced himself to sit up, his body protesting the movement with a wave of nausea. The room tilted slightly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted his feet on the cold floor. For a moment, he simply sat there, gathering what little strength he could muster before standing and moving towards the mirror.

The man who stared back at him looked like a shadow of his former self. His skin was pale and drawn, dark circles etched beneath his eyes, and his hair, usually so meticulously kept, was dishevelled from tossing and turning all night. He looked as though he had one foot in the grave, and perhaps, he thought grimly, that was not far from the truth.

"What am I even doing here?" he muttered to his reflection, his voice raspy with the night's disuse. The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his own disillusionment. What had possessed him to stop at Netherfield, to involve himself in matters that were no longer his concern? He already knew the answers to the questions he had come to ask. Wickham was lying, as he always had. Nothing Darcy could do would change that. Bingley, ever the trusting soul, was taken in by him—just as Elizabeth Bennet had been.

The thought of Elizabeth brought a fresh pang of pain, one that had nothing to do with his physical ailment. She, who had seen him so clearly on so many occasions, had been so quick to believe him to be riddled with spiteful jealousy.

Well, perhaps he was.

But hang it all, she had been ready to trust every one of Wickham's lies! That she, of all people, had been deceived was a particularly galling realisation to accept. He had hoped... No, he had been a fool to hope that she might see through Wickham's charm, that she might become that one person he could look to for a kindred mind and spirit. Those hopes had been dashed, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Still, there was one consolation in all of this mess: Georgiana. She was finally able to understand Wickham for what he truly was—a master deceiver who could make an honest man look like a fraud. With his last visit to Matlock House, the breach that had opened between them had been mended. That, at least, was something to hold on to, something that gave him a measure of peace amidst the chaos.

But what business did he have trying to mend what was not his to mend? The men of Meryton were happy to be swayed by Wickham, eager to vote for Sir Anthony Mortimer—or whoever he truly was. Darcy's head throbbed with the effort of trying to piece together the puzzle. It was all too much to think about.

He pressed a hand to his temple as if it could stop the agony. The best thing he could do—the only thing that made any sense—was to wash his hands of the whole affair and continue his journey to Cambridge. He might not find any answers there, but one thing he would not find was more doubt, confusion, and questions.

He heaved himself forward to reach for the bell for his valet. He would leave as soon as possible.

E lizabeth's eyes shot open before the first light of dawn, snapping her upright in her bed as though something had struck her on the cheek. Sleep had been elusive, her mind restless, and her body sore. As she tried to shift her weight in the bed, a sharp pain shot through her ankle, a reminder of her ill-fated tumble the evening before. The throbbing had mercifully subsided, but the pain lingered, a dull ache that flared whenever she attempted to flex it.

She pulled the covers back and gingerly swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her ankle was still swollen, and the idea of forcing it into a stocking seemed impossible. The skin was an ugly mottling of purple and green, stretched and hot over the swelling. There was no possible way she could bend the joint enough to pull the wool stocking up over it. Wincing, she reached for one of her stockings and, with some effort, managed to stretch it enough to wrap around the tender joint as a makeshift bandage. To her surprise, the added support offered some relief, the pain less intense when she shifted her foot.

Ordinarily, she would have waited for the maid to arrive to help her dress and pin up her hair after tending to Jane, but Elizabeth could not bear the thought of waiting idly. A wild scheme had formed in her mind during the sleepless hours of the night, a plan so reckless that even in the light of day, it seemed half-mad. But her need to speak with Mr Darcy before he left—before it was too late to question him about Mr Wickham and Sir Anthony—overpowered her sense of caution.

Dressing herself quickly, Elizabeth clutched the bedpost for support as she tugged on her gown, the pain in her ankle sharp but bearable. She ran her fingers hastily through her hair, twisting it into a simple knot at the nape of her neck. Her heart pounded with anticipation as she made her way to the door, determined to carry out her plan despite the foolishness of it all.

She eased the door open and hobbled down the stairs as quietly as she could manage, each step a careful negotiation with her injured foot. By the time she reached the kitchen, her breath came in short gasps, and she clung to the doorframe for support.

Mrs Hill was already busying herself with the morning tasks, heating the fires and preparing the kitchen for the day. She turned, clearly surprised to see Elizabeth standing there, pale and dishevelled. "Miss Elizabeth! What on earth are you doing up so early, and in such a state? You ought to be resting, not hobbling about on that sore ankle of yours."

Elizabeth smiled weakly at the almost maternal concern in the housekeeper's tone. "I could not sleep, Mrs Hill, and thought a bit of fresh air might do me some good."

Mrs Hill's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but she said nothing at first. Instead, she motioned to a small pot simmering on the hearth. "I've made some willow bark tea for you. It will help with the pain and swelling."

Elizabeth sighed, knowing she could not refuse. Mrs Hill had been like a second mother to her, and there was no point in arguing with the woman when she took on such a tone. She lowered herself into a chair, accepting the steaming cup gratefully. The warmth seeped into her hands as she sipped the bitter liquid, trying not to make a face at the taste .

Mrs Hill stood over her, arms crossed, watching Elizabeth with a mixture of concern and exasperation. "Now, Miss Lizzy, what are you really about this morning? You've never been one to rise before the sun unless there was something on your mind."

Elizabeth set the cup down and looked up at Mrs Hill with a determined smile. "You know me too well, Mrs Hill. I need a favour. Could you ask Mr Hill to saddle my father's horse? I have a bit of business to attend to this morning."

The request left Mrs Hill momentarily speechless. She stared at Elizabeth, her brows knitted together in confusion. "Saddle a horse? Miss Elizabeth, surely you don't mean to go riding in your condition. And without your father's leave?"

Elizabeth's smile wavered, but she held her ground. "It is the first morning all week that the skies have not threatened snow or rain, and I am aching for a little fresh air."

"Fresh air, she says!" Mrs Hill shook her head as she turned back to her stove. "You will fall off that wretched horse again, and this time, you will catch your death out there in a snow drift."

"Nonsense! That horse and I came to a slight understanding, and I am certain the chill will do my ankle some good."

Mrs Hill looked over her shoulder at Elizabeth as if she had lost her senses. "I've no authority to question you, Miss, but this does seem rather unwise. You can hardly stand, let alone ride."

Elizabeth reached for her cup again, more to steady herself than anything else. "Please, Mrs Hill. It would mean a great deal to me. I shall be careful, I promise."

The housekeeper's stern expression softened, though she still looked doubtful. "I'll speak to Mr Hill, but only on the condition that you finish your tea and rest a while before you go gallivanting off. And if you fall and break your neck, I'll have you know I'll not be the one to explain it to your father."

Elizabeth laughed softly, touched by the woman's protectiveness. "Agreed, Mrs Hill. I will be as cautious as a mouse."

With a resigned sigh, Mrs Hill turned to the door. "Very well, I'll have Mr Hill see to it. But mark my words, Miss Elizabeth, this is a fool's errand if ever I've seen one."

Yes, yes, it probably was that. Elizabeth sipped her tea, the warmth spreading through her body, though it did little to ease the trepidation gnawing at her heart. This plan of hers was indeed foolish, but it was all she had left to grasp at before Mr Darcy slipped through her fingers once more.

D arcy descended the stairs slowly, each step deliberate as he tried to steady himself with only one hand on the bannister. The headache from the night before had lessened to a dull throb, but his mind remained clouded, thoughts scattered like the mist that clung to the early morning air.

He ought to be able to function just well enough to take his leave. It was not the fact-seeking mission he had determined upon when he left London, but… well, a number of things were falling short of his expectations lately. He could hardly turn the entire world to his liking. If he could just keep his dignity intact long enough to thank his host, bid Bingley farewell and mount his carriage for Cambridge, he could…

But as he reached the bottom of the stairs, Wickham was there, waiting for him.

"Good morning, Darcy!" Wickham greeted him with a cheerful grin. He was impeccably dressed, his coat buttoned neatly and his cravat tied with precision. There was no trace of sleep in his expression; it was as if he had been waiting for this very moment. "I thought you might be up and about early. I hoped we could have a word before the others are stirring."

Darcy's scepticism flared instantly. Wickham's presence at such an hour, his overly affable demeanour—it all set Darcy on edge. He was well aware that he was not at his best, and the realisation was beginning to dawn on him that he had underestimated Wickham for far too long. The man before him was no longer the charming rogue Darcy had once known; he was something more dangerous.

Yet, to refuse Wickham's request would be to show weakness, and Darcy could not afford that. "Very well," he replied.

Wickham's smile widened as he gestured towards the study. "This way, then. I assure you, it will not take long."

The study was dimly lit, the curtains still drawn against the early morning light. Wickham moved behind the desk, the polished wood gleaming in the shadows. He gestured for Darcy to take a seat, and Darcy complied, though the act of sitting felt like a concession—a ceding of power to the man who now stood before him.

Wickham positioned himself behind the desk, placing Darcy on the other side as though he were some sort of a supplicant. The humiliation of the moment prickled at Darcy's pride, but he kept his expression neutral, determined not to let Wickham see how deeply it unsettled him.

Wickham reached into a drawer and pulled out a small, elegant box, which he placed on the desk between them. With a flick of his wrist, he opened it to reveal a row of cigars, each meticulously rolled. He selected one and held it out to Darcy. "I know we've not even broken our fasts yet, but these are quite exceptional. A gift from a friend. I thought you might appreciate one before you go."

Darcy declined with a curt shake of his head, but his gaze lingered on the cigars. He recognized them instantly—these were the same Havanas that Lord Matlock favoured, rare and costly, difficult to obtain. Wickham's possession of them was a subtle but significant detail, one that spoke of connections Darcy had not fully accounted for. How had Wickham come by such luxuries? Who was this "friend" he spoke of, and what influence did he wield?

Darcy narrowed his eyes, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he waited for Wickham to reveal the purpose of this conversation. It was new and nerve-wracking to find himself on the defensive in a conversation with anyone.

Wickham chuckled as he lit the cigar for himself. "Yes, of course, a terrible vice, particularly so early in the morning. But one I indulge in from time to time, especially when the opportunity is too good to pass up. Now, to the matter at hand."

Darcy remained silent, his eyes fixed on Wickham as he exhaled a plume of smoke.

"I must say, Darcy," Wickham began, his tone suddenly warmer, almost deferential, "I have always admired your influence, your standing. Few men have managed to maintain such a sterling reputation, especially in our circles. I probably never said as much, but it is something I have always looked up to."

Our circles? So, Wickham truly thought them equals now, did he? And Darcy had not sufficient faculties at the moment to debate the man as he once might have. His head felt like someone had driven an ice pick into his eye socket, and the best strategy he could think of was to simply nod, keep his expression neutral, and listen to whatever Wickham wanted to say without giving anything away .

Wickham leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on a more earnest note. "I find myself in a position where your support could make a world of difference. You see, Sir Anthony's campaign is gaining momentum, but what we really need is an endorsement from someone of your calibre. Your name alone carries weight beyond Meryton—weight that could tip the scales in our favour."

Darcy's chest tightened. The request was not unexpected, but the directness of it still caught him off guard. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I have never been one to involve myself in politics, Wickham. I prefer to leave such matters to those more inclined."

Wickham's smile faltered for a brief moment before he recovered, leaning back in his chair. "I understand your reluctance, Darcy; truly, I do. But this is about more than politics—it's about the future of this community. I have seen how much you care for Pemberley and its people. Meryton deserves the same consideration, don't you think?"

Darcy's temple throbbed as Wickham's words continued to flow, each one carefully crafted to appeal to Darcy's sense of duty. The blighter certainly knew how to make him do as he desired.

"I did not think the election was even contested." It was a costly effort, but Darcy had forced his tone to remain light and even, rather than accusatory.

"There is, in fact, a challenger, though he does not enjoy the same level of support as Sir Anthony."

Darcy frowned. "It still does not sound as though you have any need for concern."

"Oh, as to that, there are two or three sceptics—unfortunately, men of intelligence and influence. Mr Bennet, for one. I am sure you saw as much last night, and I daresay the fellow is twice as clever as his brother-in-law, so there is no help to be found from Philips in swaying him. I tell you, there is nothing like an intelligent man who fancies himself in the right. I doubt the Almighty Himself could change such a man's mind."

"Have you considered that there just might be a reason that such a ‘clever' man would have withdrawn his support of your candidate?" Darcy asked… somewhat testily.

"I ask such things all the time, but in this case, I am sure of the cause. Bennet is old friends with the previous MP, and I've no doubt the fellow is sending bitter letters to anyone who will read them."

"Perhaps he knows something that he feels the residents of Meryton should be made aware of," Darcy retorted.

"And there, you have got it," Wickham agreed .

Darcy blinked. Now Wickham was… agreeing with him that something seemed wrong? "How so?"

"You see, people will say anything. And the more those things are said, the more they are believed, whether or not they have any basis in fact. You know this as well as anyone, I daresay."

Darcy arched a brow. "I had a prime example to observe for many years."

Wickham bellowed in laughter, his teeth clenched round that impressive Havana. "But I never could fool you for long!" He sighed and removed the cigar for a moment. "That is why I need you , Darcy. You can see through the nonsense to the facts."

"And what facts are those? Who is this Sir Anthony, and why are you so eager to support him?" Darcy shot back.

Wickham smiled. "Ah, Darcy, I thought you would have a little faith in me by now, but I see it is too early yet. Do you know," he chuckled between puffs of smoke, "I shall never forget what your father used to say. I can still hear his voice in my head, clear as a bell."

That was a peculiar topic shift. Darcy's hackles raised a little more. "My father said a great many things. To which of them are you referring?"

"Why, it was the ‘Man of Principle' speech. Surely, you recall. We both heard it often enough."

Darcy frowned in thought. "There was no specific ‘speech' of that nature."

"Indeed, there was. Egad, how could you have forgot? He was always saying how a man can have excellent principles, but if he follows them in pride and conceit, then his good qualities truly amount to nothing. You must remember that. He only said it every time he disciplined us."

Something caught and snagged in the dark recesses of Darcy's memory. That phrase, ‘pride and conceit'… Good heavens, he had forgot!

It was true, his father had not found it necessary to discipline his heir nearly as often as he did his steward's son. But who could possibly treasure George Darcy's words more than himself? And that particular maxim had slipped his memory entirely.

He truly was losing his mind. He drove his fingers into his temple, trying for all his might to look as though it were simply a thoughtful mannerism, but in reality, he could not resist the urge to try to mend whatever was broken inside.