31. Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

E lizabeth gripped the reins tighter, her patience wearing thin as her horse resisted yet another attempt to steer it down the road to Netherfield. The morning air was crisp, the sky a dull grey that matched her blackening mood. The roads, still bearing the scars of the recent flooding, were rutted and uneven, but Elizabeth knew better than to think of cutting through the fields as she might have done in better weather.

She nudged the horse forward with her left leg, trying to compensate for the pain in her right ankle, but the creature baulked, its head jerking as if determined to return to the safety of Longbourn's stables.

"Come on, you obstinate beast," Elizabeth muttered through gritted teeth. "If you think I'll let you turn back now, you've got another thing coming."

The horse tossed its head as if in response, its ears flicking back defiantly. Elizabeth sighed, her patience fraying, and tried to soothe the creature with a gentle pat on its neck. "I'll have you know, I am reconsidering your future. Perhaps as a cart-horse? Or maybe pulling a dray? Keep this up, and we shall find out."

The horse, unimpressed, continued to resist, and Elizabeth's annoyance flared. She had left her riding crop behind, but now she regretted the decision. Without the crop, she had only her legs to guide the horse, and the weakness in her right ankle made that nearly impossible.

"Of all the days for you to grow a spine," Elizabeth grumbled, trying to nudge the horse forward again. "If you refuse to get moving, I'll sell you to the nearest farmer as a plough horse, and you can spend your days dragging iron blades through mud instead of taking pleasant little jaunts with me." The horse flicked its tail but otherwise ignored her threats.

She shifted her foot within the stirrup, and a sharp pain shot up her leg, making her wince. Biting back a groan, she lifted her foot out of the stirrup and let it dangle, hoping the relief from the pressure might ease the ache. And, of course, the horse took advantage of the weakness in her right leg to duck in that direction .

"Oh, no, do not concern yourself with me," she muttered, her irritation bubbling over as she tugged his head back toward Netherfield. "Just managing to stay in the saddle, no thanks to you."

The horse snorted, its ears twitching as it continued to resist her guidance. Elizabeth tightened her grip on the reins and forced herself to take a steadying breath. The last thing she needed was for the horse to pick up on her agitation and make a dash back toward Longbourn.

As she finally managed to guide the horse closer to Netherfield, Elizabeth's thoughts raced, panic rising in her chest as she realised she had no clear plan for what she was about to do. "Brilliant, Lizzy," she muttered to herself. "Ride out here with no plan, no crop, and no common sense. What could possibly go wrong?" The horse twitched its ears, as if mocking her self-recrimination.

In the past, she had often come across Mr Darcy during her walks, their encounters seeming almost serendipitous. But today, with the weather colder and the threat of rain in the air, there was no guarantee he would be out walking. His departure from Netherfield was imminent, and she had heard nothing to suggest he intended to linger any longer than necessary. Time was not on her side.

Elizabeth glanced up at the grey sky, her breath clouding in the chilly air. "If this turns into a wild goose chase, I'm blaming you," she told the horse, who seemed utterly unbothered by the accusation. The creature suddenly snorted, tugging on the reins in a clear attempt to turn around. "Oh no, you don't," Elizabeth snapped, pulling back and guiding the horse toward the driveway that led to Netherfield. "I'll drag you by the reins if I have to. You're getting me to that house, or so help me, I'll—" She cut herself off, realising she had no real threat to offer.

The horse, sensing her determination, seemed to relent a little, but Elizabeth knew better than to trust it. "Better," she muttered. "But don't think I'm above bribery. There is an extra apple in it for you if we make it there without incident."

As Netherfield finally came into view, Elizabeth's heart pounded with a mix of apprehension and determination. She needed to think, to find a way to approach Mr Darcy without drawing too much attention. But how?

" A re you well, Darcy?"

Darcy dropped his hand, clearing his throat. "Perfectly."

Wickham's eyes narrowed faintly. "Indeed. Well, I am sure reflecting on such memories can still be painful. Your father was the very best of men."

Darcy thinned his lips in a forced smile.

"You always did have it easier, Darcy," Wickham continued, his voice softening. "Principled as a church deacon, even in your infancy, I declare. Whereas I…" He broke off with a chuckle and another puff of smoke. "Well, you might say that I had to take the harder way at every step. Though, I daresay I learned my fair share—more so, I fancy, than you, who never dreamed of straying from the path of rectitude."

Darcy bristled. "Are you saying that a youth squandered in vice and sloth could possibly be better preparation for assuming the mantle of duty later in life?"

Wickham laughed heartily as he removed the cigar from his mouth to flick off a bit of ash. "I see I have provoked you. I only meant that a man learns from his mistakes, but if he has never made any considerable missteps, why, he may well possess the same wisdom but perhaps lack the depth of understanding that a man only gains by dragging himself back to the straight and narrow inch by painful inch."

Darcy shifted in his chair. "What do you truly want, Wickham?"

Wickham half-smiled. "I am still learning, Darcy. Even now, at nearly thirty years of age, I find myself in need of your guidance—your approval. I am now navigating a world that is still new to me, and as valuable as some of the mistakes of my past have proved to be, I would rather not make them now while I have others who depend on me. I could use a steady hand like yours to help me see it through."

Darcy's unease solidified into something colder, more decisive. He might not have the ability to stop whatever was happening, but he had no intention of lending his support to Wickham's endeavours. The thought of being manipulated into doing so only hardened his resolve. "I appreciate your confidence in me, Wickham," he said, his voice carefully measured, "but I am not convinced that my involvement would be of any real benefit. For one thing, I harbour my own doubts about this candidate you ask me to support. And for another, there are far too many questions you yourself have left unanswered."

Wickham's eyes darkened, and for the first time, a flicker of irritation crossed his face. His tone hardened, losing some of its earlier warmth. "You know, Darcy, your pride is still as formidable as ever. I'd hoped that you might have seen beyond the past by now, that you might recognize when someone is trying to make amends, to build something better."

Darcy's jaw tightened at the accusation. He met Wickham's gaze evenly, refusing to be baited. "I am not opposed to change, Wickham, but I am cautious about where I place my trust. You ask for my support, yet this is not a cause I can fully endorse."

Wickham's expression soured, the mask of geniality slipping ever so slightly. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "You've always prided yourself on your principles, Darcy, on your sense of justice. But what good are those principles if they keep you isolated—if they prevent you from seeing what's right in front of you?"

"Oh, I see it." Darcy leaned forward in his chair, locking eyes with the man. "I see a candidate of no qualifications and murky history. I see a man who sidesteps every blunt question put to him, and I see fabrications presented as facts. I want nothing to do with any of it."

Wickham's eyes flashed with something akin to anger, but he quickly masked it with a tight smile. "I apologise if you misconstrued my words, Darcy. I have not deceived you, although we… ahem… appear to ‘remember' things differently."

Darcy's expression had fractured—even he could feel the dead-white pallor seeping into his complexion, the shocked stare he could not seem to break. "What… what are you saying, Wickham?"

Wickham sighed. "Oh, come, Darcy. I have known you all your life, and something is altered about you. My money is on a woman—is that it?" He chuckled. "There is nothing like a pair of fine eyes to make a man forget even his father's favourite advice. I imagine you do not even recall the name of the first young lady you fancied."

He grinned, waited for a few seconds, and then when Darcy did not answer, he leaned forward and whispered, "It was Bridgette—that French maid."

"That is a lie. I never dabbled with the servants."

Wickham snorted. "Not at age seven, no. She was your mother's abigail, and… good heavens, we used to hide in Lady Anne's dressing room just so we could watch her shaking out the linens. Do you not remember? That satiny blonde hair she had, that smile, and that figure… Ah…" He sighed reverently and took another long draw on his cigar.

Darcy narrowed his eyes at the desk and clawed through his earlier recollections. There was… something… but he could have sworn his mother's abigail was named Elise, and had dark hair…

Egad… how much did he remember incorrectly? And if he could not remember, was he even capable of thinking clearly? Was there a chance, even the slimmest one, that Wickham was trying to make an honest man of himself and that Darcy's own faulty recollections and prejudices were barring the way?

Wickham flicked more ashes off his cigar. "Ah, well, no matter. Water under the bridge, eh? Look, Darcy, I apologise for setting upon you so. I would not dream of pressuring you into something beyond the scope of your comfort. I only hoped that you might see the value in what we are trying to achieve here."

Darcy swallowed and felt a trickle of perspiration slipping down his throat. But that was not all, for the muscles on the inside of his right arm suddenly went rigid, his fingers numb and spasming in almost an instant.

He had to get out of that study. Immediately, before something worse happened.

Wickham exhaled another plume of smoke, his gaze never leaving Darcy's face. "Nothing more to say, Darcy? Well, then," he said with forced cheer, "I know better than to argue with you. But know this, Darcy—I have never forgot what you and your father did for me. I have always looked up to you like a brother, and I will always treasure my connection to your family."

The words were meant to sting, to remind Darcy of the past, but Darcy was now too preoccupied with trying to remain upright in the chair to notice. The palsy had possessed his hand once more and was threatening to travel up the sinews of his neck. He could not afford even another second. Darcy rose from his chair, his movements jerky and rushed.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Wickham," he said. "I will be taking my leave now."

Wickham stood as well, his expression unreadable. "Of course. I shall have the servants prepare your things. Safe travels, Darcy."

E lizabeth's heart leapt into her throat as she caught sight of Mr Darcy's carriage being brought out from the shed. A moment more, and she passed into view of the stables, where two horses were standing to be harnessed. She had almost no time left.

She thumped her left leg on the horse's side, but not only did he not move in response, he jerked his head forward to snatch a mouthful of grass from beside the road, ripping the reins from her hands.

"Of course, you would choose this moment for that," Elizabeth muttered under her breath, glaring at the horse as it chewed in apparent indifference. She dove forward to reach the reins, then rocked back in the saddle again, trying to pull the horse where she wanted it to go. The horse, however, had other ideas, and rooted at the bit to grab another mouthful.

"Always helpful, aren't you?" Elizabeth snapped, her patience fraying at the edges. The horse's only response was to toss its head again, the reins slipping slightly through her fingers as it did. She tightened her grip, determined not to let the beast get the better of her.

She cast a quick glance toward the carriage being readied in the distance. There was no time to waste. Perhaps if she could slip around to the servant's entrance before she was seen… It was her best chance to get inside without causing a scandal or encountering the wrong gentleman.

What she meant to do next… well, that was as much a mystery as the strange panic that rose in her chest when she contemplated not seeing him before he left.

With a sharp tug on the reins, she tried to guide the horse around the side of the house. The beast reluctantly obeyed, its hooves dragging as if it could sense her urgency and was intentionally opposing it. Elizabeth's frustration grew, and she had to grit her teeth to keep from shouting at the stubborn creature .

"Must you fight me every step of the way?" she hissed, casting another wary glance around to make sure no one had seen her yet. The horse huffed in response, a puff of steam rising from its nostrils in the cold morning air. Elizabeth shook her head, wondering how on earth she was going to manage this. The animal seemed as intent on thwarting her plans as the universe itself.

As she neared the back of the house, her heart sank. A group of workmen was approaching, and she had to pull the horse back into the cover of the surrounding woods before they saw her. She held her breath as the workmen drew closer. As long as they were not coming in her direction, they would be gone in only a moment.

But to her dismay, they went to the back door of the house and waited for what seemed like an eternity until Mr Wickham himself emerged from the servant's door to meet them.

Elizabeth grumbled one or two highly unladylike things. Was the whole world conspiring against her? How was she to get to Mr Darcy now? Back to the front door, perhaps? But that would guarantee that she would be seen. There was nothing to do but wait where she was.

Mr Wickham seemed to be in no hurry to conclude his conversation. Rather, he seemed to be taking his time to give concise directions about something, and he was not pleased about it. His voice carried on the cold morning air, sounding uncharacteristically tense. Elizabeth strained to hear their conversation, though the words were too muffled to make out clearly. Whatever it was, it left Wickham looking agitated as he sent the men off with a curt nod.

"Brilliant. Just brilliant," she whispered to herself, her frustration mounting. It was odd, though—why would Mr Wickham come out through the servant's door? That was hardly the usual way to meet with workmen. Elizabeth's suspicions deepened, and she realised there was no way she could approach the house now without risking an encounter with him.

She tried to turn the horse away from the house, but her thoughts were racing too fast to settle on a clear plan. What was she supposed to do now? She barely had time to think before the horse, sensing her hesitation, decided to take matters into its own hooves. With a sudden jerk of its head, it pulled on the reins, and Elizabeth found herself in an unexpected tugging match.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, will you just—" She never got to finish her sentence. The horse yanked hard to the right, pulling her out of balance. With her injured ankle unable to brace her, she toppled off the saddle and into the mud with an undignified thud .

Pain shot through her ankle, and she bit back a scream, her gown now thoroughly ruined. "Well done," she muttered darkly, glaring up at the horse, who simply stared back with an air of indifference. "I hope you are proud of yourself."

Struggling to catch her breath and keep the tears of frustration at bay, Elizabeth tried to assess her situation. Her ankle was screaming in pain, and she was covered in mud. What was she to do now?

D arcy leaned heavily against the wall, his breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. His right hand began to tremble uncontrollably, a cold shiver running down his spine as the familiar, dreaded sensation crept through his body. It had happened before—this harbinger of something worse, something that had left him on the floor, helpless and alone, with no recollection of how he had ended up there.

He could not allow that to happen again, not here, not under Wickham's roof. The very thought of it sent a wave of nausea crashing over him. He knew Wickham was a liar, a manipulator, but what if... No, he could not put himself at Wickham's mercy, not in this state. He needed to leave. Now . But his carriage would not be ready for nearly an hour, and he could not afford to wait.

Darcy's eyes darted around the halls and up the stairs, searching for any sign of Bingley. If he could just find his friend, perhaps Bingley could help him, could offer him the assistance he so desperately needed. But he knew, with a sinking heart, that Bingley was still abed, blissfully unaware of the agony that Darcy was enduring.

The spasms in his arm began to spread, crawling up his neck and down his spine, tightening like a vise around his rib cage. His eye twitched uncontrollably, and his vision blurred. Panic clawed at his throat as his breathing became more ragged, more desperate.

He had to get out, had to find somewhere—anywhere—he could go where he would not be seen, where he could ride out this storm in relative privacy. But the stairs seemed an insurmountable obstacle, and he knew he would never make it back to his room without collapsing.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a maid passing through the door that led to the kitchen. In that moment, he knew he had no other choice. The servants—discreet and used to handling matters quietly—would be his only hope. He could trust them to hush up his troubles if he asked them to. While they might inform Wickham after the fact, at least he could pass through the horrors of the moment out of sight, away from prying eyes.

Darcy pushed himself off the wall, stumbling toward the door. His legs felt like lead, every step an agony. His arm jerked involuntarily, his hand twitching as though it had a mind of its own. He could feel the spasms intensifying, the muscles in his neck and chest tightening painfully.

He barely made it to the door, almost collapsing against the frame as he pushed it open with his good hand. The kitchen was bustling with activity, the warmth of the fires and the scent of freshly baked bread hitting him like a wave, but all he could focus on was finding a place to hide, a place where he could endure this torment in peace.

The maid looked up, startled to see him there, her eyes widening in concern. Darcy managed a weak, strained smile, trying to appear more composed than he felt.

"Please," he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, "help me... somewhere private..."

The maid nodded quickly, her expression one of understanding and discretion. Without a word, she led him toward a small room off the main kitchen—a pantry, dark and cool, with a single chair against the wall. Darcy all but collapsed into it, his body trembling violently, as the door closed behind him.

He closed his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and prayed that whatever was about to happen would pass quickly—and that no one else would find him before it did.