33. Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Three

" H ere you are, Miss," The maid said as she handed Elizabeth a fresh uniform. The garment was a simple, high-necked, ankle-length dress in a drab, dark fabric, accompanied by a crisp white apron with a full skirt.

Elizabeth pulled off her muddy gown with the maid's help, hopping the best she could on her good foot and slipping into the simple uniform. It was strange, disconcerting even, to be dressed as a maid, but she had little choice. She needed something dry and, more importantly, something decent, and this was all that was available.

The maid knelt before her, carefully unwrapping Elizabeth's injured ankle and replacing the makeshift bandage with a more substantial wrap of clean cotton. She had a clever way of wrapping it, bottom to top with a crisscross over the top of her foot and around the arch that was far better than Elizabeth's efforts. The sensation of her foot being more securely bound brought immediate relief, and Elizabeth sighed softly, grateful for the added support.

"Thank you," Elizabeth murmured, wiggling her toes experimentally within the new stocking. The pain had not vanished, but it was more manageable now. "Can you tell me where Mr Darcy went?"

The maid shook her head apologetically. "I'm not sure, Miss. But I'll ask one of the footmen for you."

Elizabeth waited in the laundry, the rough fabric of the maid's uniform brushing uncomfortably against her skin, reminding her of how far she had ventured from her usual comforts. The unfamiliar garment, hanging stiffly on her frame, made every movement feel foreign. The maid returned soon with a footman, who offered to guide her to Mr Darcy. She followed him through the winding corridors, her heart thudding more forcefully with each step.

Just as they reached the still room, the door creaked open, and Darcy emerged, his valet at his side. Elizabeth's breath caught at the sight of him. He was not fully recovered—the pallor of his skin still shone ghostly white, and there was a slight tremor in his movements—but there was a bit more steadiness in his posture. It was clear he was forcing himself to stand tall, to present the fa?ade of the composed gentleman she knew him to be.

When his eyes met hers, something softened in his gaze, and a warmth spread across his features, causing an unexpected flutter in her stomach. It was a feeling that left her both exhilarated and terrified, and she could scarcely find her voice.

"Mr Darcy," she managed. "Are you… well?"

He glanced at his valet, then back at her, the ghost of a self-deprecating smile playing on his lips. "As well as might be expected, Miss Bennet," he replied, though the strain in his voice did little to mask the truth.

Elizabeth started to respond, but she became abruptly aware of the quiet attention of several servants lingering nearby, their eyes flicking between her and Darcy with poorly concealed curiosity. The moment felt far too intimate under their scrutiny. To make it worse, she probably had a foolish grin on her face. She sobered quickly and stammered, "Mr Darcy, could I trouble you for a moment of your time… before you leave?"

Darcy quirked an eyebrow, his gaze steady and questioning. "And how, pray, did you intend to see yourself home afterwards, Miss Bennet?"

Elizabeth's cheeks flushed. The truth was, she had not thought that far ahead. "I… I had not quite considered… I only hoped you could spare a moment."

Darcy's expression shifted to one of mild exasperation as he studied her. When he finally spoke, his words were gentle but firm. "I am sorry, Miss Elizabeth. I mean to depart Netherfield at once."

Elizabeth's heart sank, disappointment flooding her chest. Of course, he would want to leave quickly after everything that had happened. She opened her mouth to tell him she understood, that she would not expect him to linger under such circumstances, but before she could speak, his voice cut through her thoughts, softer now, yet carrying a warmth that sent a shiver through her.

"But not without you."

" E nsure the carriage is ready, Giles, and find out if Bingley is about," Darcy ordered, trying to inject some semblance of normalcy into his tone. The valet nodded, his eyes betraying a flicker of concern before he hurried off.

Pausing, Darcy forced himself to breathe, to steady the trembling in his hands. His gaze fell on Mrs Nicholls, who stood a few paces away, her brow furrowed in quiet concern. The lines of her face, etched with years of service and discretion, reminded him that even here, even now, there were those who saw far more than they let on.

"Mrs Nicholls," he said, "I owe you more than I can express. Your discretion has been... invaluable." The words felt inadequate, but they were all he could manage.

Mrs Nicholls gave a small nod, her lips pressing into a thin line as she met his gaze. "Mr Darcy, I only did what was necessary."

He inclined his head again, a gesture of respect and unspoken thanks. "I shall not forget your kindness."

Mrs Nicholls nodded, her expression softening with relief, and when Darcy caught a glimpse of Elizabeth, he saw a faint smile of approval on her lips. He wanted desperately to offer her his arm to the carriage, to treat her as the lady she was no matter what she wore, but doing so would draw too much attention. No, they would be obliged to sneak about and pray they were not discovered before they made their escape.

"This way, sir," the footman said, nodding toward a narrow door at the end of the corridor. "Go down this passage and take the first right. It'll lead you to the morning room—that room has been completely unused since the old master left, with the furnishings still covered. You'll pass through unnoticed and come out directly into the main hall."

Darcy nodded his thanks and moved toward the entrance, Elizabeth close behind. The passage was tight, the walls pressing in on either side, and he could feel Elizabeth's hand slip into the crook of his elbow as she steadied herself. The warmth of her touch, so delicate and firm at once, sent a shiver down his spine. The intimacy of the moment made him acutely aware of every breath she took, the soft rustle of her clothing brushing against his.

They rounded a corner, and for a moment, Darcy paused, unsure of the direction. The footman's instructions echoed in his mind, but the nearness of Elizabeth, her presence overwhelming, made him falter. He turned about for a few seconds, then, unaccountably, found himself staring at her, taking in the way the dim light softened her features, how her eyes, full of determination, held his gaze.

"Mr Darcy," she whispered softly, breaking the silence. "The footman said to take the first right."

Her voice snapped him out of his reverie. He blinked, shaking his head slightly to clear it. "Yes, of course," he murmured, chastising himself for the lapse. He tore his eyes away from her and led the way forward, taking the turn as instructed.

Darcy reached the end of the passage and paused at the discreet door that led into the morning room. He pressed his ear against the door, listening intently for any sign of activity beyond. The silence on the other side reassured him. Satisfied that it was clear, he slowly pushed the door open, the old hinges creaking slightly, and stepped through, holding it wide for Elizabeth as she followed close behind, her hand still resting on his arm.

The room was dim, the furniture draped in ghostly sheets, just as the footman had promised. Darcy hesitated only long enough to close the door behind them, then they were darting through the room to freedom. It was just then that a familiar voice drifted down the corridor outside, growing louder with every step. Wickham.

Panic surged through him. They were caught with no time to flee. If Wickham found them in this room, there would be no escaping the endless insinuations and probing questions that would follow. But no, how likely was that? The footman was quite right—no one used this room. Wickham would pass by in the outer hall, and they could leave once he had gone.

Darcy pulled Elizabeth deeper into the room, moving swiftly toward a spot partially concealed behind an arched beam. They were still in plain sight—there was no hope of hiding completely—but at least they were not directly in Wickham's line of sight on the off chance that he did happen to open the door for some reason. The shadows clung to them, but it was a fragile cover at best.

As Wickham's voice drew nearer, Darcy's pulse quickened with anxiety. Surely, Wickham would simply walk past the doorway—he never used this room! What were the odds that the one time he did was right now? Zero, or perhaps less! But to his dismay, the door handle turned, and indeed, Wickham began to enter the room. Panic surged through him—there was no time to hide, no time to think.

Wickham could not find them like this. No explanations for Elizabeth's attire, for why she was there with him in the first place. And he, why… he was supposed to be making his preparations to depart! Why would he be in an unused room with a woman who…

Well, there was one possible reason.

Inspired, he turned to Elizabeth, his hand already reaching out to pull her close, her back pressing against the wall behind them. "Do you trust me, Elizabeth?" he whispered.

She tilted her head. "I… of course. Why?"

He flinched as the door pushed open fully. There was not another instant to lose.

"Then forgive me."

Her eyes widened in shock, and before she could protest, he silenced her with a sudden, desperate kiss. She stiffened at first, a soft gasp escaping her. But the moment their lips touched, everything else faded. Her initial resistance dissolved, and Darcy felt her yield, a softness that mirrored the ache in his own chest. The world outside vanished, leaving only the heady press of his lips against hers, the raw need to keep her close.

Her breath hitched against his lips, and Darcy's heart pounded, the danger of the moment making every sensation sharper, more acute. The warmth of her body, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her hands instinctively clutched at his coat—everything about her presence was a lifeline in the dark.

Wickham would see them any second. He was only a few steps away, his voice now joined by another—Sir Anthony Mortimer. Darcy forced himself to pull back just enough to see Elizabeth's face, her expression a portrait of confusion and… well, hopefully, that was desire, but he did not have the time to find out. He held her gaze, willing her to trust him just a little longer. She blinked, her breath catching, then her lips parted as she gave a faint nod.

Without hesitation, he leaned in and kissed her again, more deliberately this time, drawing her closer as if they had all the time in the world—hoping Wickham would see exactly what he wanted him to.

"Wexfield is impatient," Wickham began. "The vote is only a few days away, and we don't have enough support. How did we get here? What are you going to do about it, Mortimer? "

"It was your job to win their trust, Wickham. With all the money Wexfield handed over, how did you manage to fail so completely? They should have been eating out of your hand."

"They were! Especially after Bingley came. He always was a milksop, but for some reason, every mama with an unmarried daughter is falling at his feet. You've no idea the connections that softling has bought me."

Darcy must have pulled back from Elizabeth to listen. One of them must have, because they were blinking at each other again, and her head was shaking faintly. Was she trying to tell him something? But an instant later, her fingers were threaded through his hair, and she had pulled him back down to her again.

Perhaps there were better ways to hide in plain sight, but this one was… rather diverting. Darcy sighed and sank deeper into her arms.

"Then, what happened?" Mortimer demanded. "I thought you said this was locked up."

Wickham's voice, now sharp with frustration, cut through the darkened room. "Bennet. He's proving to be more troublesome than anticipated."

Elizabeth stiffened in Darcy's arms, breaking contact to hiss in a shocked breath. Darcy raised a hand to stroke her cheek, looking into her eyes with a grave expression that drew her focus back once more. She swallowed and leaned into him, her arms tight around his neck as she buried her face in his chest.

"Bennet," Mortimer replied. "You mean the white-haired eccentric I met last night? What the devil can he do?"

"You do not understand. Longbourn is the linchpin to this entire valley—geographically as well as socially. It is the largest estate for twenty miles around that has been in the same family for more than two generations. Bennet is the key to over half the gentlemen eligible to vote, and through his brother-in-law, he can sway all the businessmen in Meryton. I wager he is the only man in Hertfordshire who wields more influence than he cares to, and we have lost him."

"Then get him back," Mortimer replied indifferently. "Whatever you did before—"

"There lies the rub." Wickham paused, and they heard him pacing for a few steps. Darcy's muscles tensed, but strangely, his comfort was Elizabeth. She felt him go rigid, and she worked her fingers into the knots of his shoulders to ease him. And she kept kissing him, which… ah, that worked rather well .

"The key to Bennet," Wickham continued, "is his daughter. The clever one, Elizabeth. And I thought I had her sewn up as well, particularly when I set her off against Darcy—the chit loves an argument as well as he does—but something changed. I shall never win Bennet back if his daughter is against me, and she will turn Sir William through his daughter as well."

Darcy tightened his arms around Elizabeth as she smothered choked gasps into his neck. So, that had been Wickham's game! He stroked his thumb down the centre of her back, trying to soothe her for just another moment. Either they could remain unseen—doubtful—or they must maintain their little ‘liaison' long enough to make it convincing. It did seem fairly convincing from where Darcy was standing, for Elizabeth hungrily plied his lips again as if their very lives depended on it.

"So, seduce the wench and have done with it," Mortimer said. "Marry her if you have to—come, Wickham, I do not need to tell you, of all people, how to get a woman to do what you want!"

Wickham was pacing again, hissing in frustration. "Not this one. Besides, it is too late. Did you know Bennet sent a letter to a certain member of the House of Lords, asking questions?"

Mortimer scoffed. "What contacts would a half-crazy, indolent old codger like Bennet have?"

"Apparently, Lord Matlock. The Meryton postmaster informed me this morning."

Darcy froze, his lips still brushing against Elizabeth's, but his focus shifted to the conversation unfolding just feet away. Elizabeth's breath faltered, and she started to pull back, her eyes wide with alarm. But Darcy gently coaxed her back into the kiss, his hand resting against her cheek with a tenderness that made her hesitate just long enough for him to hear more.

"Matlock? Preposterous."

"Not as much as you might think," Wickham retorted. "Collins is Bennet's future son-in-law, and Collins is a lapdog for Lady Catherine de Bourgh—Matlock's sister. No, I doubt there has been an introduction, but Bennet is the last old fool to care about that sort of formality. Regardless of how outside expectation it might be, Bennet did, in fact, write to the man."

Darcy swallowed, and his eyes found Elizabeth's. Her chest was rising in quick gasps now that probably had nothing to do with him, and fire had risen to her cheeks. If what Wickham said was true, her father had just stepped into something larger than he could have imagined.

"You think Lord Matlock would even read something from an odd stranger who wrote on such a thin pretence of a connection about some little by-election in a town he never heard of?"

"I think Matlock would very much like to take any chance he could to meddle in the election, and I promise you, he has heard of Meryton. Besides, it's not just Bennet who is causing problems. Others are beginning to waver."

Mortimer's response was cold, his words barely masking his disdain. "You've botched this, Wickham. With the funds at your disposal, the town should be ours. What are you playing at?"

Wickham's frustration boiled over. "Me? I have done everything I was told to do, but we're running out of time! Wexfield will have my head if we don't secure these votes. You need to step up, Mortimer, or this entire election will be a complete waste."

Mortimer's reply was a low growl, but Darcy barely heard it over the pounding of his heart.

Elizabeth's fingers tightened against Darcy's chest, and when she pulled back slightly to catch her breath, Darcy didn't give her time to voice the fear he saw in her eyes. Instead, he kissed her again, this time with a purpose that sent a shiver through him. This kiss was slower, more deliberate, and Elizabeth, perhaps sensing their charade was about to be discovered, responded in kind, her lips softening against his. It was probably when she slipped her tongue over his that he groaned aloud, and that was the end of their temporary invisibility.

"What the devil?" Wickham's boots shuffled around the beam that concealed them, and Darcy's heart stopped, the kiss faltering as another pair of steps joined the first. Elizabeth's grip on him tightened, and he found himself holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable.

"Darcy?" Wickham's voice was suddenly loud, full of shock and unguarded amusement as he came closer. Darcy felt the shift in Elizabeth's posture, and that was it. No more excuses to keep kissing Elizabeth Bennet.

Wickham's laugh echoed in the room. "Well, well, well. Darcy, you old dog. I was not sure where you had got off to earlier—thought you were dressing for your journey, but I didn't expect this! "

Darcy slowly pulled back from the kiss, his heart pounding, and turned to face Wickham, making sure to keep Elizabeth shielded behind him as much as possible. Wickham's eyes gleamed with mischief as he took in the scene, and Darcy feigned a besotted smirk, hoping it would suffice.

Wickham glanced toward the partially hidden Elizabeth, still ducking her face. "I thought I recognized that dark hair," he chuckled, his voice dripping with insinuation. "Maria, eh? Always had a weakness for the dark-haired ones, didn't you, Darcy? But I didn't expect you to indulge yourself here, of all places."

Darcy narrowed his eyes. Had Wickham not accused him of lusting after his mother's abigail less than an hour ago? A woman Darcy was quite sure was brunette, but Wickham had declared that she was blonde. The inconsistency was like a sharp tack in his mind, but there was no time to dwell on it now. He made a split-second decision.

With a deliberate sway, he leaned slightly against the wall, feigning the effects of too much wine. He forced a lazy smile, letting his eyelids droop just enough to suggest inebriation.

"I was just… taking my leave," he slurred, his voice carrying the deliberate drawl of someone who had overindulged. He inclined his head slightly, hoping the gesture appeared more sluggish than stiff. "Bully of a girl, this maid of yours. If you'll… excuse me."

The subtle shift in his demeanour was calculated, every movement designed to project the image of a man who had lingered too long in his cups rather than one who had overheard a dangerous conversation. His heart pounded, but he maintained the veneer of nonchalance, praying that Wickham would buy the act and dismiss him without suspicion.

Wickham's smirk widened, but he made no move to stop them. Instead, he gestured to Sir Anthony, chuckling. "Egad, that would explain why you seemed a bit muzzy in the head when we spoke earlier. Hair of the dog? Well, Darcy, I am glad to find that Netherfield's ‘hospitality' meets with your approval in some measure, at least. Come, Mortimer. We'll continue our conversation elsewhere while Darcy finishes his business."

Wickham turned and left the room, Sir Anthony following. As the door closed behind them, Darcy sagged, his entire body now limp.

He turned back to Elizabeth, who was still pressed against the wall, her breathing unsteady, her eyes wide with shock. The danger had passed, but the implications of what had just happened hung heavily in the air between them .

Elizabeth was the first to speak, her voice trembling. "Mr Darcy… you heard everything they said. They must know you have overheard them. You must leave at once."

"You overheard him, too."

"No. One of his maids overheard him—or so he thinks. Whoever Maria is, I would be concerned for her safety… or worse, if he now believes her to be a woman of easy virtue."

"More likely, he has already sampled that for himself," Darcy growled. "But I will send Mrs Nicholls a message to protect her maid. Come, we must hurry."

Elizabeth's eyes widened in alarm. "No! He knows we are in this room now. It would have been difficult before, but now it will be nearly impossible for me to get to your carriage without attracting his notice. I could sneak back through the servant's passage. Mrs Nicholls could get word to Longbourn, and I could—"

"No." Darcy's response was immediate, his grip tightening on her hand. "I will not leave you here at Wickham's mercy. We go together, even if I have to march you boldly out the door right under his nose."

Without waiting for her to argue, he pulled her toward the door, his heart pounding as they stepped out into the corridor. Like as not, Wickham had dragged Sir Anthony off to some other recess of the house to finish their conversation, but he would not be long. Unless he missed his guess, Wickham would rather quickly set about stopping Darcy from talking to anyone.

As they entered the main hall, Darcy's heart sank at the sight of Bingley standing at the bottom of the stairs. He turned, grinning broadly. "Darcy! I was waiting to see you off, but I thought you were still upstairs. What is…?"

Bingley's gaze shifted from Darcy to Elizabeth, his expression changing to confusion as he took in her maid's uniform. "Miss Elizabeth? And… Darcy? What is going on?

Darcy cursed inwardly. They could not wait another moment. "Bingley, there is no time to explain. You need to join us in my carriage—immediately."

"Well… of course, Darcy, but…" Bingley's brow furrowed as he glanced between them, clearly torn. "Where are we going? I should at least tell Wickham where I'm going. I cannot just disappear without—"

Elizabeth reached out, her hand gently touching Bingley's arm, her voice soft yet urgent. "Mr Bingley, if you care for my sister Jane… and I think you do… please. It would be wiser for you to come with us now."

Bingley's gaze flickered back to Darcy, searching his face for answers, but Darcy dared give him none. He could feel his headache flaring up, the familiar, ominous sensation of a spasm beginning on the right side of his face.

Elizabeth saw it instantly, the concern in her eyes sharp. "Mr Bingley, please help Mr Darcy to the carriage. Now ."

Bingley hesitated for only a moment longer before he sprang into action, rushing to Darcy's side. The urgency in Elizabeth's voice spurred him into motion, and together, they began to guide Darcy toward the door, the need to escape more pressing than ever.