35. Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Five

D arcy stood by the open window in Mr Bennet's study, watching as Bingley's carriage was prepared for departure to London. Bingley had sent word privately to the stables at Netherfield, being unwilling to return to that house himself, and his valet, carriage and horses were now no longer under Wickham's influence. His trunk of clothing… well, that was a loss, for now.

The morning air was cool, and it brought a faint measure of short-lived relief. In his hand, he held a letter addressed to Lord Matlock, a letter that contained the truth about Wickham, Wexfield, and the political machinations that had ensnared Meryton. It was his last hope of making things right, even as his own future grew increasingly uncertain.

Behind him, Bingley paced the length of the room, his steps uneven and filled with a nervous energy. Darcy could feel the weight of his friend's distress, the guilt that had settled over Bingley like a shroud ever since he had learned the truth of Darcy's condition.

Finally, Bingley stopped. "Darcy, are you certain you do not want me to accompany you to Cambridge? Surely, I could do more good by being there with you…"

Darcy turned from the window, meeting Bingley's anxious gaze. "Charles, you will do far more good in London," he replied with a gentle firmness. "You must take this letter to my uncle and ensure that he understands the full gravity of the situation. Matlock has been looking for a way to expose Wexfield's dealings for years. This letter—" he held it up briefly "—contains everything he needs to take action."

Bingley's brow furrowed with guilt, his hands clenching at his sides. "But Darcy… I should have seen it. I should have known something was wrong. You tried to warn me about Wickham, and I… I didn't listen. And now—" He broke off, his voice catching in his throat as he gestured vaguely toward Darcy.

Darcy felt a pang of sympathy, knowing how much Bingley had trusted him and how deeply their friendship ran. "You have nothing to reproach yourself for, Charles," he said softly. "Wickham is a master of deceit, and I… I kept my own troubles hidden from everyone, even from myself. But now, you can help me by doing what must be done in London."

Bingley's shoulders sagged, his expression filled with remorse. "I understand," he murmured, though it was clear he was not entirely at peace with the decision.

There was a moment of silence between them, heavy with unspoken fears and regrets. Then, almost hesitantly, Bingley looked up, his eyes clouded with confusion. "Darcy… I must ask… how did Miss Elizabeth see what those closest to you did not? When… when did this happen? I never saw—"

Darcy's chest tightened at the mention of Elizabeth. He had known the question was coming, but that did not make it any easier to answer. He took a steadying breath, searching for the right words. "Elizabeth… she has always had a keen perception, a way of seeing through to the heart of things. I suppose it was inevitable that she would see through me as well."

Bingley's confusion deepened. "But… when? How? I never saw any signs of…"

Darcy offered a faint, almost rueful smile. "That is because I did not wish for anyone to see. Least of all, her. It was only recently that… things became clearer. But Charles, you must believe me when I say that her regard for me has come as much of a surprise to me as it has to you."

Bingley stared at him, trying to reconcile this new information with what he had always believed. "Then… she truly cares for you?"

Darcy's smile softened, though there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Yes, she does. And that is why I must see this through. For her. For whatever time I have left."

Bingley nodded slowly, still looking troubled, but there was a new determination in his expression. "Then I will do as you ask, Darcy. I will take this letter to London and ensure that Lord Matlock does what needs to be done. And I must beg you to forgive me for being such a daft, blind fool."

Darcy smiled faintly. "It is I who was the fool, trying to manage on my own when the burdens might have been shared."

Before Bingley could respond, the door opened, and Mr Bennet entered the room, his hair still as dishevelled as it had been earlier, and his coat hastily thrown over his shoulders. "Now, before you depart, gentlemen, I need to clarify what you've just been telling me," he said, his voice more serious than Elizabeth had ever heard it. "You are certain of what you overheard? "

Darcy nodded gravely, his mind replaying the conversation between Wickham and Mortimer. "There is no doubt, sir. Wickham's task was to secure the community's favour for Sir Anthony, and he failed. They are desperate, and the measures they are willing to take to ensure victory are… disturbing."

Mr Bennet rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a dark look passing over his features. "And I shall take it upon myself to have a word with Sir Lewis and a few other gentlemen in the neighbourhood. They will not support Sir Anthony once they know the truth."

"Thank you, sir. Your word will carry weight with them."

As Bingley prepared to take his leave, he hesitated before turning to Mr Bennet. His usual cheerful demeanour was absent, replaced by an expression of deep contrition. "Mr Bennet," he began, his voice low and uncharacteristically sombre, "I owe you an apology. I have been... well, a dunderheaded ass, if you will pardon my language."

Mr Bennet raised an eyebrow. "An apology, Mr Bingley? And here I thought it was Darcy who deserved one, not I. What could you possibly have to apologise to me for?"

But Bingley shook his head, resolute. "No, sir. It is not just Darcy. I... I had hoped to prove myself worthy of more than just being an acquaintance."

Mr Bennet's eyes twinkled with amusement, and a small, wry smile played on his lips. "Worthy of more than just an acquaintance, eh? Well, I must say, Mr Bingley, I am quite fond of you. But while I would gladly welcome another pet about the house, I fear we are already overrun with females. My humble abode can hardly accommodate another mouth to feed."

Bingley flushed a deep crimson. "No, sir, that is not... I mean... you misunderstand me."

Mr Bennet chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the younger man's discomfort. "Oh, I understand perfectly, Mr Bingley. But come, speak your mind. I will not bite."

Bingley took a deep breath, his fists clenching at his sides as he glanced at Darcy, who was watching the exchange with quiet interest. "Sir," Bingley stammered, his voice growing firmer as he pressed on, "I would very much like to court Miss Bennet. But... I do not feel worthy of her. Not yet. Not until I have secured a house—a proper home to offer her. I could not ask for her hand without first providing that."

Mr Bennet listened quietly, his gaze occasionally shifting to Darcy, who had already made his intentions known regarding Elizabeth. Bingley's earnestness was clear, and there was a raw honesty in his words that must have struck a chord with the flippant Mr Bennet .

"Bingley," Darcy said, drawing Bingley's attention, "if there is one thing you can learn from me, it is that life is short. Do not wait."

Bingley's breath hitched as if he could scarcely believe what he had just heard. His colour rose. "Do you... do you truly mean that? You , Darcy?"

"I do. I have held you back, Bingley." Darcy frowned and swallowed, glancing away for a second. "You must do as you feel is right, without me… or anyone else… telling you how to manage your affairs."

Bingley blinked, his chest rising quickly.

Mr Bennet, who had been observing the interaction with quiet amusement, nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed, Mr Bingley. One ought to strike while the iron is hot."

Bingley's eyes widened in wild dismay and excitement, his gaze darting between Mr Bennet and Darcy. "But... sir," he stammered, "what do you mean? Is this some... some reference to Miss Bennet's feelings?"

Mr Bennet scratched his ear, chuckling. "No, Mr Bingley, it is not. Although the sentiment would certainly apply, I was actually referring to Mrs Bennet, who does not yet know that she has a second daughter engaged. You may as well give her a third."

Bingley blinked in confusion, and then understanding dawned on his face. His gaze flickered back to Darcy, who gave him a thin smile of encouragement. Mr Bennet leaned in conspiratorially, his tone light but laced with meaning. "If you wish to protect your friend from yet another pain in his head, Mr Bingley, you might consider declaring yourself at once. It would halve the burden of Mrs Bennet's joy, you see."

Bingley's face suddenly blossomed into hope. He glanced back and forth between Mr Bennet and Darcy, his eyes brightening with newfound determination. "Then, sir... if I may... may I speak with Miss Bennet immediately?"

Mr Bennet gave him a wry shrug as though the outcome were already certain. "By all means, Mr Bingley. I shall not stand in your way."

With that, Bingley bolted from the room. Mr Bennet watched him go, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Ah, to be young again," he mused aloud, his tone light and nostalgic. "Head over boots and all that. I felt like that once... and it was heaven for ten minutes."

Darcy allowed a soft laugh to escape, then sighed, a bittersweet note in his voice. "I rather hope the feeling will endure the rest of my life... however long that may be."

T he journey north to Cambridge had got off to a gruelling start. Every jolt of the carriage sent fresh waves of pain through Darcy's head, and the damp chill in the air seemed to seep into his very bones. The decision to leave Meryton so abruptly still felt too rushed. It was not that he lacked matters to attend to there—indeed, staying would have been the more sensible option, considering all that had transpired. Not least among his new concerns was his future mother-in-law—who had only consented to let him out the door after he gave her leave to begin planning a wedding for three weeks hence.

There was also Bingley and matters with Lord Matlock. Collins, his future… egad, his future brother-in-law, who was probably already penning an outraged letter to Lady Catherine. And whatever consequences might fall on the servants of Netherfield after his escape this morning…

But the sense of danger clung to him, an instinctual need to put distance between himself and Wickham, had driven him to insist on their departure.

Elizabeth would not hear of being left behind. Despite the oddity, the scandal even, of a lady travelling so intimately with a man who was not yet her husband, Darcy found himself deeply grateful for her presence. She truly did not mean to permit him out of her sight, whether out of protectiveness for his vulnerability or ardour for him as her future husband… either sentiment was welcome to him just now.

When it became clear that Elizabeth meant to lash herself to the back of the carriage if her father tried to prevent her from going, Mr Bennet joined them as well. His presence added a layer of safety to their journey, for Darcy had already been uncertain enough of his ability to manage on the road should another attack befall him. But, perhaps even more importantly, Bennet provided a buffer against the impropriety of Elizabeth and Darcy being alone together.

However, as they had all settled into the carriage, Mr Bennet had made an odd request. He asked for the rear-facing seat inside the carriage, all to himself. "Cannot abide the closeness," he announced. "Always had a morbid fear of being shut up in a confined space."

Elizabeth did not bother concealing the sceptical slant of her brows at her father's strange declaration, but the arrangement left Darcy facing forward in the carriage—which was far easier on his unsteady equilibrium—with Elizabeth beside him. The arrangement seemed intentional, a subtle manoeuvre by Mr Bennet to allow his daughter to be close to Darcy.

At first, the proximity of her body, with her father looking on, was hideously awkward. He was acutely aware of Elizabeth's presence, the warmth of her breath so close to his, the way her shoulder brushed against his arm with every lurch of the carriage. He had no choice but to lean on her when the pain became too much or when the dizziness nearly overwhelmed him. But Mr Bennet, true to form, buried his face in a book and seemed to take no notice of them, pointedly ignoring the pair as they sat side by side.

There was little to say that they could share before a chaperon, but also, little that needed to be said. She had always understood him from that first day, and he felt a deep, sinking relief in his chest. No more masks, no pretences, just… her. She was, perhaps, the only person he had ever felt that with since his father's death.

Her hand slid up the inside of his arm, her fingers tickling the sensitive skin under his wrists and then deftly lacing with his. The touch was gentle, intimate, and it sent a wave of warmth through him. She rested her chin on his shoulder, her smile soft and tender. It was a look that nearly undid him, and Darcy was seized by the nearly overwhelming urge to turn and kiss her, to lose himself in that simple, pure connection. But with her father mere feet away, Darcy clung to the last vestiges of his propriety, despite the longing that twisted his heart.

The carriage rocked along the muddy road, the scenery blurring past in a wash of grey and green. The rain had begun to fall in earnest now, the steady drumming on the carriage roof adding to the tension thrumming through Darcy's veins. His head throbbed mercilessly, and he found himself leaning more heavily on Elizabeth as they rolled into open country, putting Meryton behind them. Yet, there was a certain peace in the gentle sway of the carriage and Elizabeth's comforting presence by his side.

That peace was shattered as the carriage rounded a bend, and the driver abruptly reined in the horses. The vehicle lurched to a sudden stop, sending Darcy forward in his seat. The jolt sent a fresh stab of pain through his skull, and he gritted his teeth against the sensation .

"What is it?" Mr Bennet asked from behind his book, though his tone remained more curious than alarmed.

Darcy didn't answer. He motioned for Elizabeth to remain inside and dry as he pushed the door open and leaned out to assess the situation. The rain-soaked air hit him like a slap, sharp and cold, and he tilted his hat to better shield his face as he scanned the road ahead.

A tree lay across the road—a great thick trunk blocking their path entirely. Darcy's unease deepened as he took in the scene. This was no natural fall—the tree had been deliberately cut; its base sawn cleanly through. A sense of danger prickled at the back of his neck, and he found himself scanning the surroundings with a growing sense of dread.

There was no way to move the tree with any expediency, and going around was impossible as the sides of the road were marshy with flooding. Any attempt to manoeuvre around the obstruction was impossible. The only way out was back the way they had come.

Darcy had scarcely given the order to the driver to do just that, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, the sound of approaching horses reached his ears. He glanced back down the road, and his blood ran cold as he saw them—Wickham on horseback, flanked by two workmen with axes.

"Darcy!" Wickham's voice rang out with a mockery that was unmistakable. He raised a hand in greeting as though they were old friends happening upon each other by chance.

They were trapped. Darcy's mind raced as he considered their options, but there was nowhere to go.

Elizabeth's face appeared through the curtain of the carriage window. "Mr Darcy? What is it?"

Darcy turned back to her, his expression grim. "Stay inside the carriage, Elizabeth," he ordered, his voice low and firm. "Do not come out, whatever happens. Mr Bennet…" Darcy waited until that gentleman's expression altered from bored to curious. "See that you both keep out of sight."

He stepped down to the road and shut the carriage door behind him with a decisive click.

Wickham had planned this. He had known Darcy would take this road, and apparently, Wickham had no intention of letting him go so easily.

"Well, Darcy, what a surprise to find you here," Wickham called out, his voice slick with false camaraderie .

Darcy did not answer, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Elizabeth's eyes widening through the carriage window. She shrank back, just enough for her father's quizzical face to appear beside her. Darcy had to resist the urge to give them any sort of signal. No need to inform Wickham that there was someone else in the carriage. Instead, he stepped away, walking to confront Wickham.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

Wickham just chuckled and rode his horse forward, stopping before Darcy and leaning down with an easy grin. "You seem to have run into a bit of trouble on the road. Nasty weather, isn't it? We were just out looking over the roads, and by thunder, look what we found? Wouldn't want anything to happen to honest people just trying to travel the roads. Especially a man of your standing."

Darcy's eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Wickham?"

Wickham's grin widened. "Oh, nothing much. Just thought I'd offer some assistance. The roads up north can be treacherous, full of bandits, you know. Especially when one is travelling alone."

"I am not interested in your help. Move aside."

"Now, now, Darcy. No need to be so hasty. I've heard some disturbing things about your friend Bingley. Did you know he left Netherfield in quite a rush? So much so that we were worried for his safety. My men intercepted his carriage on the way to London, just to be sure all was well."

Darcy's blood ran cold. Bingley? Intercepted? He had no way of knowing if Wickham was telling the truth, but the mere possibility was enough to make him hesitate.

Wickham reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a white handkerchief, monogrammed with Bingley's initials. A small, dark stain marked one corner, and Wickham held it up with a mocking smile. "He had a bit of a nosebleed, poor chap. But don't worry, he is back at Netherfield now, safe and sound."

Darcy's heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the handkerchief. Bingley had left so quickly that he hadn't even packed a trunk, taking only the clothes on his back. It was entirely possible that Wickham had intercepted him and that Bingley was now being held at Netherfield. But how could Darcy be sure?

Wickham's eyes gleamed with triumph, sensing Darcy's uncertainty. "I might suggest you turn back with us, Darcy. Let us go somewhere more comfortable, where we can discuss this like gentlemen. We would not want anything unfortunate to happen to Bingley, now, would we? "

Darcy's thoughts spun wildly, the urgency to flee clashing with the gnawing dread that Wickham's threats might be more than empty bluster. The possibility that Bingley's life could be at stake gnawed at him, tightening the knot of fear in his chest. But showing even the slightest hint of weakness… letting Wickham discover Elizabeth and her father in his carriage, even… was out of the question.

Wickham fed on fear, on hesitation, on any sign that his prey might falter. If Darcy faltered now, it would be like blood in the water to a shark. He had to keep his expression steady, his resolve unshaken, even as the reality of the trap they were in pressed down on him like a vise.

Darcy swallowed hard, his voice cold and measured. "If you have harmed him, Wickham—"

Wickham cut him off with a laugh. "Harmed him? Why, Darcy, I'm offended you'd think such a thing. Bingley is in excellent hands. But accidents can happen, you know, especially on these rough roads."

Darcy's breath quickened as he stared down the road, the fallen tree an ominous barrier between him and safety. The rain beat down in steady sheets, soaking through his clothing and chilling him to the bone. The cold was now seeping into his very core, the dampness aggravating the persistent ache in his head. But none of that mattered as much as the immediate danger.

Darcy's thoughts churned as he weighed the dangers to Elizabeth. He could not dare let her be seen, but what would she face if he left her here, with the carriage? Wickham had two workmen with axes—dangerous enough on their own—but they had no idea that there were passengers in the carriage. His own men were armed, their pistols loaded and ready, and Darcy knew they were capable of defending her. Mr Bennet would have overheard everything by now, and like many gentlemen, he kept two more pistols in the carriage. Darcy felt certain that Elizabeth and her father would have found them by now.

Even so, the thought of leaving Elizabeth behind twisted his gut. But if Wickham discovered her presence, the danger would escalate beyond control. To take her back to Netherfield, where Wickham could easily uncover her attachment to him, would be an even greater risk. Darcy's only hope was to negotiate carefully, to keep Wickham's attention on him while his men worked to protect Elizabeth.

Darcy had no choice. He would have to rely on the element of surprise and the resolve of those inside the carriage. Wickham had him cornered, and whether the threat to Bingley was real or a fabrication, Darcy could not afford to take any chances .

Taking a steadying breath, Darcy finally turned to face Wickham, his voice carefully measured. "If Bingley is truly at Netherfield, I will return with you at once. But I shall go on horseback. The coachman and your men can set to clearing this tree from the road in the meantime."

"Horseback?" Wickham scoffed, a derisive smile playing on his lips. "You are looking rather peaked, Darcy. I wonder why a man in your condition would be so eager to abandon a perfectly good carriage. Especially in this weather?"

Darcy kept his tone casual, refusing to rise to the bait. "It should not be so difficult to comprehend. As I said, I am eager to resume my journey, and it is not likely that any road menders will happen upon this ‘accident' anytime soon. My men will stay with the carriage and see that the road is passable while I accompany you to clear up this matter with Bingley."

Wickham's eyes narrowed as he considered the proposal, his gaze flicking between Darcy and the carriage. Wickham's eyes narrowed slightly, studying him, searching for any sign of hesitation. "You are a curious fellow, Darcy. But I have no interest in your carriage. Very well, but I cannot have your men running off to alert anyone." He flicked a glance at one of the workmen, who lifted his axe with a not-so-subtle threat.

"My carriage and my men will stay where they are."

Wickham frowned, tapping his fingers against his leg as if weighing his options. Finally, he nodded to one of his men. "Fetch the workhorse. Best huntsman in Derbyshire, eh Darcy? You ought to have no trouble backing this one."

The workman disappeared into the trees for a moment, returning with a raw-boned, heavy-built nag, its coat slick with rain. Wickham's smirk grew as the horse was led up to Darcy, clearly expecting him to baulk at the sight of the lumbering, unsaddled beast.

Darcy met Wickham's gaze with an unflinching stare, refusing to be needled. He straightened his shoulders, grasped the horse's lead and a hunk of its coarse mane, and swung aboard with a practised ease that belied the pain searing through his skull. He dared not look back at the carriage where Elizabeth remained hidden, the curtains drawn.

He could only hope that his driver and valet understood and were ready to defend their future mistress if it came to that. Steeling himself, Darcy tightened his grip on the horse's mane and prepared to follow Wickham.

Wickham watched him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity, clearly expecting some sign of weakness. But Darcy kept his expression impassive, his grip on the reins steady despite the pounding in his head. The rain continued to fall, soaking through his clothing, but he ignored it.

With a final glance at the blocked road and the workmen who stood guard over the carriage, Darcy urged the horse forward. The animal moved reluctantly, its hooves slipping in the mud, but Darcy pressed on, his jaw set with grim determination. He had no intention of letting Wickham win. Not this time.