Page 57 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy
Darcy took the missive, noting at once the unfamiliar handwriting. A sense of unease coiled within him as he broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper. His eyes skimmed the lines, and almost instantly, the words struck like daggers to his chest.
His breath hitched.
For a moment, he did not move, did not speak. The room seemed to shrink around him, the distant murmur of voicesfading into nothing. He read the letter again, as if sheer disbelief might alter its contents. It did not.
Slowly, he exhaled, his fingers tightening around the paper.
“Richard,” he said at last, his voice measured but taut. “Uncle.” He lifted his gaze, schooling his features into composure. “I must speak with you both. Now.”
Lord Matlock straightened, instantly alert. Richard, too, was watching him closely, no trace of his earlier amusement remaining.
Lady Catherine arched a brow. “What is the meaning of this? Surely, whatever is written there can be shared in present company?”
Darcy slid her a glance. “I fear it cannot.”
Lady Catherine scoffed, tilting her chin upwards. “What possible matter could warrant such secrecy? This is most improper.”
“We should leave the gentlemen to it, Catherine. Why not join me for a sherry?” Lady Matlock said then.
For a long moment, Lady Catherine seemed poised to argue, but something in Lady Matlock’s expression stilled her.
With an exasperated sigh, she waved a hand. “Very well. Go. But I expect to be informed should it concern this family.”
Darcy gave a curt nod but wasted no time in further pleasantries. With a final glance at Richard and Lord Matlock, he strode from the room, the letter still clutched tightly in his grasp.
***
In the dimly lit hall, Darcy turned to face his uncle and cousin, his grip on the letter tightening as though by sheer force he could will its words away.
“It is Mary,” he said at last, his voice measured but heavy. “Mary Bennet has gone missing. She has—” He exhaled sharply, the very notion an absurdity, yet the ink before him did not lie. “She has run away with Wickham.”
A tense silence followed.
Richard let out a low curse, running a hand through his hair. “Of all the damned fools,” he muttered.
“I never would have guessed,” his uncle said. “She struck me as sensible in the short time she was here. Although they do say it is the quiet ones that one must look out for.
Richard shook his head. “I had hoped no other lady would fall prey to that man, but he has always been charming.”
His uncle gave Darcy a measured look. “I cannot see what your father ever saw in him.”
Darcy stiffened. It was not the first time his father’s judgement had been questioned regarding Wickham, but coming from his uncle, the remark settled uneasily in his chest.
Before he could respond, a voice sounded behind them, sharp and imperious.
“The late Mr Darcy never had very good judgement. The only time he judged well was when he married our sister,” Lady Catherine declared as she stepped into the hall, hereyes gleaming with unmasked satisfaction. “Any fool could see through that scoundrel Wickham, anyone, but your father.”
Darcy turned, genuinely startled by her words. His aunt had never been one to speak ill of his father, at least not so openly.
Richard exhaled in exasperation. “Must you always appear at the most inopportune moments, Aunt?”
Lady Catherine ignored him, her gaze fixed on Darcy. “It is no secret that your father was a man of fine breeding and fortune, but discerning? I think not.” She gestured towards the letter still clutched in his hand. “Had he been, we would not be standing here now, discussing yet another innocent girl ensnared by that rogue.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. He should have known that their aunt would follow them out. She was, of course, correct, in this regard. His father had been many things—kind, honourable, generous to a fault—but had he been blind where Wickham was concerned? The evidence, painful as it was, had long since spoken for itself.
Lady Catherine sniffed. “Your father let sentiment guide his decisions. A dangerous failing in a man of his position.” She tilted her head, as if in consideration. “You, at least, seem to have inherited a modicum of sense.”
It was, perhaps, the closest thing to a compliment she had ever bestowed upon him.
