Page 66 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy
Wickham could withstand the censure of many, but to be dismissed—utterly discarded—by one he had sought to manipulate was a blow to his pride. He had nothing to say. He turned sharply on his heel and exited the room without another word.
Silence filled the space he left behind. Then, Mary let out a slow breath, her hands trembling slightly. Elizabeth stepped forward and took her hand in quiet support.
Darcy inclined his head towards Mary. “You have shown great strength, Miss Bennet.”
She exhaled, nodding once. “Thank you, Mr Darcy. I only wish I had seen clearly sooner.”
Elizabeth gave her sister’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Come, Mary. Let us leave this place behind.”
Together, they stepped out of the parlour, leaving Wickham’s shadow firmly in the past.
Chapter 38
Elizabeth
As the carriage pulled up to Darcy House, the weight of the past few days seemed to settle more heavily upon Elizabeth. She glanced at Mary, who was barely keeping her eyes open, exhaustion pulling at her every feature. The moment they stepped inside, Darcy instructed the housekeeper to have a room prepared for Mary, ensuring that she would be given the utmost care and privacy. Mary murmured a soft word of thanks before allowing herself to be led upstairs, and Elizabeth exhaled, pressing a hand briefly to her chest.
Elizabeth followed to see her settled. By the time she returned downstairs, Darcy had already begun walking towards his study, his posture rigid with purpose. Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment before following. She found him at his desk, already penning letters in his firm, precise hand. The candlelight flickered against his face, casting deep shadows along his cheekbones. The room smelled of ink and parchment, with the faintest trace of the fire that still smouldered in the hearth.
He glanced up as she entered, his expression softening ever so slightly. “She has gone to bed?”
Elizabeth nodded, stepping further into the room. “Yes, she was quite overcome with exhaustion. I do not think she shall stir until morning.”
Darcy set down his quill and leaned back in his chair. “Good. She will need rest.”
He gestured to the sheet of paper before him. “I am writing to my uncle and aunt to apprise them of the situation. I have asked my uncle to dispatch men along the road Mary and Wickham travelled. They will find the innkeepers and ensure that if any of them recall seeing Mary and Wickham together, they conveniently forget such details in exchange for a small incentive.”
Elizabeth blinked at him in astonishment and murmured, “You think of everything.”
Darcy let out a soft, humourless chuckle. “I have had enough experience with Wickham’s deceit to know what must be done. I will not allow him any advantage.”
He turned his attention to another sheet of paper. “I am also sending a letter to Richard via messenger. He will inform his superiors of Wickham’s last known whereabouts. The militia will be looking for him soon.”
Elizabeth folded her arms, her brow furrowing slightly. “You know he will be long gone by now.”
Darcy met her gaze evenly. “Perhaps. But the moment we arrived home, I instructed my butler to send a man to Mrs Younge’s house. He will confirm whether Wickham remains there, and if he has left, he will get the information of where he has gone from Mrs Younge, I am sure. She will want to avoid being in my bad graces. Even if Wickham has not told her, he will have left behind enough in the room he stayed in to find him.”
Elizabeth stared at him, something warm and unfamiliar curling in her chest. She knew Darcy was a man of action, but itstill surprised her how swiftly and efficiently he moved to protect those he cared about.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For all of this.”
Darcy gave a small shake of his head. “It is nothing.”
Elizabeth stepped closer, folding her hands together. “No, it is everything.” She hesitated, then exhaled. “I have been thinking a great deal these past days, and I must confess… I was wrong.”
His brows lifted slightly, but he did not interrupt her.
She pressed on. “I was wrong to doubt you. To think the worst of you. I have been so used to believing my own judgement infallible, and yet, time and time again, you have proved yourself to be a man of honour, of kindness. I cannot fathom how I ever believed otherwise.”
Darcy was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to her surprise, he let out a quiet laugh. “Elizabeth, you were not wrong.”
She frowned slightly. “How can you say that?”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows upon the desk as he studied her. “Because I was a difficult man. I was proud and reserved and ill-tempered. I expected too much and gave too little in return. You had every reason to think me insufferable.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head.
“It is true,” he insisted. “I had hoped—foolishly—that this marriage would allow me time to show you who I truly am. To prove myself worthy of you. But in reality, Elizabeth… it is you who has made me a better man.”
