Fitzwilliam Darcy, Traitor

by Jennifer Joy

  Elizabeth reached up for her necklace, needing the reassurance the smooth glass pearl offered.

  It was not there. No comfort. No reminder that all would be well.

  Mr. Darcy’s velvety baritone intruded her self-reproach. “Where is your necklace?” he asked.

  Opening her eyes, she instinctively reached for it again. Would she never learn? It was gone. Taken.

  Oh, Dear Lord. Her stomach dropped, and her skin prickled as she thought back. She often ran the pearl over the chain, in which case, it would have dangled over her collar for the thief to see. But she was almost certain she had tucked it under her collar. A stranger would not have known she wore her pearl every day.

  “Mr. Wickham took it,” she groaned. He had asked her about it, and she had told him of its importance to her (while leaving out how worthless the bauble was without the sentiment she attached to it. Curse her vanity!)

  Mr. Darcy spoke reassuringly. “Pray do not be troubled, Miss Elizabeth. We have enough concerns as it is. Bingley needs a doctor, and we cannot stay here.”

  Of course, Mr. Darcy would act the perfect gentleman and console her. But Elizabeth would have none of it. She did not trust her instincts now as much as she had a quarter of an hour ago. She could not change the past or calm the weather, but she could make peace with the man who would undoubtedly become her husband.

  Inhaling deeply, Elizabeth began, hoping she could say what she needed to in one breath and be done with it. “I apologize for misjudging you, Mr. Darcy. I was wrong.”

  He did not say anything.

  Curiosity spurred her to lift her chin, but shame kept her eyes downcast. If only he would speak.

  Seconds crawled by, and still he said nary a word.

  Why did he say nothing?

  Curiosity won over humiliation, and Elizabeth peeked through her eyelashes at Mr. Darcy. The blush returned to her cheeks. He was infinitely more handsome with the glow of goodness softening his features. Disheveled and unshaven, he reminded her of a rugged adventurer in a novel.

  Oh, how she must look! Two days now without a bath after battling the wind and snow to get to the abandoned cottage. She must look a fright.

  No sooner had the vain thoughts pounced on Elizabeth’s conscience than she scolded them away. Mr. Bingley was dreadfully ill, they were running out of wood for the fire and food for sustenance, nobody knew where they were, the storm showed no sign of abating, and it would take a miracle for them to escape forced marriages once they were found out. Vanity be gone!

  Finally, Mr. Darcy spoke. “Mr. Wickham is well-practiced in the art of deception. Do not reprove yourself. I do not.”

  Elizabeth shook her head, dispelling herself of the “what ifs” and “should haves” tormenting her. “If you do not reprove me, then pray do not reprove yourself either. I daresay it might do both of us good to be wrong every now and again,” she added with a smile. She had run the gambit of emotions and was ready to return to good humor.

  Jane said nothing though she very well could have. “I told you so” was not in her vocabulary. She was far too forgiving and kind, and Elizabeth loved her all the more for it. Much like Mr. Darcy’s actions showed how much he loved his sister.

  Chapter 18

  Miss Elizabeth spoke softly, “Not only did Mr. Wickham assault you, he stole everything in our possession and murdered an innocent man. He could hang for his crimes.”

  Miss Bennet asked, “What of the other highwayman with him? Do you know who he is?”

  “Most likely, he is a friend of Wickham’s. We find Wickham, we find his accomplice.” Darcy squeezed the back of his neck, rolling his head around to loosen the knots, and adding, “I never would have believed the boy I grew up with at Pemberley, who was as close to me as a brother, would fall so low. That he betrayed my sister was unforgivable, but this….” He rubbed his hands over his face, the pain from his bruises nothing compared to the anguish in his soul.

  Wickham’s bitterness was so great and his conscience so hardened, he had hurt others to get to Darcy. Who knew what he would do next? He had started down a path from which there was no return. And Darcy would have to see Wickham paid for his crimes. He would never endanger his friends, family, and household when he knew Wickham capable of abusing them. Of killing them.

  “He is still a danger to you. To all of us. If he has been unwilling to face the consequences of his poor decisions in life — cowardly seeking an easy solution by resorting to murder and robbery to cover his debts — then there is nothing he will not do to avenge himself against you.” Miss Elizabeth spoke quickly, her eyes searching his face as if she wished for him to disprove her.

  He could not reassure her when he had drawn the same conclusion.

  Miss Elizabeth’s plump lips pressed into a thin line. Once again, she was angry. It amazed Darcy to see how easily he could read her expression. Her eyes were like a book. Right now, they sparked and flashed in ire.

  “Then, it falls to us to capture him,” she said firmly, reaching over to clasp Miss Bennet’s hand.

  Darcy exclaimed, “Absolutely not! Your involvement ends here.”

  “I know things you do not,” she insisted, adding, “For instance, did you know that on the night of the Netherfield Ball, I saw Mr. Wickham riding on horseback away from the estate?”

  Darcy sat forward in his chair. “What was he doing there?”

  “He implied he had spoken with Mr. Bingley, who made it clear to him that perhaps his presence would not be appreciated while you resided under his roof. I was with my mother, Mary, and Mr. Collins in the landau. That was when Mr. Wickham warned us about the influence you held over Mr. Bingley. My mother, her every thought stemming from her motivation of marrying her five daughters well, understood him to mean that you would separate Mr. Bingley from Jane.”

  With a sympathetic smile toward her older sister, Miss Elizabeth said, “That is, perhaps, why Mama boldly petitioned Mr. Bingley that he convey you to London.”

  Miss Bennet lowered her hand to her chest. “No wonder she was so quick to act. With Mr. Wickham’s warning, she knew what to look for and took measures to prevent it.” She narrowed her eyes. “While that explains our mother’s behavior, it does not explain what Mr. Wickham was doing at Netherfield Park. Did he, in fact, call on Mr. Bingley?” she asked Darcy, Mr. Bingley still sleeping soundly.

  “He did not. Bingley takes his responsibility as a host seriously, and he was downstairs greeting his guests. I would have noticed had he been called away.”

  Miss Elizabeth voiced Darcy’s next thought before he could. “He must have met with the housekeeper.”

  If Miss Elizabeth thought her current cooperation meant he would allow her to help him capture Wickham, she was greatly mistaken. He said, “As soon as we get to London, I mean to find her.”

  Miss Bennet sighed, “She seemed like such a kind woman.”

  “Appearances are often deceiving,” Miss Elizabeth said, her gaze fixed on Darcy. He wondered what her opinion of him was now.

  “Which is why we will not rest until Mr. Wickham is arrested,” she added.

  Darcy heaved a sigh. “I will take care of Wickham. My aim is to see you safely to your family in London. Once Wickham is no longer a danger, then we will repair the damage he has done.”

  Miss Elizabeth glowered at him, but she did not argue. It made Darcy uneasy. She never backed down from a debate, and it was plain to observe that she did not agree with him.

  Sensing it best to change the topic, he said, “Two days have passed since your family in London expected you to arrive. How long will they wait before they search for you? Or would they send word to your father first?”

  Miss Elizabeth squirmed in her seat. Miss Bennet occupied herself with the soaked linen she used to bathe Bingley’s forehead.

  “I think it more likely for us to meet up with the rest of Mr. Bingley’s household,” Miss Elizabeth said, peering at everything in the room except Darcy.

  Wha
t was she hiding?

  He said, “They will have to wait until the storm abates and the roads are safe for travel. Unless the storm has reached London, your family will not know you have been delayed. They might be anxious.”

  Miss Elizabeth twisted her fingers in her lap and worried her bottom lip. “Oh, I doubt that.”

  Taking a deep breath, she looked up and said, “Our relatives in London are not expecting us at all. Our mother made arrangements for us to travel with Mr. Bingley before she could send a letter telling them of our impending arrival. In fact,” she chuckled nervously, “I have her letter tucked away in my book in this very room. So you can see, Mr. Darcy, there is nobody who will come to our aid. We are alone.”

  Darcy closed his eyes and sighed.

  Cursed be the man who gained Mrs. Bennet as a mother.

  Chapter 19

  The wind calmed during the night.

  At the first hint of dawn the following morning, Darcy pushed the cottage door open enough to squeeze through, leaving a mound of piled snow around him. It was knee deep, and the snowflakes softly fluttering from the clouds would not add much to its depth.

  He looked around, searching for chimney smoke or any other sign that help was nearer than the next village.

  Kicking the snow away, he trudged a path around the house, searching for anything which might add to the comfort of his traveling companions. There was nothing more to it but for him to leave and seek help, but he could not in good conscience leave them with so little food and firewood.

  Rolling white fields surrounded him — farmland stripped bare of anything which might be of use to them.

  Discouraged, Darcy returned inside where he nearly trampled on Miss Elizabeth upon opening the door.

  She stepped back, rubbing her hands together and warming them with her breath. “I thought you had left.”

  “The wind stopped blowing during the night,” he explained, uncertain how to translate her apparent anxiety.

  “What do you plan to do?” she asked.

  “I shall return to the road and follow it until I reach the next house or village. I will bring back help. There is no other choice.”

  She looked down at her hands. “Of course.” Looking up with a smile, she said, “You will need sustenance. We do not know how long you will have to walk.”

  She moved over to the table, handing him the last of the cake and preserves.

  That left her with butter and a chunk of bread too hard to spread it over.

  Darcy could not accept it. “Thank you, but it is too early for me to have any appetite at all.”

  She pushed the plate toward him. “You will soon wish you had it,” she insisted.

  He smiled. “I will buy fresh bread as soon as I reach the village, and when you all arrive, you will join me for a proper meal at the inn. We will eat our fill before a blazing fire.” After he had a hot bath and a shave. Ah, to be warm and clean.

  Miss Elizabeth stood before him for some time before she finally returned the cake to the table.

  Darcy did not know what to do with his hands. They felt awkward dangling at his sides, so he folded them over his chest, only to clasp them behind his back when the posture felt too imposing.

  Beyond Miss Elizabeth lay the kettle. It gave Darcy the perfect excuse to move from the spot where his boots were rooted. He mumbled, “Let me fill this with snow so neither you nor Miss Bennet will have to venture out of doors. The storm has passed, but it is still remarkably cold.”

  Gathering the kettle, he packed it with snow, setting it before the fireplace.

  Only then did he notice Miss Bennet soundly asleep on the ground beside Bingley’s pallet, the linen with which she had soothed his fever clutched in her hands.

  Bingley was still, his breath heavy with deep slumber. Darcy prayed he would wake much improved.

  He felt Miss Elizabeth at his side, and it shocked him when his impulse was to lean closer to her.

  From the corner of his eyes, he watched her raise her hands in front of the fire. Of course, she would wish to warm herself. The room was small, and there were few places to stand that would not put her in close proximity to him. Necessity brought her near, not him. Though Darcy wondered what her hand would feel like in his — or more dangerously, where her head would rest against him in his arms.

  Looking at her sister and speaking softly, she said, “I am happy Jane is getting some rest, or she might have fallen ill as well.”

  Darcy turned to Miss Elizabeth, wanting her to hear what he wished to say. “They shall be happy together.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him, clearly expecting more.

  He added, “I was wrong to interfere.”

  She tilted her chin and smiled crookedly. “Is that an apology, Mr. Darcy?”

  He smiled despite his attempt not to. “I am rarely wrong, but contrary to what you believe of me, I am not too proud to admit when I have acted in error.”

  “You surprise me. You have eliminated every fault I held against you, and I am in danger of believing you to be an excellent man, a true gentleman.”

  “Then it is good I am leaving before you discover more of my faults.”

  Miss Elizabeth had a lovely smile. Her lips curled up, and her eyes twinkled like stars. It was enchanting to behold, and no amount of self-control could persuade Darcy to look away from her.

  “To think I was about to take comfort in your lack of humor,” she teased.

  Darcy chuckled softly.

  A serious thought must have crossed her mind, for Miss Elizabeth’s laughter died and her fingers reached to her collarbone where her necklace should have been. He could understand her loss. Too often, he tapped the pocket of his waistcoat for his timepiece only to find it gone. There was a comfort to be found in running his finger along the smooth edge of his watch and hear the click it made when it popped open.

  In the absence of the glass pearl, she rubbed her fingers over the hollow skin at the base of her neck.

  Darcy swallowed repeatedly, his mouth suddenly dry. What he would not give for a generous helping of port. What had come over him? First, her fine eyes … then her hair … and now her neck. Soon, he would not be able to look at Miss Elizabeth at all without bursting into flames.

  “I should like to be your friend, Mr. Darcy, rather than your foe. If we will have to… In fact, it seems unavoidable that we shall have to…” Her words trailed off, but Darcy knew of what she spoke.

  The moment he left the cottage to seek help, it would become known that two unmarried men had spent several nights in the company of two unmarried women. It would not matter that they had begun their journey with a chaperone if no one saw her. There was no way to avoid compromise.

  A future with Miss Elizabeth did not entirely displease Darcy. Far from it.

  But her discomfort filled him with the need to protect her from strangers’ taunts and society’s snubs. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said, pausing until she looked up at him. “I will never expect more from you than your friendship. And I promise I will strive to be the best friend I can be to you, so you will never regret what could not be avoided.”

  Darcy had always thought she had fine eyes. They were as lively as the lady who possessed them. He could stand where he was and peer into her gaze all day without feeling the passing of time. They evidenced the depth of her thoughts, and Darcy found that he wanted to understand Miss Elizabeth. To know her. To be her dearest friend.

  Her blink pulled him out of his reverie. Clearing his throat, he said, “I will bring help.”

  As soft as a whisper, she said, “I know you will.”

  For an awkward moment he stood before her. A bow seemed insufficient, and yet he did not wish to betray her confidence by kissing her hand, or worse, by pulling her into an embrace and holding her until she was convinced her future was safe with him.

  He had no right to contemplate such intimacies, nor to make promises he was uncertain he could deliver.

  With a stif
f bow, he left.

  Darcy did not feel the cold until the deep snow weighed down his wool coat and soaked through his buckskin breeches.

  Jane propped up on her elbow the moment Mr. Darcy closed the door behind him. "He is a better gentleman than you believed him to be, is he not, Lizzy? I think you are in grave danger of being very happy with him."

  Elizabeth’s heart dropped into her empty stomach. “It is my worst nightmare, Jane. I could have been content alone, a spinster even, rather than marry without the deepest love. I know it is wicked of me not to be content that at least Mr. Darcy is an honorable man whom I respect. I daresay I shall grow to admire him. But he is duty bound to marry me. How can love blossom from a forced marriage? What if respect and admiration is not enough?”

  “What is love if not a combination of respect and admiration?” Jane asked.

  “And passion? What of that? To feel weak in the knees at a glance? For your heart to skip a beat at a touch?”

  Mr. Bingley stirred, mumbling incoherently in his sleep.

  Elizabeth dropped her voice to a whisper. “I want to feel all those things, and I want to have the same effect on the man who will be my husband.”

  Jane’s brow furled. “You are not attracted to Mr. Darcy?”

  Elizabeth was. Her fingers had practically itched to touch the scruffy whiskers growing on his cheeks. Too many times, she had prevented herself from smoothing the curl of hair that fell over his forehead. Just thinking about him warmed her more than the fireplace had over the past few days.

  Jane blinked at her, still waiting for a response.

  “That is not the problem. Can you imagine a man like Mr. Darcy expressing the kind of passion I crave? Everything about him is calm and controlled.” Elizabeth’s face burned at the impropriety of her conversation, but if she could not talk to her own sister about her deepest desires, then in whom could she confide?