Darcy’s face crumpled slightly, and he looked away, his voice rough with barely contained emotion. “There is a surgeon in Cambridge, a Doctor Pembroke, I was on my way to see, but I do not hold much hope. All I want is to know for sure… how much time I have left and if there is any relief for this pain. But…” He shook his head and attempted that fake smile again. “With everything here, and… well, I do not know if I can even endure the journey.”
Elizabeth couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They slipped down her cheeks unchecked as she wiped his face, her fingers trembling with the fear of losing him. She didn’t care that her father and Bingley were watching, didn’t care that she was breaking down in front of them. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was him.
“We will go with you to Cambridge,” Elizabeth’s voice trembled, her heart hammering as she gripped his hand tighter. “We will find a way, Fitzwilliam. We will.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Darcy stood by theopen 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 fromeveryone, 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.”
