Darcy looked down at his glass, turning it slightly in his hand. “No,” he said at last. “She refused me.”
“She refused you?”
“She did,” Darcy replied, meeting his gaze. “With a frankness I had never before encountered. She accused me—justly—of arrogance, of interference in her sister’s happiness, and of conduct unbecoming a gentleman. At the time, I believed myself wronged.” He gave a slight shake of his head.
“I was not.” He exhaled slowly, as though the admission still required effort.
Leaning back, his voice softer now, he continued, “It took me some time to admit it, but she was right in every particular. I had convinced myself that treating those dependent upon me with fairness was sufficient, while allowing myself a degree of disdain towards others whose only fault was a lesser position in society. I saw it clearly only after she forced me to do so.”
“And how is it that you are engaged now?” Richard asked.
“We parted believing we should never meet again,” Darcy said. “We were both angry—but I found I could not remain so. Not entirely.”
Richard regarded him thoughtfully. “Yet you are to marry her tomorrow.”
Darcy allowed the faintest hint of a smile. “I am.”
He set his glass aside. “Elizabeth came to Derbyshire with her aunt and uncle. They were travelling, and her aunt wished to revisit Lambton. By chance, they came to Pemberley on a day I had returned earlier than expected. I encountered her near the house.”
“And?”
“And I resolved,” Darcy said, “that if I could not win her regard, I would at least deserve it. I could be civil. I could befriend her.”
Richard’s brow lifted slightly.
“We spoke several times over the following days. Matters between us… improved. There was an ease that had not existed before. I believed, at most, that we might become friends.”
“And yet you are to marry on the morrow? Surely you have managed to become more than friends.”
“A few days later, I called upon her,” Darcy continued. “I had not entirely settled my purpose—whether to seek her forgiveness, to establish a friendship, or…” He paused briefly. “Something more.”
“In the end, I asked for the last.” He paused, as though still not entirely accustomed to the memory. “And she accepted not only my offer of courtship, but that of marriage as well.”
Richard let out a low whistle. “It was all managed more easily than you expected, I imagine.”
“Considerably more easy, and not nearly as painful,” Darcy admitted.
He hesitated, his expression shifting.
“But it was not long before we learned of trouble at Longbourn.”
Richard straightened. “Trouble?”
Darcy nodded. “A potential scandal—though it appears matters have taken an unexpected turn.”
At his cousin’s look, he added more plainly:
“Amongst other things I have learned since seeing Elizabeth again,” Darcy paused, his expression shifting as his gaze dropped briefly before he met his cousin’s eyes again. “...one is of particular importance to you.”
After ensuring that he had his cousin’s full attention, he finished:
“Wickham is dead.”
“Wickhamis dead?”
Richard Fitzwilliam stared at his cousin, certain he had misheard. That the man should die at all was surprising; that he should do so before answering for half his sins was something else entirely.
Darcy inclined his head. “He was poisoned, although no one knows by whom. After Mr Bennet told me what he had learnt, I wrote to the colonel of the militia to which he was attached and requested further details. There has not yet been time to receive a reply, but I hope to discover more than I presently know. It is possible the colonel knows nothing further—or may decline to answer my enquiry—but I would still learn what I can. I have also asked the local solicitor to make enquiries regarding any debts here, and requested that the colonel do the same.”
