The Guest | F. Darcy

Chapter 19: The Letter

Darcy stood by the window of his study, the golden light of morning stretching long across the polished wood floors. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture rigid with anticipation, though his eyes betrayed the impatience beneath his composed exterior.

He had been waiting for hours.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed, marking the late hour of the morning. The Marshall Manor party was late.

He told himself there was no cause for alarm. The roads could be unpredictable; the journey, though not arduous, required time. They would come.

They must.

He exhaled slowly, willing himself to remain calm, though an odd sense of unease had settled in his chest, growing heavier with every passing moment.

Then—a sound.

The distant rhythm of hooves echoed from the courtyard below. Darcy stiffened, his breath catching. He moved toward the window, searching for the carriages, for the sounds of arrival, of voices greeting one another in the morning air.

But none came.

Instead, a sharp knock sounded at the door.

Darcy turned swiftly. A footman entered, bearing a letter sealed hastily.

"From Marshall Manor, sir," the man announced.

Darcy crossed the room in quick strides, taking the letter without hesitation. The wax seal broke beneath his fingers, his breath steady despite the unease clawing at his chest.

The handwriting was hurried, the ink uneven. A letter penned in haste.

Mr. Darcy,
I write to you with the deepest regret to inform you that we cannot fulfill our engagement to visit Pemberley today. An emergency has arisen that requires our immediate return to Longbourn.

His grip on the parchment tightened.

My youngest sister, Lydia, has eloped under troubling circumstances. We must attend to this crisis at once. Please accept our sincerest apologies for this abrupt change.
— Elizabeth Bennet

Darcy read the words again, his mind resisting their meaning even as his eyes traced them a second, then a third time. An elopement. Lydia Bennet.

The letter trembled slightly in his grasp. Beneath Elizabeth's note, another page was attached—one not meant for him. A letter addressed to Elizabeth.

Darcy hesitated, but his eyes caught the urgency of the words. Against his better judgment, he read on.

By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter. I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent.
Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed.

Darcy's eyes moved swiftly over the page, his stomach twisting as the details unfolded.

Lydia had written to Mrs. Forster, claiming she and Wickham were bound for Gretna Green.

But then—Denny, one of Wickham's own associates, had let slip the truth.

There was no wedding.

No promise.

Only a trail leading to London, and the growing certainty that Wickham had never intended to marry Lydia at all.

Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before. He traced them easily to Clapham, but no further. They dismissed their chaise and vanished into the depths of London. My father has left for town immediately, but he is distraught and unfocused. He will need my uncle's help to manage any course of action. I beg of you, Lizzy, come to us as soon as you can.

Darcy lowered the letter slowly, his fingers rigid at his sides.

Wickham.

A bitter chill crept over him, one that had nothing to do with the crisp morning air seeping through the open window.

Of course, it was Wickham.

The man had been a plague upon his life in so many ways. But this—this was something new.

Darcy had always known Wickham to be careless, selfish, a man who would exploit any situation for his own gain. But to ensnare Lydia Bennet? A foolish, naïve girl barely out of the schoolroom—one with neither fortune nor power to tempt him?

The audacity was unforgivable.

And the consequences would be devastating.

The Bennets would be ruined. Their name disgraced. Not only Lydia's, but Elizabeth's—Adele's—all their futures darkened by the shadow of scandal.

Adele—

The breath left his lungs at the thought of her.

Would society be so cruel as to cast its judgment upon her by mere association? He knew the answer.

His grip on the letter tightened further.

And Elizabeth—

A sharp exhale escaped him.

She had always borne herself with dignity, with strength. But this—this was a burden no woman should have to bear.

His mind raced.

He could not let this stand.

Not for Elizabeth.

Not for Adele.

Not for the Bennets.

For a long moment, he stood motionless, the letters hanging from his fingers as he stared at nothing at all.

Then his jaw set, and with a decisive movement, he strode to the door and flung it open.

"Prepare my carriage," he ordered, his voice firm, unyielding. "I must leave for London at once."

The steward hesitated only a moment before bowing. "Yes, sir."

As the door closed behind him, Darcy turned back to the window, his reflection staring back at him—unreadable.

He would not allow Wickham to destroy another innocent life.

If there was a way to undo the damage, he would find it.

And perhaps, just perhaps, he would prove himself worthy—not only of Elizabeth's trust but of Adele's regard.

One thing was certain.

By day's end, George Wickham would know that Fitzwilliam Darcy had come for him.