Page 84 of Resilience

“You have come for it,” she said quietly.

She drew the folded letter from her reticule and put it into Darcy’s outstretched hand without protest.

Darcy read only a few lines before his expression changed, from suspicion, to concern.

“The name of this pursuer is known to us,” he said at last, handing the letter to his cousin.

“It was well-meant, I suppose, of Miss Williams to send me such a letter.” Willoughby said to them. “But I believe the young lady underestimated the rage with which a guardian might pursue a man. I do not think I could even get Brandon to read it before he killed me.”

Fitzwilliam was already on his feet, scanning the note without Willoughby’s permission. “I cannot approve of your behaviour yesterday, sir, but I will find Brandon and bring him here. We can help you settle this.”

Some hours later, in the quiet of Darcy’s study, Colonel Brandon read the letter in silence. When he finished, his shoulders sagged.

“It is Eliza’s hand,” he said heavily. “I owe you an apology, Willoughby. I believed her when she accused you. I believed that you ruined her intentionally.”

Willoughby inclined his head. “I accept your apology freely, and I cannot fault you for what you believed to be true. I should have been more cautious with Miss Williams. I assure you that other than an idle flirtation, I barely knew her.”

He rose to his feet. “But I must leave you. Mr Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I apologise for having imposed upon Mrs Wickham, and I thank you for your assistance in this matter. Brandon, your company is always a tonic, but I must away to Devonshire. I made a promise to Miss Marianne, and she is waiting for me.”

Colonel Brandon hesitated. “I must tell you…I regret it on not only your part but on mine. I received a letter this morning from Sir John Middleton.”

Willoughby’s breath caught.

“Miss Marianne,” Brandon said. “When you left the area so abruptly, she believed herself abandoned, and spent a week in despair before her family insisted upon her attendance at a dinner at Barton Park. Sir John’s house was visited by an old friend of his. The man is an elderly gentleman, an earl of considerable fortune. Lord Winsford is known for his rather lecherous admiration of a pretty woman. He admired Miss Marianne and her music. He called upon the cottage and proposed the next morning.”

Willoughby went very still. “Brandon, you cannot…Marianne would never.”

“If only that were true. You know that I felt the same as you about the lady. I had every intention of dealing with you, and returning to throw myself upon her mercy, but we are both too late. Miss Marianne, believing her chance of happiness lost,” Brandon continued quietly. “And weary of seeing her family suffer poverty…well, Willoughby, she accepted. They were married in haste by special license two days ago. The announcement was in the papers this morning. Against her sister’s wishes. Even against her mother’s concerns, Miss Marianne is now Lady Winsford. Middleton feels responsible. He is quite distraught.”

For a long moment, Willoughby said nothing.

Then he laughed, a short, broken sound. “She always said that she would be impossibly resolute if she ever believed herself wounded beyond repair.”

The other men watched him with grave sympathy.

“I am leaving London tomorrow,” Willoughby said at last. “I will return to Combe Magna. My estate requires attention. If I am to live with what I have lost, I might as well at least learn to deserve the estate I keep.”

The following morning, Willoughby called upon Darcy House to take his leave of Lydia and the gentlemen, thanking them again for trying to help him.

Lydia encountered Willoughby in the hall just before his departure.

“I heard from my brother about your lady. I am sorry,” she said simply.

“She was apparently never my lady,” he replied. “But so am I.”

“I thought my life was ruined once,” Lydia said. “I think now that I was wrong. One can survive, even when their heart feels incapable of loving again.”

Willoughby smiled sadly. “You are braver than you know, Mrs Wickham.”

“And you,” she said. “Are not what I thought you were when you jumped into my sister’s carriage.”

He bowed. “I hope one day to be what I should have been all along.”

They parted not as flirt and fool, but as two people who had loved poorly, suffered deeply, and learned too late. And when Willoughby rode away from London, it was not in pursuit of pleasure, but of purpose.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Thursday 24 August 1815