The Measure of Honor (The Measure of a Man Collection #3)

25. Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

T he morning was heavy with the sound of rain against the windows, a steady, rhythmic backdrop to the fire crackling in the hearth. Darcy sat on the sofa in the library, a book in his hand, though his eyes rarely lingered on the pages. Elizabeth was nestled beside him, her head nearly resting on his chest as she leafed through her own book, her little dog curled up contentedly on her lap.

The stormy day… and the fact that there were better allurements indoors… had kept Darcy from venturing forth out of doors for his morning ride. Neither he nor Elizabeth had wanted to attend to business or letters—their usual routines—choosing instead the quiet companionship of one another. Darcy’s arm rested comfortably around Elizabeth’s shoulders, his thumb idly tracing the fabric of her sleeve.

They had shared few words this morning, content in the peace that came from being near one another. The fire warmed the room, but it was Elizabeth’s presence that made Darcy feel, for the first time in what seemed like forever, that there might be a way forward—a future beyond grief, beyond guilt.

A sudden knock on the door shattered the stillness. Darcy straightened, the book in his hand falling shut.

“Mr Darcy, I beg your pardon, sir,” the footman entered, his expression careful. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh has arrived and requests an audience with you in the drawing room.”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. She had ventured all the way from Kent to Derbyshire at this time of year?

There could be no ambiguity about why. He knew what was coming before the words were even fully spoken. Lady Catherine’s visits were never idle, and given the swirling rumours in London, he had no doubt what had brought her to Pemberley. A storm of a different sort, one with far more bite than the rain outside.

He turned to Elizabeth, his voice softer. “Wait here. This will not take long.”

Elizabeth looked up at him, concern flickering in her eyes. She shifted on the sofa as if she might argue, but she only nodded. “Of course.”

Darcy kissed her forehead, lingering just a moment longer than usual, then rose from the sofa. His mind already steeling itself for the confrontation to come, he strode to the drawing room, where Lady Catherine would surely be sharpening her claws.

Upon entering the drawing room, he found his aunt pacing by the window, her bonnet still tied, a grim expression on her face. Beside her, Anne de Bourgh sat, her small, frail frame perched on the edge of a chair, her hands folded demurely in her lap. She barely glanced at Darcy as he entered, though Lady Catherine whirled at once, her eyes narrowing as she took him in.

“Fitzwilliam,” she barked, her voice sharp and commanding as always. “What is the meaning of this? I have heard the most dreadful rumours—rumours that you have entangled yourself with some... ruined strumpet and, worse, married her!”

Darcy drew a long breath, already feeling the cold waves of his aunt’s fury wash over him. He crossed the room, placing himself firmly between her and Anne, as if to shield his cousin from the tirade. “I have not ‘entangled’ myself with anyone, Aunt Catherine. Elizabeth Darcy is my wife, and you will speak of her with the respect due to her station.”

Lady Catherine’s eyes bulged, her nostrils flaring. “Respect? Respect for a woman of such scandalous reputation? I will not tolerate such insolence, Fitzwilliam! Have you lost all sense of propriety? The whole of London is in an uproar over this disastrous marriage!”

Darcy crossed his arms, his posture stiffening. “It is no concern of theirs—or yours—whom I marry. Elizabeth is my wife, and I swore an oath to her.”

Lady Catherine’s mouth twisted in disgust. “An oath? What does an oath mean if sworn to a deceitful chit? It is meaningless, and you are a fool if you think otherwise. Your duty is to your family, to your name! You have failed miserably in your responsibilities. First, allowing your brother to wander into danger, and now, letting this scandal stain the Darcy legacy! Harry’s disgrace is already enough, with those vicious rumours about treason hanging over his name. And you… you are adding to the ruin by wedding that girl!”

At the mention of the blame being cast upon Harry, a deep ache stirred within his heart. But he forced himself to remain calm, though his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I loved my brother. I tried to protect him as best I could, but I will not allow his mistakes to define me—or to define Elizabeth. Whatever rumours you have heard about her are lies. She is a woman of integrity, and I will not entertain any more of your slander against her.”

“Slander?” Lady Catherine sneered, stepping closer, her eyes flashing. “Do not be so na?ve, Fitzwilliam. That Bennet girl has deceived you! She is no more worthy of the Darcy name than a common street wench. My parson, Mr Collins, is a relative of the Bennet family, and he has written to me all about her ruin. You are a disgrace to this family, Fitzwilliam. You were supposed to marry Anne, to keep the bloodlines pure. Instead, you have bound yourself to a woman whose reputation is in tatters!”

Darcy’s jaw clenched tighter, his voice growing colder with each word. “No, Aunt Catherine. You are the one who has been deceived—deceived in my character if you think I would ever abandon my wife. The woman I love. My loyalty is to her now, not to the whims of society or the dictates of a bitter old woman.”

“Love!” Lady Catherine spat, her face contorting with fury. “What does love have to do with anything? You are a worthless milksop if you think sentiment is more important than duty! Your duty is to your family , to Pemberley, to the Darcys who came before you!”

“Enough!” Darcy’s voice cracked like a whip in the room, silencing his aunt’s tirade. His chest heaved with the effort of controlling his anger. “I will not allow you to speak of my wife this way. Elizabeth is a Darcy now, and nothing you or anyone else says will change that.”

Lady Catherine recoiled, stunned into momentary silence by the force of his words. For a moment, she looked almost bewildered, as if she had never expected him to defy her so openly.

“You will regret this,” she hissed after a long pause. “You have cast aside your duty, your family, your very name. You have chosen ruin, and you will suffer for it.”

Darcy remained unmoved. “I have chosen my wife. And that is enough.”

There was a charged silence as Lady Catherine glared at him, her breath coming fast and hard. Before she could speak again, Darcy turned to Anne, his voice softening. “Anne, it has been a long journey for you both. Would you care for some refreshment? You are always welcome here. If you wish to stay, I shall have rooms prepared immediately, and I know Mrs Darcy would be pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Anne’s eyes flickered with a faint glimmer of hope, her lips parting slightly as if to accept the offer. But before she could speak, Lady Catherine cut in sharply.

“I take no notice of your false pleasantries, Fitzwilliam,” she snapped, her voice rising. “We will not stay—certainly not under your roof!”

Darcy met her gaze with calm, though his concern for his cousin did not waver. “Surely, Aunt, Anne’s health must come first. You have always spoken of it as your utmost priority. Would you not allow her a rest in a comfortable room before returning on such a journey?”

Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed into cold slits. “If you had so much concern for Anne’s well-being, you would have done your duty and married her! That would have spared us all this disgrace.”

Darcy’s voice remained steady, though his eyes hardened. “That is something I cannot do.”

Lady Catherine snorted in contempt, turning on her heel with a flourish. “Come, Anne. We shall not waste another moment here.”

Anne hesitated for the briefest of moments, casting one last, lingering look at Darcy, as if silently wishing for something that could not be. Then, with a resigned sigh, she turned to follow her mother, her step lighter than Lady Catherine’s but no less final.

Darcy watched as they left, the air still heavy with his aunt’s accusations. He remained in the drawing room for several long moments, steadying himself, but the sting of the confrontation lingered. He had known it would come, yet it had cut deeper than expected.

He had made his choice. And not for a day in his life would he regret it.

D arcy entered the library, his expression guarded, though the firelight caught the tension lingering in the line of his shoulders. Elizabeth looked up from her book, instantly seeing the thrumming of his pulse at his throat.

“Well?” she asked, setting the book down and sitting up straighter. “Did you speak with your aunt?”

Darcy let out a slow breath, crossing the room to stand before her. “I did. As expected, it went about as well as a negotiation with a storm cloud.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “And did the storm cloud and her daughter decide to stay?”

Darcy shook his head, sighing as he glanced toward the door. “No, it is already too late for that. I have offended my aunt sufficiently for one day. You will have to take your turn some other time.”

Elizabeth chuckled and patted the space beside her on the sofa. “A shame,” she mused. “I did so hope to make her acquaintance.”

“No, you did not. Insincerity does not become you, Elizabeth.”

She shrugged with a grin. “Perhaps not, but after meeting your uncle, the earl, I had dearly hoped to make a better impression on your next relation.”

Darcy gave her a rueful look but sank into the offered seat, his hand rubbing absently at her thigh. “I would not take it to heart. Lady Catherine is... as one might expect.”

“Oh, I already know something of your aunt,” Elizabeth said with a glint in her eye.

Darcy turned toward her with some curiosity. “Do you?”

She nodded, tucking her legs beneath her on the sofa. “Indeed, through my father’s cousin, Mr Collins. He is to inherit my father’s estate.”

“Ah, yes. She mentioned that. I had never heard of his connection to the Bennets before now.”

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose playfully. “An oversight you may surely not regret. He is... well, let us just say he is a man of such obsequiousness that he makes flattery seem like a chore.”

Darcy grunted. “That does not surprise me. Precisely the sort of man my aunt would approve of.”

Elizabeth laughed softly, her fingers trailing through his hair. “No, I suppose it would not. So, let me guess. You are hereby ordered to divorce me forthwith and do your duty by your cousin, is that correct?”

“That is a fair summation. What do you think, ought I to cave?” He let his fingers trail down the length of her calf until they tickled the arch of her foot, leaning forward as he did so to nibble kisses down her neck.

“Oh, indeed,” she sighed, curving her neck so he could reach her better. “I am sure Miss de Bourgh would give you far less trouble than I am apt to.”

“I am afraid…” He wrapped an arm under the small of her back and pulled her up until her shoulders fell back and the shoulder of her gown slipped some little. “… I do not care for ladies who give me no trouble at all. In fact, I…” He tugged at her ear lobe with his lips. “… I rather abhor them.”

Elizabeth lay her head back, but his ministrations tickled, and she could hardly keep from spasming with each new brush of his lips. “Then you certainly married the right woman, no matter what Lady Catherine says,” she managed breathlessly. “I shall make it my mission to give you trouble, as well and as often as I may.”

He smiled and pressed a softer kiss to her collarbone before easing her upright again. “I would hope for no less. We cannot have my family thinking my wife disappointed my expectations.”

Elizabeth laughed and trailed a finger along the edge of his ear, then traced it down his jawbone. “Certainly not.” Then, in a quieter voice, she added, “But it is more than that, isn’t it? More than their disapproval of me?”

Darcy shifted under her touch, his jaw tightening once again. “Perhaps,” he muttered, his voice low. “I suppose I am still a little unsettled. It has more to do with the rumours she claims to have heard about Harry than any of her opinions on our marriage.”

Elizabeth grew still beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder. “What sort of rumours?” she asked, though she could already guess.

Darcy’s brow furrowed, and his eyes darkened. “The accusations of treason. Of dishonour. It is nothing new—in fact, I ought to have expected her to have heard them by now, but every time they are repeated, it feels like they cut deeper.”

Elizabeth frowned in thought, tracing her fingers absently along his arm. “Do you think anything can be done?”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

She shrugged slightly, her expression contemplative. “Perhaps we could look through Harry’s things again. I know you did once already, but you were not looking for that, specifically. If there is something that might help...”

Darcy exhaled through his nose, his fingers running through his hair in frustration. “I do not think I have the strength for that just now,” he admitted. “And what would we even hope to find?”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “Well, you remember what I heard Harry say to Wickham the night they fought. He claimed he had evidence. Proof of something. Maybe he wasn’t bluffing.”

Darcy’s expression changed, a flicker of realisation crossing his face. “That is true... But if there was something, perhaps Wickham found it when he ransacked Harry’s flat. If not, it may still be here.” He paused, thinking aloud. “I saw nothing unusual among the things I recovered, though.”

“Could there have been another place Harry secreted something away? Did he go anywhere else? Stay anywhere?”

Darcy frowned. “Not to my knowledge. Only here. He was here only one day before his death, and we had no time to speak of almost anything important. But as far as I know, there was nowhere else.”

Elizabeth untucked her feet and sat up straighter, pulling on Darcy’s hand. “What about Harry’s room here at Pemberley?” she suggested. “Is it possible he left something behind?”

Darcy’s eyes widened slightly, a spark of hope flickering in the depths of his gaze. “I... I have no way of knowing. I never went through his room. I never permitted anyone else to do so either.”

Elizabeth stood, tugging him gently to his feet. “Then it is time we look,” she said with quiet conviction. “If you have the courage to search, I will be right there with you.”

Darcy hesitated for a heartbeat, his gaze searching hers. Then, with a determined nod, he allowed her to lead him forward.

D arcy knelt beside the trunk, its leather bindings creaking as he lifted the lid. The contents were familiar, too familiar, a reminder of all that had been lost. His hand brushed over the neat stacks of papers, letters, and maps—Harry’s personal things, returned from London after his death. Darcy had combed through them once before, but with Elizabeth beside him, he felt a strange sense of purpose. Perhaps now, with her fresh eyes, something new might emerge. But it was hard to see how.

With a heavy sigh, he began pulling out the papers, one by one, laying them on the floor. “There is nothing here,” he muttered after several minutes of sorting. “Nothing of importance.”

Elizabeth, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, remained silent. She was methodical in her handling of the papers, her sharp gaze missing nothing as she examined each item. She set aside the maps first—military sketches, lines and arrows indicating troop movements, all of which Darcy recognised as outdated and perfectly ordinary. Still, Elizabeth gathered them carefully, tucking them into a neat pile at her side.

Darcy shook his head. “These are just routine dispatches. Records. Correspondence between Harry and his commanding officers, and some with other men from the regiment. Nothing of consequence. Nothing about...” He trailed off, unwilling to voice the ugly word that hovered at the back of his mind: treason .

Elizabeth glanced up. “Perhaps not. But Harry saved them for a reason.”

Darcy sighed, pulling out a small stack of personal letters, many of which he had already read. The edges of the paper were worn, the ink faded in some places. Letters from old friends, discussions of family matters, and pleasantries exchanged during quieter moments of the war. Again, nothing that seemed to hint at what he had been hoping to find.

Time stretched as they worked, the soft rustle of paper the only sound in the room. Darcy’s fingers moved through the rest of the contents quickly, his frustration mounting. “It’s useless,” he said, his voice tight with exasperation. “I’ve seen all of this before, and there is nothing here that would—”

“Wait,” Elizabeth interrupted gently, standing up suddenly. Darcy paused and looked up at her, watching as she turned to scan the room.

Elizabeth’s little dog, “Little Fitzy,” was scampering near the bed, paws scraping the floor in an eager attempt to dig at something beneath. “Fitzy!” Elizabeth scolded softly, stepping forward. “Mind your manners and come back here.”

Darcy’s brow furrowed, a faint curiosity stirring in his chest as he rose and crossed the room. “What is he after?” he asked, shooing the little terrier out of the way.

Dropping to one knee, Darcy peered under the bed. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the shadows, but then he saw it—a flat box, half-hidden beneath the bed frame. It was pushed up against the wall, as if deliberately placed there, out of sight.

“Strange,” he murmured, reaching under to drag the box into the light. “I do not recall this.”

Elizabeth stood beside him, her eyes wide with intrigue. “What is it?” she asked, bending closer.

Darcy shifted the box aside and pulled off the lid. The terrier was still snuffling around, and as Darcy glanced back, he realised what had caught the little dog’s attention. With a grimace, he reached in and pulled out an old tin of army rations—long ago “turned”, judging by the smell that wafted faintly from the rusted edges.

“This,” Darcy said, holding it up with distaste, “is what the dog must have been smelling. It has gone completely rancid.”

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, stepping back as he offered the tin toward her. “Good Heavens,” she said with a laugh, waving it away. “That’s enough of that! I will have a maid dispose of it at once.”

But Darcy was already distracted, his focus returning to the rest of the box’s contents. With one hand, he passed the tin to Elizabeth, but with the other, he was searching what remained inside.

“Some of Harry’s old boots and one of his uniform coats,” he said, though his voice softened as he gently pulled out a pair of worn leather boots. They had been buffed to a spit shine, but the soles had worn down from many miles.

For a moment, Darcy did not move. His hand lingered on the soft leather, and a knot tightened in his throat. His brother must have worn these when he was in Spain. Darcy could almost see Harry standing before him, grinning, his boots muddy from the field, his hair tousled from the wind. The memory was too real, too vivid.

Elizabeth’s hand came to rest gently on his shoulder, pulling him back to the present with a snap and a sigh. He stood back to allow her to see inside. She bent beside him and reached into the box, pulling out Harry’s dress uniform jacket. Darcy had been wondering what had become of that—he had found two other uniform coats, one for summer and one for winter, but not Harry’s dress jacket. She laid it flat on the bed, her fingers brushing over the fabric.

“Look at this,” she said softly, her tone contemplative. “There is a stain here.”

Darcy looked up from the boots, his eyes narrowing as he leaned over her shoulder. Elizabeth was right—a small, dark stain marred the lapel of the jacket. Blood. Harry’s?

“This must have been from the night at the ball,” she mused, her voice hushed. “When Harry gave me his coat. After Mr Wickham...” She trailed off, touching the spot where the blood had dried into the fabric.

A surge of anger swept through Darcy. He had seen the scar on Elizabeth’s breast last night… and again this morning—the faint ridge that still marked her skin, a reminder of Wickham’s cruelty to an innocent woman. He clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists.

How had he kept his rage in check last night? The sight of her, vulnerable in a way she had never shown him before, had stirred a protective fury in him that nearly overpowered his reason. But now, looking at the bloodstain on Harry’s jacket, that rage returned with renewed force.

“He did this to you,” Darcy said, his voice tight with suppressed emotion.

Elizabeth turned her head toward him, her eyes softening with understanding. “He did,” she admitted quietly. “But Harry tried to stop him. That night... it was Harry who saved me.”

Darcy’s hand reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the lapel, where the blood had soaked into the fabric. He flipped the coat open all the way to see how far the blood stretched—how far his Elizabeth had truly been wounded. As he did so, his gaze caught something—a corner of paper, tucked inside an inner pocket of the coat. Frowning, he gently tugged at it, pulling the paper free.

“What is that?” Elizabeth asked.

Darcy’s heart pounded as he unfolded the paper, revealing not one but a handful of letters. The handwriting was unmistakably Harry’s, and the papers were worn, as though they had been folded and refolded together many times. His eyes flickered up to Elizabeth, who was watching him with bated breath.

He glanced back down at the letter. “This might be what Harry was talking about.”