This story is now available on Amazon under its new title "A Vision of the Path Before Him."

Thanks to my wonderful betas, Melliot, SunriseImagination, and stmcg14, who took this story up a level :) And to all of you who encouraged and critiqued and engaged with my story along the way!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Frerichs

"I beg your pardon?" Darcy asked, his gaze trained on Bingley's haggard face. He had expected Bingley to remain in Hertfordshire for quite some time as his friend reacquainted himself with his property Netherfield Park (and the neighbours—particularly Miss Bennet). Bingley had determined to visit Netherfield one last time before deciding whether to retain the property before the initial year-long lease expired three weeks from now. Indeed, Darcy had intended to join him in Hertfordshire as soon as he concluded his business in London this week. Now, his friend had burst through the doors of Darcy's study, barely waiting to be announced, and poured himself a glass of brandy before throwing himself into the leather chair to one side of Darcy's desk.

Bingley looked at him, eyes shadowed with grief. "Miss Jane Bennet is married to one of her uncle's clerks."

"Good God! I did not think I could have heard you aright. How?"

"Necessity." Bingley gulped down another finger of brandy. "Mr. Collins told me—"

"Mr. Collins is there? Why?"

"I'm trying to tell you," Bingley snapped. "Miss Lydia ran away with Wickham over the summer."

Darcy blanched. "Wickham?" he asked in a strangled croak.

Bingley glared at him. "You said the man was a blackguard, but if I had known he was so bad, I would not have left the Bennets unprotected."

Darcy sank back into his chair. The "and neither should have you" rang through Bingley's tone. "I—I don't know what to say, Bingley. You are right—I did not think him capable of leg shackling himself to someone without monetary inducement, but to leave him there was—" He swallowed as the realities of his error spread through his veins. Whatever Wickham had done to the unprotected people of Meryton was his fault. He had left a wolf in their midst with nary a warning. "Unconscionable," he whispered. "What of the rest of her family?" What of Elizabeth?

Bingley's jaw tightened. "Mr. Bennet followed Miss Lydia and Wickham to London but could not find them. According to Wickham's friends, he had no intention of marrying the girl, and she was never found. Eventually, Mr. Bennet returned home and, shortly afterwards, died of an apoplexy." He poured another finger of brandy and swirled it in his tumbler. "Mrs. Bennet remains in Meryton with her sister, Mrs. Philips—though she is no longer received by polite society, including the Collinses who are now at Longbourn. Mr. Collins informed me he had graciously given the Bennets a month to vacate the premises after Mr. Bennet's death." The chair creaked as his fingers tightened around the arm. "He sympathises with their plight but 'a man of the cloth cannot appear to condone such scurrilous behaviour as Miss Lydia's, nor to support any tainted by it,' " he quoted bitterly. "My—Miss—Mrs. Hawkins had no choice but to marry at once. The clerk has a steady source of income."

Darcy leaned forward. "But what of Miss Elizabeth?"

Bingley stared into his glass. "She was sent to her relatives in London along with Miss Mary—"

Darcy started. "She is in London?" He stood and strode to the window as though to discover her whereabouts.

Bingley shook his head sorrowfully. He returned to the table where Darcy's crystal decanters sat and poured two fingers of brandy into another glass. "A carriage accident," he said, holding the glass out to Darcy.

Darcy took it mechanically. "A carriage accident?"

Bingley nodded, still not meeting Darcy's gaze. "The carriage overturned on the way to London. Miss Mary survived, but Miss Elizabeth's injuries were too grievous."

The glass slipped from Darcy's fingers, brandy spilling across the floor, staining it dark much as Elizabeth's blood must have stained the dirt. Travelling as often as he did, Darcy had assisted at more than one carriage accident. The sight was never pretty: men and women impaled with fragments of wood or crushed under horses, thrown from the carriage with bones broken and jutting out from their skin. Insides becoming outsides. Man was never created to be so intimately viewed.

Cold filled him, bypassing grief, as he imagined Elizabeth's broken body, his beloved dying alone. On trembling legs, he returned to his desk and slumped in a chair, cradling his head in his hands.

"Darcy! Are you—are you all right? I never—you don't like the Bennets!"

Darcy sucked in a breath past the agony in his chest. "I love—loved her."

Bingley flopped into his chair. "Damn. My apologies, Darcy. If I had known . . . . I shouldn't have broken the news like that."

They sat in silence for some moments, both trying to absorb their loss. United in love for a Bennet sister they now sat in the ruins of their might-have-beens. Ever since she had rejected him, Darcy had struggled to relinquish the prospect of winning Elizabeth's love; becoming a man worthy of her had given him something to strive for. He had hoped that the return of her sister's suitor would ease Elizabeth's ire into something softer and that his close proximity would allow him to convince her that he had taken her rebuke to heart. And now . . . .

His breath remained as shaky as his limbs. Wickham's trail of destruction had consumed the woman he loved. If only he had done something about Wickham when the blackguard had crossed his path.

He loved his sister Georgiana and wouldn't trade her happiness for Elizabeth's, yet there must have been something he could have done to warn everyone. Or perhaps he should have had Wickham arrested and put in debtor's prison? Or perhaps his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam could have alerted Wickham's colonel? But he'd been too proud to ask for advice, too worried for Georgiana's future to let any breath of scandal touch her reputation. Ridiculous—especially since those who would be put off by any mention of such a scandal would be the sort of men that should be avoided. He would prefer Georgiana join a cloister rather than marry one of them. His darling sister ought to marry someone who loved her for who she was.

Elizabeth had shown him the value of being weighed according to one's character. She had rejected him for who he was rather than the position he held, and it was a gift he would never forget.

Bingley buried his face in his hands. "I never should have left her," he whispered.

Darcy cleared his throat several times, trying to force words of comfort past the grief threatening to strangle him. "You didn't know, Bingley."

"I have seen the women of the ton for several years. I knew Miss Bennet—Mrs. Hawkins was a jewel beyond compare. I should have returned and tried to win her affection."

Darcy hesitated. He owed Bingley an apology for separating him from Miss Bennet. One he had intended to give after they had both returned to Netherfield. But now?

What would Elizabeth have wished him to do? For some months now, it was the question he measured everything in his life by. He squared his shoulders, anticipating the loss of his dearest friend on top of the woman he loved. It was too much, but he would pay his penance. The least he could do for Elizabeth now was to live as she would have wanted him to.

"I owe you an apology, Bingley," Darcy began. "While at Rosings in April, I encountered Miss Elizabeth and she shared with me that Miss Bennet did indeed have feelings for you."

Bingley stared at him, fingers sliding from his face and gripping the desk. "What did you say?"

"You had Miss Bennet's affections," Darcy said quietly. "And I am exceedingly sorry for the part I played in preventing you from returning to her."

Bingley froze. "Preventing me from returning?" he croaked.

Darcy gave a short nod. "At the time, I believed Miss Bennet did not hold you in affection but would be forced by her mother to accept your advantageous offer. I worried you would be responsible for supporting the entire family after Mr. Bennet's death; nor did I desire you to suffer social degradation as a result of their poor behaviour."

"Why would you do such a thing?"

Darcy shuddered. "I—I was proud. Miss Elizabeth showed me the error of my ways. I believed I knew what was best for you instead of allowing you to be your own man."

Bingley looked as though someone had kicked his favourite hound, however, anger was rapidly overtaking his shock. "Darcy, I have allowed you to advise me because you are more experienced in certain matters—you had no right to make that decision for me. I thought we were friends."

"We are."

Bingley jerked his head in denial. "No friend would do what you've done." He stood and went to the window. "How did Miss Elizabeth show you the error of your ways?"

Darcy hesitated, but he owed it to Bingley to be honest. "I proposed to her in April, and she rejected me soundly, enumerating the many reasons she considered me the last man she would ever marry—one of which was my interference in her sister's dealings with you."

"She knew?"

"My cousin informed her unknowingly." And hadn't that been a shock. Darcy hadn't known they were speaking of him. Fitzwilliam had admitted he was trying to change Elizabeth's poor opinion of him. How had everyone around him seen Elizabeth's antagonism towards him when he had only ever seen flirtation in her wit and their debates?

"Good," Bingley said savagely.

"I am sorry, Bingley," Darcy repeated. "It was unconscionable and arrogant of me to interfere in your life or in anyone else's. I have tried to change my dealings with you and with others in the wake of Elizabeth's rebuke."

Bingley's eyes widened as he turned towards Darcy. "You really do love her."

"Very much."

"I've never seen you change your opinion once made—I had wondered why your behaviour had recently changed." His eyes took on a faraway cast. "You became more aloof with Caroline and more involved with your estate."

"I realised I had been cruel to Miss Bingley by not making my disinterest plain. I had never indicated a preference for her—"

"As I have told her many times," Bingley cut in.

"But by my silence, I allowed her to continue her pursuit of me and condoned her treatment of others. My failings in this and so many other areas have led us to where we are today."

Bingley returned to the brandy and poured himself another glass. "We are all responsible for our own faults, are we not?" He stared into his glass, swirling the liquor around and around. "I could have returned to Netherfield sooner. I didn't have to listen to you. I could have pursued Miss Bennet, but I did not. It is as you have always said: I am too willing to bend to the opinions of others." He tossed back the brandy, then gave a bitter laugh. "I just didn't realise you were warning me against yourself."

"I have—Bingley, you are not—" Darcy closed his mouth, trying to gather his scattered thoughts into some kind of order, swimming against the tide of grief that longed to think only of Elizabeth: her face, the arch of her eyebrow, the swell of her lips, the wisps of curls that sprang free in the wind, the way her eyes sparkled. He clenched his teeth and reminded himself to deal with Bingley first or he would risk losing his friend. "You have the ability to be at ease no matter the social situation you find yourself in. Your friendliness and the way you see good in everything makes the world a better place. It is an ability I envy. Perhaps this may appear to some as lacking backbone, but it does not have to be so. In truth, you are your own man. You have proven that these past weeks by returning to Netherfield against your sisters' advice."

Bingley sighed heavily. "Too late."

Darcy shuddered as his own culpability hit him once more. Too late for Bingley, and too late to win Elizabeth. Too late for Elizabeth's life. Too late to rescue her or to save her family even though he owed her a debt that could not be paid. If only he had done things differently.

The two of them remained in Darcy's study late into the night, both silently pacing and drinking and staring out of the windows alternately. Darcy's thoughts vacillated between memories of Elizabeth and horror at the part he had inadvertently played in her death.

The stars came out—an oddity in London made possible due to that morning's rain. In the past, they had comforted him—a reminder that Elizabeth too was under the same stars. Tonight, they seemed hollow, a reminder of how very alone he was and how helpless he was to change anything. He stared unseeing as a shooting star flamed across the sky. If only he had behaved differently. He had spent days under the same roof as Elizabeth and had only managed to convince her of his pride and unsuitability. If he had been a better man then, he could have ensured that Wickham would not have been free to prey on Elizabeth's younger sister.

If only he could have saved Elizabeth.