Wickham sighed. “Oh, come, Darcy. I have known you all your life, and something is altered about you. My money is on a woman—is that it?” He chuckled. “There is nothing like a pair of fine eyes to make a man forget even his father’s favourite advice. I imagine you do not even recall the name of the first young lady you fancied.”
He grinned, waited for a few seconds, and then when Darcy did not answer, he leaned forward and whispered, “It was Bridgette—that French maid.”
“That is a lie. I never dabbled with the servants.”
Wickham snorted. “Not at age seven, no. She was your mother’s abigail, and… good heavens, we used to hide in Lady Anne’s dressing room just so we could watch her shakingout the linens. Do you not remember? That satiny blonde hair she had, that smile, and that figure… Ah…” He sighed reverently and took another long draw on his cigar.
Darcy narrowed his eyes at the desk and clawed through his earlier recollections. There was… something… but he could have sworn his mother’s abigail was named Elise, and had dark hair…
Egad… how much did he remember incorrectly? And if he could not remember, was he even capable of thinking clearly? Was there a chance, even the slimmest one, that Wickham was trying to make an honest man of himself and that Darcy’s own faulty recollections and prejudices were barring the way?
Wickham flicked more ashes off his cigar. “Ah, well, no matter. Water under the bridge, eh? Look, Darcy, I apologise for setting upon you so. I would not dream of pressuring you into something beyond the scope of your comfort. I only hoped that you might see the value in what we are trying to achieve here.”
Darcy swallowed and felt a trickle of perspiration slipping down his throat. But that was not all, for the muscles on the inside of his right arm suddenly went rigid, his fingers numb and spasming in almost an instant.
Hehadto get out of that study. Immediately, before something worse happened.
Wickham exhaled another plume of smoke, his gaze never leaving Darcy’s face. “Nothing more to say, Darcy? Well, then,” he said with forced cheer, “I know better than to argue with you. But know this, Darcy—I have never forgot what you and your father did for me. I have always looked up to you like a brother, and I will always treasure my connection to your family.”
The words were meant to sting, to remind Darcy of the past, but Darcy was now too preoccupied with trying to remain upright in the chair to notice. The palsy had possessed his hand once more and was threatening to travel up the sinews of his neck. He could not afford even another second. Darcy rose from his chair, his movements jerky and rushed.
“I appreciate the sentiment, Wickham,” he said. “I will be taking my leave now.”
Wickham stood as well, his expression unreadable. “Of course. I shall have the servants prepare your things. Safe travels, Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s heart leapt intoher throat as she caught sight of Mr Darcy’s carriage being brought out from the shed. A moment more, and she passed into view of the stables, where two horses were standing to be harnessed. She had almost no time left.
She thumped her left leg on the horse’s side, but not only did he not move in response, he jerked his head forward to snatch a mouthful of grass from beside the road, ripping the reins from her hands.
“Of course, you would choose this moment for that,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath, glaring at the horse as it chewed in apparent indifference. She dove forward to reach the reins, then rocked back in the saddle again, trying to pull the horse where she wanted it to go. The horse, however, had other ideas, and rooted at the bit to grab another mouthful.
“Always helpful, aren’t you?” Elizabeth snapped, her patience fraying at the edges. The horse’s only response was to toss its head again, the reins slipping slightly through her fingers as it did. She tightened her grip, determined not to let the beast get the better of her.
She cast a quick glance toward the carriage being readied in the distance. There was no time to waste. Perhaps if she could slip around to the servant’s entrance before she was seen… It was her best chance to get inside without causing a scandal or encountering the wrong gentleman.
What she meant to do next… well, that was as much a mystery as the strange panic that rose in her chest when she contemplatednotseeing him before he left.
With a sharp tug on the reins, she tried to guide the horse around the side of the house. The beast reluctantly obeyed, its hooves dragging as if it could sense her urgency and was intentionally opposing it. Elizabeth’s frustration grew, and she had to grit her teeth to keep from shouting at the stubborn creature.
“Must you fight me every step of the way?” she hissed, casting another wary glance around to make sure no one had seen her yet. The horse huffed in response, a puff of steam rising from its nostrils in the cold morning air. Elizabeth shook her head, wondering how on earth she was going to manage this. The animal seemed as intent on thwarting her plans as the universe itself.
As she neared the back of the house, her heart sank. A group of workmen was approaching, and she had to pull the horse back into the cover of the surrounding woods before they saw her. She held her breath as the workmen drew closer. As long as they were not coming in her direction, they would be gone in only a moment.
But to her dismay, they went to the back door of the house and waited for what seemed like an eternity until Mr Wickham himself emerged from the servant’s door to meet them.
Elizabeth grumbled one or two highly unladylike things. Was the whole world conspiring against her? How was she to get to Mr Darcy now? Back to the front door, perhaps? But that would guarantee that she would be seen. There was nothing to do but wait where she was.
Mr Wickham seemed to be in no hurry to conclude his conversation. Rather, he seemed to be taking his time to give concise directions about something, and he was not pleased about it. His voice carried on the cold morning air, sounding uncharacteristically tense. Elizabeth strained to hear their conversation, though the words were too muffled to make out clearly. Whatever it was, it left Wickham looking agitated as he sent the men off with a curt nod.
“Brilliant. Just brilliant,” she whispered to herself, her frustration mounting. It was odd, though—why would Mr Wickham come out through the servant’s door? That was hardly the usual way to meet with workmen. Elizabeth’s suspicions deepened, and she realised there was no way she could approach the house now without risking an encounter with him.
She tried to turn the horse away from the house, but her thoughts were racing too fast to settle on a clear plan. What was she supposed to do now? She barely had time to think before the horse, sensing her hesitation, decided to take matters into its own hooves. With a sudden jerk of its head, it pulled on the reins, and Elizabeth found herself in an unexpected tugging match.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, will you just—” She never got to finish her sentence. The horse yanked hard to the right, pulling her out of balance. With her injured ankle unable to brace her, she toppled off the saddle and into the mud with an undignified thud.
Pain shot through her ankle, and she bit back a scream, her gown now thoroughly ruined. “Well done,” she muttered darkly, glaring up at the horse, who simply stared back with an air of indifference. “I hope you are proud of yourself.”
Struggling to catch her breath and keep the tears of frustration at bay, Elizabeth tried to assess her situation. Her ankle was screaming in pain, and she was covered in mud. What was she to do now?
