“I should hope I do. I was taught at the knee of the very best man ever to draw breath, Miss Elizabeth. Sadly, he is passed on these five years, but I revere his memory.”
“Who was he, Mr Wickham?” Lydia asked. “Was he very grand? Oh! I bet he had ever so many carriages.”
“Lydia, please,” Elizabeth hissed between her teeth. “Mr Wickham, I apologise for my sisters’ forwardness.”
Mr Wickham waved off her apology. “Not at all, Miss Elizabeth. Youthful enthusiasm is to be cherished. He was like a father to me, Miss Lydia, and he was, indeed a very great man. Perhaps I will tell you more about him another time. Miss Elizabeth, I think you would have admired him as greatly as I did.”
“I am sure he was a very good man, indeed. I hope you will not think me too forward, but what brought you to Meryton? Surely a man of your talents and connections—for,certainly, this fatherly figure did not leave you without some friends in the world—it seems you could have settled anywhere.”
Wickham’s expression turned wistful, a faraway look entering his eyes. “Ah, Miss Elizabeth, that is quite a tale. One perhaps best saved for a less muddy day.” He chuckled softly. “Let me simply say that life has a way of leading us where we are meant to be. Meryton, it seems, is where I am meant to make a difference.”
Elizabeth nodded, respecting his discretion while her curiosity only grew. “You know,” she began, her voice thoughtful, “there was another gentleman interested in Netherfield before you—a Mr Bingley. I met him briefly and thought him quite kind. But I must say, I am glad it was you who took the property. Your intentions to help our community will prove invaluable.”
Wickham’s smile was warm, but Elizabeth caught a flicker of something—curiosity? concern? —in his eyes. “Mr Bingley, you say?” he replied, his tone careful. “I was not aware there had been another contender for Netherfield. How... interesting.”
He seemed about to say more when Lydia’s voice cut through their conversation. “Oh, look! We’re almost home. Mr Wickham, won’t you come in for tea?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to chastise Lydia for the improper invitation, but Mr Wickham smoothly intervened.
“I am afraid I must decline, Miss Lydia. I have pressing matters to attend to at Netherfield. But I thank you for your hospitality.”
As they reached the gate of Longbourn, Mr Wickham turned privately to Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth, it has been a pleasure. I look forward to our next encounter.” With a final bow to the ladies, he mounted his horse with fluid grace and rode away.
Chapter Seven
Darcy stood before themirror in his dressing room, his gaze fixed but unfocused. Thompson, his valet, adjusted his cravat with practised precision. The doctor’s words echoed in his thoughts, the possibility of a tumour gnawing at him with a dread he could not dispel.
Thompson’s deft movements blurred in the background as Darcy’s mind wandered to the implications of such an ailment.A tumour. It explained so much—his headaches, the nausea, the spasms. The fear it instilled in him was unlike anything he had ever faced.
The thought of leaving Georgiana alone, unprotected, filled him with a paralyzing dread. She depended on him! He had so much to teach her, so much to shield her from. And Pemberley! Who would manage the estate? Who would carry on the Darcy legacy if he succumbed to this affliction?
His heart was galloping, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead all over again. The thought of something growing inside his head, slowly taking away his faculties, was a nightmare he could scarcely bear. How bad would it get? Would he forget who he was? Become unable to care for himself?
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of his ancestors, each one a steward of Pemberley, each one trusting him to uphold their legacy. What if he failed them? What if he left everything unfinished?
“Is the knot to your liking, sir?” Thompson’s inquiry broke through his reverie.
Darcy’s eyes refocused on the reflection, noting the flawlessly tied cravat. “Yes, Thompson. Well done.”
Thompson stepped back, and Darcy took in his appearance. Immaculate as ever, yet far from composed. He felt like a hollow shell, maintaining an exterior of strength while inside, fear and doubt churned incessantly.
This shooting party could not be more poorly timed. Initially, it seemed like a good idea—an escape. But even above whatever was happening with him, he wondered if thetrip might be counterproductive for Georgiana. Returning to Pemberley, where she had previously known George Wickham as a child, might reignite fond memories better left to rot. In London, at least she had Lady Matlock’s pragmatic influence to anchor her to reality and her duties as the daughter of George Darcy.
And yet, the prospect of spending time at Pemberley, his sanctuary, brought him no comfort. Every familiar room, every corner of the estate would be tainted by the shadow of his mortality. He had always envisioned growing old there, watching over the estate and guiding Georgiana until she married. The thought of leaving it all behind, unfinished and uncertain, was unbearable.
But… if his time was to be limited, then he had little of it to waste. He had things to finish at Pemberley, and the truth was, travelling by himself, in this condition, might not be wise. Going north with Richard and Bingley might be his best chance.
“That will be all, Thompson,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.
Thompson bowed and exited, leaving Darcy alone with his thoughts. He straightened his posture and, with a final glance in the mirror, turned and strode out of the room. Each step felt heavier than the last, his mind awash with the enormity of what he faced. He had to keep this hidden from everyone—especially Georgiana. The last thing she needed was more uncertainty and fear.
He tried to focus on the practicalities, on the tasks that awaited him, but his thoughts kept circling back to the same dreadful conclusion.A tumour. It was as if voicing it had suddenly made it grow, become more ominous. He could feel it, a dark cloud hanging over his mind, sapping his strength and will.
He could not let anyone see his fear. Not yet. Not until he knew for certain. But the doubt gnawed at him, a relentless, insidious presence that threatened to unravel him from within.
Darcy entered the drawingroom at Matlock House, his eyes immediately seeking out Georgiana. She sat by the window, her embroidery hoop in her lap, though her hands were idle.
“Georgiana,” he greeted her warmly, though his heart pounded with an anxious thrum that made his voice sound strained.
