“She just needs to get warm and dry,” Elizabeth said, trying to keep her voice calm and steady. “Where is your mother, Maria? I think she ought to—”
“Mama is in the parlour,” Maria replied quickly. “Shall I fetch her?”
“Yes, please do,” Elizabeth urged. As Maria hurried away, Elizabeth turned back to Charlotte, gently helping her out of her damp shawl and guiding her to a chair. “Sit here for a moment while I fetch you a dry blanket.”
But before she could move, Lady Lucas entered the hallway, her expression more annoyed than concerned. “Maria says you have brought Charlotte in from the rain. Charlotte, whatever were you doing outside in this weather?”
“She was feeling unwell, Lady Lucas,” Elizabeth answered, trying to keep her tone respectful but firm. “She needs to be looked after, and perhaps it would be wise to call for Mr Jones.”
Lady Lucas waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, Charlotte is just in one of her moods again. This is not the first time she has done something like this. There is no need for a doctor, Lizzy dear.”
Elizabeth frowned, incredulous at the nonchalance in Lady Lucas’s voice. “But this is not normal, madam. Charlotte should not be out in the cold, doing menial tasksthat—”
“Nonsense, Lizzy,” Lady Lucas interrupted, her tone growing more curt. “She just needs a bit of rest. Charlotte has been like this ever since Maria began attracting more notice. It will pass, as it always does.”
Elizabeth could hardly believe what she was hearing. “Lady Lucas, I really must insist—”
But Lady Lucas was already turning away, directing Maria to help Charlotte upstairs. “Take her to her room, Maria. A warm bath will do her good.”
Elizabeth stood rooted to the spot; her mouth dropped open in shock. Was Lady Lucas truly so blasé about her own daughter?
Something was terribly wrong with Charlotte, and it seemed Elizabeth was the only one who truly saw it. How could she get Charlotte the help she so clearly needed if her own mother refused to see the truth?
Chapter Eight
The documents on Darcy’sdesk seemed endless—financial reports, estate matters, letters from tenants. He rubbed his temple, pushing the papers away. Today, at least, the ache was absent. For the past two days, the relentless throbbing in his head and the waves of nausea had subsided. He was starting to think that Dr Westing was an overreactive fool and that he had made himself sick with worry over nothing.
That meant he had plenty of other matters to distract him.
He tried to focus, but Georgiana’s face kept intruding, her passionate defence of a man she claimed had acted as no more than a faithful friend. How, how could she be so… so foolish? Her refusal to hear him wasn’t just stubbornness; it was a wall he couldn’t breach. She truly believed what she was saying and would not be swayed from it.
He should have called Wickham out. That was what he should have done, but…
Confronting George Wickham over Georgiana’s heartbreak could do nothing to help his sister. If the man had harmed her, taken physical advantage of her, no force or boundary on earth could have prevented Darcy from serving justice. But all Darcy could realistically accuse Wickham of was being too… friendly. And Georgiana was simply too naive to send the man packing when she sensed… or thought she sensed… what Darcy could only describe as an improper interest.
Was she even right? Darcy had never told Georgiana this much, but Wickham had written a letter to him after the entire debacle, claiming there had been a “misunderstanding,” and all he had been doing in Ramsgate was keeping other, mal-intentioned suitors away from her. And Mrs Younge had corroborated it, so all he truly had to accuse Wickham of was hurting Georgiana’s feelings.
Was that truly all? She gave her young sentiments a bit too much free rein; therefore, it was George Wickham’s fault?
He stood and paced the room, frustration mounting with each step. Lady Matlock was expecting him this evening, and he could think of few obligations more odious tohim at present. He should have gone to Pemberley early, away from the suffocating social obligations and prying eyes. If he had, he wouldn’t be forced to spend the evening at his aunt’s party, enduring her unsubtle attempts to push eligible young ladies toward him.
The idea of mingling with Lady Matlock’s friends, engaging in meaningless small talk, and pretending to enjoy the company of people who scarcely knew more of him than the size of his coffers felt unbearable. The prospect of facing Lady Matlock’s well-meaning but relentless matchmaking efforts made him want to escape even more.
He would speak with Richard this evening about Pemberley and what he needed to do once they arrived… and it was not hunting. He had almost told Bingley… but perhaps there truly was nothing to tell. Perhaps it was all a false terror. Still, Richard ought to know because… because there might come a time, very soon, when Darcy would depend on him for everything. For tonight, however, he was trapped in a whirl of social expectations.
But there was nothing else for it. And it was time to dress. Darcy took a deep breath, attempting to steel himself for the evening ahead. The semblance of normalcy was a relief, and he clung to it, hoping it would last. He called for Thompson, ready to put on the facade of composure and grace that society demanded.
The grand drawing roomat Matlock’s London house buzzed with polite conversation and laughter. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the assembled guests, their light reflecting off the polished silver and crystal goblets. Darcy stood amidst the throng, his jaw tightening with each young lady his aunt directed his way. Still, he felt better than he had in days. The headache had receded, and for the moment, he was free from the oppressive nausea that had plagued him. Dr Westing must have been mistaken.
“Darcy! Now, there is a surprise,” Richard’s voice rang out as he approached, a glass of champagne in hand. Darcy inclined his head, relieved to see his cousin.
“Richard. I had begun to fear you might not come,” Darcy replied, accepting the offered glass.
“My dear Darcy, have you ever known me to miss one of Mother’s soirées? The very best in food and drinkandcompanionship. Why would I not be here?” Richard’s grin was infectious, and for a moment, Darcy felt a spark of genuine cheer.
But no sooner had he begun to enjoy the evening than Lady Matlock descended upon him, a young lady on her arm and her eyes alight with matchmaking intent. “Fitzwilliam, have you met Miss Catherine Fairchild? Such a delightful young lady.”
“Good evening, Miss Fairchild,” Darcy said, offering her a polite smile.
