Tomorrow. She would visit Charlotte first thing. Tonight’s emotions and revelations had been overwhelming, but she couldn’t ignore her friend’s sadness. The music and laughter from the hall felt distant, almost mocking. Elizabeth vowed she would not let Charlotte go unnoticed again.
Chapter Ten
Darcy’s hand banged downon his desk in shock as his eyes scanned the letter before him. Bingley’s familiar handwriting, usually a source of lighthearted correspondence, now delivered a blow that left Darcy momentarily breathless.
Wickham. Hosting Bingley at Netherfield! The words seemed to leap off the page, each one more bewildering than the last.
George Wickham, with enough wealth to lease Netherfield? It was unthinkable. Where had he come by such means? Wickham could mingle with the gentry, certainly, but he was never a man of substance, nor even prudence. Darcy doubted there was even a farthing left of the three thousand pounds he had signed over to him five years ago. The idea of Wickham playing the part of a gentleman of property was fantastical.
His hand trembled slightly as he set the letter down. What could Wickham possibly want with Bingley? Darcy couldn’t fathom Wickham’s intentions. Why extend such an invitation? They had not known each other at university, for Wickham had developed his own circle of friends, quite apart from Darcy’s… and he rarely showed his face in lectures. But if Wickham wanted to find out who Darcy’s friends were, it would have been the work of a moment.
First, he spent the summer charming Georgiana, and now Bingley…
But that was not the most baffling question. How had Wickham managed this sudden rise? His charm had always been impressive, able to win people over with ease. But to become the new master of an estate like Netherfield? Darcy had seen all Bingley’s figures when he was considering the lease. It required substantial means, and apparently Wickham had offered to pay even more than Bingley had been prepared to do.
Darcy stood abruptly, the letter slipping from his grasp and fluttering to the floor. He began to pace the room, his head starting to feel tight again as his pulse bounded at his temple. What the devil did all this mean?
He paused by the window, staring out without really seeing. What if Wickham had changed? Georgiana’s recent, muddled revelations about him suggested… what? She had spoken of misunderstandings, of feeling confused at the very worst. But that was not enough to accuse Wickham of any ill intentions, though Darcy’s instincts advised him otherwise. Could Wickham be trusted?
An immediate impulse surged through him. He needed to act. Writing to Bingley, suggesting he reconsider his stay at Netherfield, seemed prudent. Bingley might not be aware of Wickham’s history of irresponsibility, and he was sure to be taken in.
Darcy strode back to his desk and grabbed a sheet of paper, the quill poised in his hand. How should he phrase it? “Dear Bingley, I feel it necessary to advise caution regarding Mr Wickham. He may not be as reliable as he appears...”
He hesitated, the nib of the quill hovering over the paper. Would a letter suffice? He could hardly write of his concerns regarding Georgiana—in fact, there were few specifics he could dare put down at all. Would Bingley understand the gravity of the situation through mere words on a page? Bingley, with his open heart and trusting nature, might dismiss his warnings as unnecessary caution. Wickham’s charm had always been considerable, and Bingley could easily fall under its spell.
But confronting Bingley directly... Was that too much interference? Bingley was his own man, after all.
He paced the room for a few moments, his fingers working into a knot behind his back, and stopped again, staring at the blank sheet. No, he needed more than just words on a page. He needed to understand what Wickham was about, not just for Bingley’s sake but for his own peace of mind. There were simply too many unanswered questions after last summer, and then this? Perhaps he had been mistaken in his judgment, but that did not seem likely.
Bingley’s letter had also spoken of Elizabeth Bennet. That name drew a curve of his lips as his finger found the paragraph again.
Bingley had danced with her.
Danced… Darcy’s brow pinched as he tried to imagine that rather… interesting creature… dancing. Not covered in mud and making sardonic quips to mask her pain, but fresh and at her best… drawing her partner in with her sharp wit and those captivating eyes.
It was not difficult to sketch her face. Hardly a day had passed that she had not flitted through his mind and warmed his thoughts with the memory of her laughter. Whatwould she look like in a ball gown, with her hair coiled up just so, her creamy décolletage bared to the dewy kiss of candlelight?
He shook himself, snapping his vision back to clarity, and Bingley’s words scripted on the page.Thatwas why he would do very well not to return to Meryton! He had no business letting his fancy run wild on a mud-splattered vixen from a small town and an unremarkable family. Particularly not now, with his own future seeming somewhat… precarious.
But… perhaps it might not do any harm to… well, to warn her. She had several sisters, did she not? Four… his memory on the matter was too exact for his liking, but there it was. Her family and the young ladies of Meryton—Wickham’s charm would easily enchant them. It might not be harmful—had not Georgiana sworn that the tiger had changed his stripes? But it was worth a look, at least. Yes, that was only proper.
A letter would not suffice. He would do better to see the situation, to make sense of Wickham’s sudden rise, and ensure that all was well with Bingley and his new friend.
After all… Darcy blinked and clenched his fist as that stabbing panic lanced through his mind again. Westingmightnot be wrong. And if not, then Darcy would do well to see that others were well. That they were warned, while he was still able to give the word of caution.
To Meryton, then.
“Charlotte,” Elizabeth began asshe pulled her gloves off in the entryway at Lucas Lodge. “You left the ball so suddenly last night. I was worried. Are you well?”
Charlotte looked up from her needlework, her smile faint but present. She was seated near the window, a bit of muslin poised easily in her hands. The morning light cast a soft halo around her, but it could not disguise the faint lines of unease etched on her face. “Good morning, Lizzy. There is no need for concern. I assure you, I am quite well.”
Elizabeth’s frown deepened as she moved closer, the worry in her eyes unmasked. “No need for concern? You looked so... troubled. What happened?”
With a sigh, Charlotte set down her needlework, the motion deliberate and slow. “Truly, I was only weary. The Assembly held little interest for me, so I decided to leave, and Papa obliged. There is nothing more to it.”
“Weary? It looked like more than that. You seemed... downcast. Are you certain there is nothing else?”
Charlotte’s gaze held steady, though her voice was gentle but firm. “Lizzy, you are imagining far more than there is. I appreciate your concern, but it really was just fatigue.”
