Darcy leaned forward, his expression serious. “Yes, I have heard of the troubles. It is essential to restore the weir as swiftly as possible. Perhaps a temporary barrier could be constructed to divert the water until permanent repairs can be made?”
Mr Bennet regarded Darcy with a blank expression, his silence stretching uncomfortably. “Mr Darcy is… what was it… Pemberley currently underwater?”
Heat surged to his cheeks, his discomfort intensifying as he felt the eyes of the room upon him. “No, sir, it is not.”
“Then, with all due respect, Mr Darcy, your advice, though undoubtedly sound, is somewhat lacking in immediate applicability to our current predicament.” Mr Bennet’s tone was pointed, and he turned back to Wickham, leaving Darcy feeling the sting of his dismissal.
Wickham met Darcy’s eyes with a subtle, almost pitying smile. Darcy’s face burned, his mortification complete as he realised the room had fallen silent, everyone witnessing his rebuke.
“My friend Darcy is a clever fellow,” Wickham apologised. “He only wishes to be helpful, and I daresay, we will be asking his advice before we have had done. Now, Mr Bennet, my steward tells me that some farmers may be unable to replant their fields, and the economic strain is escalating. It seems that outside support is imperative.”
Mr Bennet nodded approvingly. “Exactly, Mr Wickham. We need actionable solutions and the will to see them through. Sounds a bloody nuisance.”
Wickham smiled indulgently. “Am I to understand that is why you are at my door, because you would prefer that someone else took the organisation of the matter in hand?”
“You are not so foppish as you look.”
“Oh, more is the pity. I do try hard to look like an utter macaroni, but you have caught me out,” Wickham laughed. “Now, then, have you a list of the affected properties? Any accounting of the economic damage thus far?”
Darcy would have added to the discussion, but after Mr Bennet’s chastisement, his words died in his throat. His opinion was neither wanted nor, apparently… needed. Save by Wickham, but he could not quite stomach being defended again by George Wickham.
Mr Bennet produced a sheaf of paper, and the strategising began in earnest. At each new detail, Wickham’s responses—articulate, measured—cut through the room like ablade. How had he not seen this before? Wickham, the scoundrel, suddenly cloaked in humility and intelligence. A façade?
No, it seemed genuine, blast it. Darcy’s own advice now felt like cold ash, distant and theoretical, crumbling under the weight of Wickham’s practicality. Skepticism gnawed at him, but there it was—a grudging respect. The man had changed. Or had he? Darcy’s mind whirled, his confidence shrinking back, leaving him to grapple with this unsettling revelation.
“Well, then, we probably ought not dally,” Mr Bennet sighed. “I suppose a direct inspection of the river and the surrounding damage is necessary.”
Bingley stood. “Then let us forego the shooting and instead take my carriage. We can see for ourselves what must be done.”
“Agreed,” Wickham said, rising smoothly.
Darcy stood as well, his thoughts a tangled mess. Mr Bennet’s blunt honesty hit like a hammer, and Wickham—competent, poised—whowasthis man? None of these fit with his expectations. Everything felt skewed and off-balance. The ground beneath him seemed to shift and… oh, egad, there went his equilibrium. Darcy clutched his stomach and prayed against the queasiness that would probably follow next.
Wickham started for the door, all his energies now fixed forward as he led them from the room. “Mr Bennet, I trust you would like to accompany us?”
“Not a bit of it,” the older man grumbled, though there was a twist of satisfaction about his mouth. “But my Lizzy will never let me hear the end of it if I do not.”
Darcy’s skin prickled with fire again at the mention of the lady, even as his feet felt as though they were rooted to the ground, and his mouth felt like it was full of cotton. Dash it all, he would have to meet her again just so he was not stricken by these waves of guilty panic whenever someone said her name. A proper introduction with nothing for either of them to be embarrassed about—that would suffice.
But that would have to wait until after this present shock. Wickham, of all people, taking charge of a community concern? It was the most preposterous thing he had ever heard, but there was no escaping it. Difficult as it was to credit, he had no choice but to follow.
Perhaps he would learn something.
Chapter Thirteen
“Charlotte, you really mustjoin us outside. The sun is out today, and I can think of nothing better to lift the spirits,” Jane urged, her voice light and hopeful.
Slumped in her chair by the window, Charlotte glanced up with a half-hearted smile. “Oh, Jane, you and Elizabeth are wasting your time on me. You ought to go and amuse yourselves. Nobody cares what I do, so why should I?”
Elizabeth, standing with her arms crossed, exchanged a look with Jane. The air of resignation around Charlotte was wearing thin. “Perhaps just a short walk in the garden,” she suggested, her tone sharpening slightly. “It is warmer today, and a bit of sunshine might remind you that life does not have to be endured from behind a window.”
Charlotte huffed and turned her gaze back to the window. “And what good would it do? Whether I go outside or stay in, it makes no difference. No one would notice either way.”
“Charlotte,” Jane said gently, sitting beside her and trying to catch her eye, “we notice. We care. You know we do. We just want to see you happy again.”
But Charlotte shook her head stubbornly. “You are kind, but I do not want to be paraded about. I just want to be left alone.”
Elizabeth’s patience finally evaporated. “That is enough, Charlotte. I have quite had my fill of you pitying yourself, and I will stand for it no longer.” Her voice was firm, leaving no room for further argument. “We will not sit by and watch you wallow. Now, are you coming outside, or must we carry you?”
