Charlotte nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. “Yes, he seems quite passionate about it. But he always makes time to sit with me for a few minutes and take tea before he goes. It is… pleasant.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, her scepticism growing. “Any gentleman would likely do the same, Charlotte. It is only polite. Surely, your mother and Maria join you in hosting him.”
“Oh, no. Maria keeps quite away—I think Papa told her to—and Mama always finds some convenient excuse for leaving the room. And still, he remains!”
“He…” Elizabeth cleared her throat delicately. “He can hardly leave in the middle of tea. It would be shockingly rude.”
“But he stays much longer than a quarter-hour. He truly fancies my conversation,” Charlotte insisted, her eyes shining with a fervent belief. “Did you not say yourself that he seemed like someone who valued good conversation over a pretty face when we first met him?”
Elizabeth hesitated, searching for the right words. She did not want to hurt Charlotte’s feelings, but she could not help but feel uneasy about Mr Wickham’s intentions. “I did say that, but…”
Charlotte’s face fell, the brightness dimming. “But what, Lizzy? You think he could not possibly fancy someone plain and old like me?”
Elizabeth stiffened, her cheeks burning scarlet. “No, indeed! If anyone says such things about you, why I—”
“It is only the truth.” Charlotte sighed. “I am plain. I always have been.”
“But you are clever and honest.”
Charlotte’s brows arched. “I am also entirely on the shelf unless, by some miracle, there exists a gentleman tall enough to reach me.”
Elizabeth made a tight smile. “And you think Mr Wickham might be that gentleman?”
Charlotte cast her eyes to the floor, then lifted her shoulders. “Do you think I am being foolish?”
Elizabeth forced a smile, shaking her head. “No, Charlotte. I do not think you are foolish. I just… I worry, that is all. I encouraged you to pursue Collins, and that was a foolish quest if there ever was one. Perhaps I ought to stay out of the matchmaking business.”
Charlotte’s expression softened, and she reached out to squeeze Elizabeth’s hand. “Do you know, I wondered if you would try to warn me off for a different reason altogether.”
“And what reason would that be?”
Charlotte’s eyes flared, and she dipped her head forward in a conscious gesture. “You know.”
“I am afraid I do not.”
Charlotte widened her eyes again. “Him! I… well, Lizzy, everyone is talking about you and Mr Wickham as if the matter is settled.”
Elizabeth sat back in her seat. “The matter is most assuredly not settled. And what do you mean, ‘everyone’? The only person I ever heard make such assumptions was Mama, and you know as well as I do that she is delusional.”
Charlotte’s hand fell from Elizabeth’s. “Well, I am sure it was Mrs Philips and Mrs Long too, but… there, I suppose they must be mistaken.” She chewed her lip. “Lizzy, are you sure? I should hate to think I might be hurting my friend if… you know.”
Elizabeth frowned. “I think we can safely say that I will not be hurt.”
Mr Wickham, however… that man might deserve a bit of “hurting” if he wounded Charlotte.
Darcy was hunched overhis desk, a pile of documents before him, the dim light from the lamp casting long shadows across the room. His study, usually a place of quiet contemplation and order, was now a chaotic mess. Papers were strewn everywhere, and Darcy’s head throbbed with the intensity of his concentration and the ever-present pain that had become his unwelcome companion.
He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the relentless pounding, but it was no use. The headache was exacerbated by the stress and the strain of bending over the desk, his eyes squinting to read the small, faded print on the yellowed pages. Memories and suspicions surged through him, all centring on George Wickham and the intricate lies that seemed to be closing in on him.
Darcy’s hands trembled as he rifled through the documents. He was certain there was something in his cabinet of documents, something that would shed light on Wickham’s story and perhaps even his intentions. His blood was up, his heart pounding in his chest as he sifted through the papers, determined to find the elusive detail that would validate his suspicions.
A soft knock on the door barely registered in his consciousness. The door creaked open, and a footman entered, carrying a tray with a decanter of brandy and a glass. “Mr Darcy,” the footman said hesitantly, “Mrs Hodges thought you might need some refreshment.”
Darcy barely glanced up. “Thank you, but leave it and go,” he muttered.
The footman hesitated, setting the tray down on a side table. “Sir, are you well? You look—”
“Nothing whatever is the matter,” Darcy snapped, waving a hand dismissively. Then, he straightened with a sigh. “My apologies, Carson. I do not need distractions right now.”
