Dressing herself quickly, Elizabeth clutched the bedpost for support as she tugged on her gown, the pain in her ankle sharp but bearable. She ran her fingers hastily through her hair, twisting it into a simple knot at the nape of her neck. Her heart pounded with anticipation as she made her way to the door, determined to carry out her plan despite the foolishness of it all.
She eased the door open and hobbled down the stairs as quietly as she could manage, each step a careful negotiation with her injured foot. By the time she reached the kitchen, her breath came in short gasps, and she clung to the doorframe for support.
Mrs Hill was already busying herself with the morning tasks, heating the fires and preparing the kitchen for the day. She turned, clearly surprised to see Elizabeth standing there, pale and dishevelled. “Miss Elizabeth! What on earth are you doing up so early, and in such a state? You ought to be resting, not hobbling about on that sore ankle of yours.”
Elizabeth smiled weakly at the almost maternal concern in the housekeeper’s tone. “I could not sleep, Mrs Hill, and thought a bit of fresh air might do me some good.”
Mrs Hill’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, but she said nothing at first. Instead, she motioned to a small pot simmering on the hearth. “I’ve made some willow bark tea for you. It will help with the pain and swelling.”
Elizabeth sighed, knowing she could not refuse. Mrs Hill had been like a second mother to her, and there was no point in arguing with the woman when she took on such a tone. She lowered herself into a chair, accepting the steaming cup gratefully. The warmth seeped into her hands as she sipped the bitter liquid, trying not to make a face at the taste.
Mrs Hill stood over her, arms crossed, watching Elizabeth with a mixture of concern and exasperation. “Now, Miss Lizzy, what are you really about this morning? You’ve never been one to rise before the sun unless there was something on your mind.”
Elizabeth set the cup down and looked up at Mrs Hill with a determined smile. “You know me too well, Mrs Hill. I need a favour. Could you ask Mr Hill to saddle my father’s horse? I have a bit of business to attend to this morning.”
The request left Mrs Hill momentarily speechless. She stared at Elizabeth, her brows knitted together in confusion. “Saddle a horse? Miss Elizabeth, surely you don’t mean to go riding in your condition. And without your father’s leave?”
Elizabeth’s smile wavered, but she held her ground. “It is the first morning all week that the skies have not threatened snow or rain, and I am aching for a little fresh air.”
“Fresh air, she says!” Mrs Hill shook her head as she turned back to her stove. “You will fall off that wretched horse again, and this time, you will catch your death out there in a snow drift.”
“Nonsense! That horse and I came to a slight understanding, and I am certain the chill will do my ankle some good.”
Mrs Hill looked over her shoulder at Elizabeth as if she had lost her senses. “I’ve no authority to question you, Miss, but this does seem rather unwise. You can hardly stand, let alone ride.”
Elizabeth reached for her cup again, more to steady herself than anything else. “Please, Mrs Hill. It would mean a great deal to me. I shall be careful, I promise.”
The housekeeper’s stern expression softened, though she still looked doubtful. “I’ll speak to Mr Hill, but only on the condition that you finish your tea and rest a while before you go gallivanting off. And if you fall and break your neck, I’ll have you know I’ll not be the one to explain it to your father.”
Elizabeth laughed softly, touched by the woman’s protectiveness. “Agreed, Mrs Hill. I will be as cautious as a mouse.”
With a resigned sigh, Mrs Hill turned to the door. “Very well, I’ll have Mr Hill see to it. But mark my words, Miss Elizabeth, this is a fool’s errand if ever I’ve seen one.”
Yes, yes, it probably was that. Elizabeth sipped her tea, the warmth spreading through her body, though it did little to ease the trepidation gnawing at her heart. This plan of hers was indeed foolish, but it was all she had left to grasp at before Mr Darcy slipped through her fingers once more.
Darcy descended the stairsslowly, each step deliberate as he tried to steady himself with only one hand on the bannister. The headache from the night before had lessened to a dull throb, but his mind remained clouded, thoughts scattered like the mist that clung to the early morning air.
He ought to be able to function just well enough to take his leave. It was not the fact-seeking mission he had determined upon when he left London, but… well, a number of things were falling short of his expectations lately. He could hardly turn the entire world to his liking. If he could just keep his dignity intact long enough to thank his host, bid Bingley farewell and mount his carriage for Cambridge, he could…
But as he reached the bottom of the stairs, Wickham was there, waiting for him.
“Good morning, Darcy!” Wickham greeted him with a cheerful grin. He was impeccably dressed, his coat buttoned neatly and his cravat tied with precision. There was no trace of sleep in his expression; it was as if he had been waiting for this very moment. “I thought you might be up and about early. I hoped we could have a word before the others are stirring.”
Darcy’s scepticism flared instantly. Wickham’s presence at such an hour, his overly affable demeanour—it all set Darcy on edge. He was well aware that he was not at his best, and the realisation was beginning to dawn on him that he had underestimated Wickham for far too long. The man before him was no longer the charming rogue Darcy had once known; he was something more dangerous.
Yet, to refuse Wickham’s request would be to show weakness, and Darcy could not afford that. “Very well,” he replied.
Wickham’s smile widened as he gestured towards the study. “This way, then. I assure you, it will not take long.”
The study was dimly lit, the curtains still drawn against the early morning light. Wickham moved behind the desk, the polished wood gleaming in the shadows. He gestured forDarcy to take a seat, and Darcy complied, though the act of sitting felt like a concession—a ceding of power to the man who now stood before him.
Wickham positioned himself behind the desk, placing Darcy on the other side as though he were some sort of a supplicant. The humiliation of the moment prickled at Darcy’s pride, but he kept his expression neutral, determined not to let Wickham see how deeply it unsettled him.
Wickham reached into a drawer and pulled out a small, elegant box, which he placed on the desk between them. With a flick of his wrist, he opened it to reveal a row of cigars, each meticulously rolled. He selected one and held it out to Darcy. “I know we’ve not even broken our fasts yet, but these are quite exceptional. A gift from a friend. I thought you might appreciate one before you go.”
Darcy declined with a curt shake of his head, but his gaze lingered on the cigars. He recognized them instantly—these were the same Havanas that Lord Matlock favoured, rare and costly, difficult to obtain. Wickham’s possession of them was a subtle but significant detail, one that spoke of connections Darcy had not fully accounted for. How had Wickham come by such luxuries? Who was this “friend” he spoke of, and what influence did he wield?
Darcy narrowed his eyes, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he waited for Wickham to reveal the purpose of this conversation. It was new and nerve-wracking to find himself on the defensive in a conversation with anyone.
