As a beautiful woman… one who needed him just enough to draw him in, but was independent enough to push him away.
Dear heaven, it was too late for him, and he was only just confessing it to himself.
He noted the time on his mantel clock and rose from his desk to go to the window. Precisely four of a Sunday afternoon… and like every Sunday afternoon previous, there was Mrs Wickham, walking up from the garden. As was typical, she had eschewed the offer of a carriage and traversed the three miles from Corbett Lodge on foot. He knew her bonnet-shaded cheeks would be rosy, and her eyes would be bright from the exercise, and she clutched the dour black cape around her shoulders as if she was still not used to it.
She met him as he came out of his study, her head coming up in surprise. Did she know how he waited for her each Sunday afternoon? Or was she truly as oblivious to his notice as she seemed to be?
“Mr Darcy.” She curtsied and began to move away.
“I hope your family were well.”
She turned and dipped her head slowly. “They were. I trust Miss Darcy is changing for dinner?”
“I presume. I understand you had a visitor today at Corbett.”
She began to pluck the gloves from her fingers without looking at him. “I have many visitors. The estate has eight tenants, you know.”
“George Wickham?”
She nodded silently and folded her gloves together. “Your closest friend, I take it. I found him quite engaging.”
“Engaging or not, I would have you know that he is not a guest whose company I permit here. I would encourage you to take a similar stance at Corbett.”
“Interesting, as I just saw him riding away when I came up.”
“A matter of business, but it is at an end. He is not welcome again.”
She tilted her head and studied him with those liquid eyes, her lips softly parted. “I do wonder, Mr Darcy, what could have been so objectionable about the man that you forbid his presence? You believe him so odious that you brought me in to prevent his inheriting, but I found his manners perfectly engaging. I start to think I ought to feel badly for receiving what ought to have gone to another.”
He frowned and made a formal bow. “I have no doubts that my sister is anxious for your safe return. I shall see you at dinner, Mrs Wickham.” He turned on his heel and closed the door to his study, ignoring the bemused look in those dark eyes when he walked away from her.
May 1813
ItwasrarethatGeorgiana wished to go into Lambton. There was little need for her to wander the shops—everything she desired was purchased in London or crafted especially for her by the very finest hands. But, occasionally, Elizabeth would prevail upon Miss Darcy to accompany her into the nearest town merely for the sake of some diversion.
Georgiana Darcy was a friendly soul, but her wealth and status only worsened her innate shyness. The townspeople’s eagerness to please Mr Darcy’s sister made her less confident, rather than more so. However, and in great part due to Elizabeth’s own growing familiarity with the town, Georgiana had stumbled upon one or two establishments in which she felt welcome without feeling conspicuous.
One such place was the bookshop where the proprietor would stand aside for an hour to suggest new delights to suit the ladies’ fancies. On these occasions, Georgiana would happily purchase anything he advised for herself, and never failed to secure another book for Elizabeth, despite the protestations of the latter.
Another, oddly, was the local coaching inn. The ebb and flow of travellers through the common rooms meant that there were many who did not know Miss Darcy for the princess of the county, and that slight hint of anonymity pleased her. She and Elizabeth occasionally spent the afternoon observing the passing humanity from the relative seclusion of one of the private alcoves. The innkeeper, a respectable man named Samuel Jameson, kept them well supplied with tea and scones and ensured that no one troubled them. The young ladies amused themselves by imagining where a certain businessman was bound, or how long a particular couple had been wed, or the tragic story behind a notable countenance.
One Wednesday afternoon, a woman entered in a state of agitation and called for the proprietor. This caught Elizabeth’s notice, for the woman appeared to be attired as a lady of leisure, but she was not accompanied by any husband or servant. Thinking she had discovered a person of interest, Elizabeth nudged Georgiana and they quietly witnessed the unfolding conversation.
“Samuel,” the woman cried, “the man you sent gave a most alarming report! Do you truly refuse to help me?”
The innkeeper wiped his hands and made a silencing gesture. “Come by later. My wife can speak with you.”
“I do not want that silly wife of yours. She hasn’t two wits to rub together. What is the meaning of this?”
He leaned close to the woman and spoke in tones low enough that Elizabeth and Georgiana, across the room, could not hear. His embarrassment and desire to send her away were perfectly clear, but the more he tried to divert her, the more rooted she seemed to be to her spot.
“I think she must be his lover,” whispered Georgiana.
“Goodness, what sort of novels are you reading?” Elizabeth whispered back. “That sounds more like Kitty’s sort of entertainment.”
“But see how familiar they are? They must be…” Georgiana reddened. “You know.”
“Or they could simply be neighbours or relatives.”
