“Samuel,” the woman lamented at last, “you are of positively no use! I can see that I will have to solve this trouble on my own.”
“Do as you will, Isabella,” he grumbled as he turned away. “You never would listen.”
“See?” Georgiana hissed.
Elizabeth silenced Georgiana, for at that moment the woman had turned round and her eyes fell on them. She looked curious, then thoughtful, and then she boldly approached.
“I beg your pardon,” she inquired sweetly, “but would you be Miss Georgiana Darcy and Mrs Elizabeth Wickham?”
They glanced at each other—Georgiana in fear, Elizabeth in confusion. “Those are our names,” Georgiana answered hesitantly.
“Oh—” the newcomer rolled her eyes and offered a gentle smile. “Forgive my impertinence in addressing you, but it has been some while that I have greatly desired to meet you.”
Georgiana blinked. “Me?”
“No—I beg your pardon again. Her.” The woman nodded toward Elizabeth. “My name is Isabella Godfrey—Samuel Jameson here is my brother. I have heard much of the new mistress of Corbett Lodge.”
“Godfrey…” Elizabeth repeated slowly. “Why, yes, I have heard your name. It is a pleasure to meet you, madam.”
“We have a mutual friend,” Mrs Godfrey continued. “I understand you have made the acquaintance of your brother-in-law, Mr George Wickham?” At Elizabeth’s concession, she went on. “I knew Mr Wickham when he was but a lad. My husband—God rest his soul—used to have a fine apple orchard, and the dear boy was forever jumping the fence and pilfering the very best apples until one day we caught him and made him to come in like an honest lad and sit at table.” A warmth had kindled in Mrs Godfrey’s face as she relived what seemed to be a pleasant memory.
Georgiana had turned very red at all this account, and Elizabeth wondered briefly at it, but was more intrigued by the new acquaintance before her. “That is a very kind response to youthful indiscretions,” she replied.
“Oh! One could not help but be kind to George. The poor lad had a hard time of it with his elder brother always taking advantage of him. You know how boys often are!”
Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. “I am sorry to say that I know very little of the family history.”
“My dear lady,” Mrs Godfrey laughed, “pray, do not interpret my words as any slight against you on account of your departed husband. We all do as we must, and I say thank heaven that Corbett Lodge is become a respectable place again. It is a pity that poor George shall not have what he expected, but if not he, then what a mercy that it fell to a fine woman like yourself.”
Georgiana was looking at the floor now, and Elizabeth could even see that her shoulders had begun to hunch. She looked questioningly at her friend, but then returned her attention to Mrs Godfrey. “Forgive me for asking, but do you… are Mr Wickham’s prospects much harmed?”
Mrs Godfrey’s expression sobered. “Forever ruined, I should say. I regret to tell you that the poor man seems to have made an enemy of a rather powerful gentleman, though he confessed to me he is quite at a loss as to how. And, despite all hope to the contrary, that person was pleased to see him destitute. Oh, but do not look so downcast yourself, Mrs Wickham!” she interjected at Elizabeth’s turn of countenance. “You could have known none of this, and I have heard enough fine and noble things of your character to think very well of how matters came about for you. I am certain you are just as deserving, and perhaps more so. Such a pleasure it gave me when I heard how wonderfully you care for your widowed mother and sisters! ‘There, Isabella,’ I said to myself, ‘there is a lady you ought to meet,’ and I am very glad I have done so.”
“I am honoured,” Elizabeth answered, but in a numb, automatic sort of speech.
“All the honour is mine, I assure you. But there! I had a rather troublesome matter to address, so I must away. I understand it would be difficult to call on you at Corbett, but if you are ever near East Orchards, I should be delighted to receive you. Good day, Mrs Wickham, Miss Darcy.”
“Good day,” Elizabeth repeated.
Georgiana remained silent.
Seven
“Andthisisthelast of the accounts?” Darcy asked Daniels, his steward. His desk was littered from a long afternoon of the most wearisome sort of business—that of patching up the sorry affairs of another.
“Yes, Mr Darcy. We have made a thorough search, and no other can make any claims—of paternity or debt or otherwise—of Mr Bernard Wickham.”
Darcy sighed. “So end it. A good thing, too, for I doubt my coffers could have endured another decade of his debauchery.”
“With all due respect, Mr Darcy, there was never any requirement for you to see it all attended to.”
“There was—a promise of sorts. Moreover…” He allowed the thought to drift as he penned the final signature. Daniels sat patiently while he sanded the page, folded the directive, and stamped it with his signet ring. Darcy paused as he handed the sealed missive back to his steward. “I dislike seeing innocents harmed by a rogue.”
“And that is why it is a privilege to work for you, sir,” Daniels answered in a curiously husky tone.
Darcy dismissed the compliment with a brusque wave of his hand. “Have we any other business this afternoon?”
“Only if you wish to look over some of your investments, sir. There are also the latest foals born, a report on the lambs—”
