“Elizabeth Bennet!” he hissed between his teeth. “If that is the name to which you will answer, by whatever means I must, I will make myself heard!”
She froze at the name of her youth, the name she had lost the day she met him. A lump in her throat… no, it was the threat of tears. She clenched her eyes before they could flood and held up a staying hand. “I can bear no more, sir,” she said with a cracking voice. “Pray—let me to the house. I will pack my things at once.”
“And go where? Impossible! As you have said before, our… connection, such as it is, it not so readily severed.”
“And yet, sever it I must! Send me whatever papers necessary. I will deed Corbett Lodge to the first person to appear worthy, and I will take my mother and sisters back to Meryton. I—I am very sorry for Miss Darcy.” These last words were spoken in a hoarse whisper as the tears fell to scald her cheeks. She looked away, miserably wiping her eyes with her fingertips.
“No, Mrs Wickham,” he answered gently. “I will go. Of the two of us, yours is the only presence that is indispensable here just now.”
Elizabeth looked up, but he was already walking away from her. “Do not be ridiculous, Mr Darcy!” she protested. “You cannot simply leave Pemberley and your sister!”
He turned back for a moment. He said nothing, but the emptiness in his eyes… heaven have mercy, it rent something within her own heart. A few measured blinks, an indrawn breath, and then his face closed again. With a shake of his head, he took his leave.
Elizabeth sagged back against the prickling hedge, not even mindful of how the thorns tore at her gown and tender skin. Exhaustion and sheer physical agony, as pure and raw as any she had ever known, threatened to render her insensible. Somehow, she fumbled her way back to the house with a murmured excuse to the footman that she was indisposed and could not join Miss Darcy for tea. To drown herself in the great copper bathtub, to hide away under her blankets, to never see or speak to another person until this mysterious ache had vanished, these were her only hopes for comfort.
There was no solace to be had.
Ten
Elizabethawokethenextmorning far later than was her wont and rubbed sleep-deprived eyes against the sunlight filtering through the drapes. She had made up her mind—she would tell Miss Darcy that she could not remain. And then she would have to address her mother and sisters and tell them they must return to Aunt and Uncle Philips while she sought new work. The only trouble was that she had not the strength even to rise from the bed.
A curious rustling caused her to lift her head, and she discovered one of Pemberley’s maids setting up a tea cart. “What is this?”
The maid started, then bobbed a quick curtsy. “The master said before he left that you were feeling poorly, ma’am. Miss Darcy asked me to bring this up.”
Elizabeth blinked, trying to focus her dry eyes. “The master left?”
“Yes, ma’am. Gone to London, he said. He left instructions for you. Will you take your tea now, or shall I call for Nancy to dress you?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Tea now would be lovely. You may go, Sarah.”
“Ma’am,” the girl answered with another dip of her head.
Elizabeth’s limbs now tingled with urgency, and she moved quickly to the tea cart. Sarah had prepared the first cup for her, and thoughtlessly she caught it up. Her real object was the folded note beside it, and she hurried with both to the window seat. In the author’s typical fashion, the note contained no salutation and immediately embarked upon his purpose.
Be not alarmed, madam, that this note will contain any renewal of the intimacies I presumed upon yesterday. Two offences of the most grievous nature have been laid at my feet, and I must be allowed to answer them by whatever means I may.
The first, that I wilfully intervened in another man’s inheritance to suit my own pleasures, is a crime to which, if true, you ought rightly to have responded as you did. It is a travesty, and no man could be absolved of presuming so.
The second, that of misleading and taking advantage of an honourable lady and attempting to force her into a match against her choosing to suit my own ends, is equally heinous, and yet I cannot so easily find myself innocent. I will address this matter first.
Within the first moments of our meeting, I was struck by your intelligence, your dignity, and the apparent strength with which you had endured your prior circumstances. Your bearing and manner, and also your obvious education, were clearly the product of a genteel upbringing, but to these you added yet another virtue. You knew the meaning of hardship, of deprivation, and above all, gentleness. You may understand why I found these qualities essential to the situation after I have said all.
If I have pressured you to accept circumstances that you now regret, I can only beg your forgiveness. As you found at first, the opportunity to shelter a family, restore lands in need of stewardship, and to provide an exemplary woman to guide and befriend my younger sister were all answered in the same moment. If my motives were impure, I can at least say they were not without fruit.
My desire to aid Bernard Wickham in his quest for a wife was two-fold. The first need you met with your able management of the property, for if you had not been aware before, the tenant lands as well as the house had been allowed to deteriorate. Though you could not provide the means of repair, what you did offer was something more vital. You cared for the tenants out of your bounty. I heard regular reports of you or someone acting upon your direction taking baskets to the sick or helping to order the accounts that had been in disarray. This was my hope and, dare I say it, I am proud to have had a hand in bringing it about.
The second reason, and the only which mattered to Bernard, was as you have guessed. It was insupportable that the estate should pass to George Wickham upon the demise of his elder brother.
Bernard and George Wickham were not blood brothers, as you have been told. It is true that Bernard was taken in by his parents and given a name that was not his by birth, and thus I called him by his Christian name. The preference was his own in life, for he knew well that Franklin Wickham was not his natural father and declined to take the name where he could. He believed himself to be sired by my own father, and while he had his health, never ceased to protest that had he not been born on the wrong side of the blanket, Pemberley would have gone to him. This much is not true, but what is true is that Corbett was designed for him on behalf of his natural parent.
Such had been settled in writing at Bernard’s birth. As Franklin Wickham had been married five years with no issue before he adopted the child, there was no expectation that any other would inherit it. Bernard was to marry and produce his own heir, but failing that, a codicil in the will besought him, at his discretion, to deed the lands to one precisely such as yourself. The reasons for this peculiar request from the original grantor of the estate were personal, and I shall not expand upon them here. I will only state that the intent of all parties was in every way noble.
Three years after Bernard’s birth, Mrs Isabella Wickham quitted the region. None heard from her for considerably more than a year. When she returned, she brought with her a newborn son, ostentatiously christened George in an attempt to win the approval of my father. Mrs Wickham soon left again, and such became her habit, to return after a long absence only to depart once more. This lady you have met, under the guise of Mrs Godfrey. I hope you will be circumspect in your future associations with her.
You may now be asking yourself why I or anyone else would object to the younger son inheriting what the elder left. It is true, Bernard had no heir, and the property would have passed to the crown had no legal transfer occurred and had George Wickham not been in line. As I wrote above, there was an intent in the original bequest that would have been passed over, but even this would have been trifling, had Bernard been satisfied to leave matters as they were. He was not, for reasons of long-standing discord with the prospective heir. Such was his right, and it was my pleasure to concur, for I did not desire the younger brother to be settled so near those under my protection.
I shall now detail something for you which I trust will never reach other ears. The haste I displayed in securing your agreement was only in part due to Bernard's imminent demise. My other cause, even more urgent, was to bring comfort to Georgiana at a vulnerable time. I had taken her from school last summer and sent her to Brighton with another companion by the name of Mrs Younge. While there, Georgiana's letters, which had always overflowed with descriptions of all her doings, became sparse and infrequent. Troubled by this, I took the liberty of calling on her.
