“But then my brother arrived, and by that point, I was justangrywith him. Angry that he sent me to school but then took me out of it again. Angry that he sent me away. Something inside of me just… snapped, and I wanted to make him feel just as hurt and angry as I did.”
Elizabeth could scarcely breathe. “Georgiana… he is here.”
Georgiana looked at her in confusion. “My brother has come to call?”
“No,” Elizabeth shook her head frantically. “Mr. Wickham is here in Meryton. I had no idea he was the one you nearly eloped with until just now.”
Georgiana’s eyes grew large. “What do we do? What if he says something?”
“I must insist—promise me you will never be alone,” Elizabeth said fervently. “Never open the door to a caller without someone beside you. Avoid the drawing room if officers visit.”
“Yes, of course,” the younger girl’s voice was quiet and thick with tears. “I think… I think I would like to go to my room now.”
Elizabeth scarcely noticed Georgiana’s departure; her mind was swirling with the new revelations.
“He lied to me,” she whispered. “And I believed him.”
How could I have been so blind?
All this time—his flirtations, his charm, the polished manners and sly, sidelong glances. Elizabeth had listened, had even pitied him, been swayed by the tale he told of an unfeeling friend and a lost legacy. But now? Now she saw it clearly.
Mr. Wickham had not been a wronged man.
He had been a predator.
The rage that stirred within her was slow and burning. Not merely at him, but at herself—for ever having believed him, for letting him speak so freely of Mr. Darcy without pressing for proof, for not seeing what he had been so close to doing to a frightened, isolated girl.
She stood abruptly and crossed to her writing desk, hands trembling, where her dance card sat open. Her fingers traced thename written neatly beside the first set—Mr. Darcy. The sight of it no longer filled her with confusion or pain, only resolve.
He had saved his sister.
Whatever else might stand between them—whatever disagreements of belief or temperament—he had seen through Wickham long before anyone else. And he had protected Georgiana, even when she had not wanted to be protected. Elizabeth saw now that it must have broken his heart to do so. She understood that now.
Her pen hovered over the blank line beneath it.
The supper dance.
But am I ready to accept this? To accept everything?
Her hand ached to write his name for a second dance. Her heart ached more. Her heart longed to reward him for integrity, his devotion to those in his care. To rush to him and sayyes, yes, yes—to love, to trust, to begin something new.
But her hand did not move.
What would he say if he knew about Papa?
Would he look at her with that same horror? Would he call off the courtship in disgust—or worse, marry her, and then one day forbid her from ever seeing Papa again? From letting their children know their grandfather? From ever seeing Mark again unless he, too, renounced their parent?
I could not bear it.
She clenched her eyes shut, the pressure of tears building behind them. It was not just about love. It was about risk. Abouttrust. About handing her whole life over to someone who might not be able to accept its full weight.
She drew in a long breath and looked down at the card once more.
That single blank line seemed to burn with meaning.
“I am not ready,” she whispered, setting the pen aside. “Not yet.”
She folded the card, her heart aching with uncertainty, and tucked it away in her reticule.
