“I am sorry,” Miss Darcy murmured.
“You do not need to be.” Elizabeth hesitated, for none of this was any of her concern, not truly. Except, Miss Darcy seemed very alone, her relations scattered, and Elizabeth had the locket. “I know I am not meant to know anything about your struggles, and truly I do not, but I do know that your heart was broken and by whom.”
Miss Darcy whirled to stare at her through red-rimmed eyes. “Y-you know about me and Mr. Wickham?”
“I found him, injured, and told your cousin, who reacted—” How to describe the incandescent hatred Fitzwilliam had revealed? “He reacted with unexpected dismay, which he explained by informing me that Mr. Wickham had broken your heart.”
“Broken my heart?” Miss Darcy’s voice held a surprising amount of bitterness. “Yes, that is what my brother and Richard like to tell people. That a man broke my heart.”
Elizabeth studied her, confused. “Did he not? I must admit that you seem quite heartbroken.”
Gripping it in both hands, Miss Darcy twisted Elizabeth’s handkerchief tightly, straining the delicate fabric. “Mr. Wickham did break my heart, but first he…he married me.”
Elizabeth gaped at her. “Married you?”
“We eloped to Scotland and married, and my brother and cousin seem to think that if no one ever finds out, it will be as if it never happened, but it did. I l-loved George and I m-married him.” Miss Darcy broke into fresh sobs.
Elizabeth gathered her close again, though shock rocked through her. Broke her heart indeed. Such a lie, and yet not one at all. And Scotland? Did that have something to do with Fitzwilliam going north so precipitously?
“Not that it was a real marriage,” Miss Darcy…or should Elizabeth think of her as Mrs. Wickham…sobbed. “He would not…we did not…he said I was too hideous to love and he never once made love to me.”
Confusion spiraled through Elizabeth. Fitzwilliam’s anger. Mr. Wickham protesting that he had not done that. Miss Darcy’s sobs. Elizabeth’s thoughts tumbled, realigning. “Does your brother know that?”
Miss Darcy pulled back, aghast even through her sobs. “Tell him that George and I never—” She choked on that. “That I am so hideous that even my dowry could not inspire him to…not even one time?” She looked at Elizabeth with wide blue eyes that clearly saw her as mad.
“You are not hideous.”
Miss Darcy let out a sigh, returning to twisting Elizabeth’s handkerchief. “Everyone feels they must say that, but I know the truth. Thirty thousand pounds. That is how much I am worth to a husband, and it was not enough to get even so much as a real kiss from George.” Shaking her head, she trained hergaze out into the garden, tears trickling down her cheeks. “I am revolting.”
“No.” Elizabeth took the necklace from her pocket. “Do you remember that I said I found Mr. Wickham? He gave me this.”
Miss Darcy turned dull eyes on Elizabeth, eyes that went wide at the sight of the little heart in her palm. “My necklace.”
Elizabeth pried one of Miss Darcy’s icy hands from their twisting grip, then dropped the locket onto her palm. “He gave me this and told me that he could not sell it. That he loved you too much to do so.” The full import of Mr. Wickham’s confession came to her. “He told me that his love for you is that of an older brother.”
“A brother?” Miss Darcy’s brow puckered.
Closing Miss Darcy’s fingers over the locket, Elizabeth said, “He loved you deeply, and you are not hideous. You are a lovely young woman and…” Was she overstepping? Deciding she did not care, Elizabeth drew in a breath and declared, “If no one knew about your union, and it went unconsummated, I daresay it can be as if it did not happen, if that is what you want. Whatyouwant, mind, not your brother, and not Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Miss Darcy stared at her. Her lips began to tremble. She clutched the locket to her chest. “At least I h-have this of him.”
“Then he has left you again?”
“Left me? George is dead. He died yesterday.” Anger hastened her words, giving them a hard edge. “I only found out because I knew my brother and Richard were up to something, and I followed Richard. He went into a cottage far back from the roadway, and I followed him in, and my brother was there, and George was d-d-d—” Sobs overtook her words, engulfing them.
Elizabeth stared at her, aghast. The man she’d found was…dead? “He died in a cottage?”
“Yes. They had servants tending him, and my brother did as well, and an apothecary, but he still died, and I know he would not have if I had been there with him. I know—”
“Miss Darcy? Miss, where are you?” a voice called from nearer the house.
“Mrs. Annesley.” Miss Darcy’s voice cracked through her tears. “My companion. She is meant to take me to London.”
“Do you want to go?” Elizabeth asked, trying to reconcile Mr. Wickham’s death with her hope for his recovery. She had truly thought she’d saved him, but he’d died of his wounds. If she had told her father when she first found him, as she ought to have, would— She cut off that thought.
“I do not know if I want to go.” Miss Darcy squeezed her eyes closed. “London. Here. Pemberley. Does it matter? George is dead, and I am a widow, and my life is ruined.”
“It need not be.” Elizabeth squeezed an icy hand. “Think on what I have said, please, and come to your decision with care. Right now, nothing has happened about which the world need know. Nothing, if kept quiet, to ruin you.”
