“Might I escort you to dinner?” he asked, finding Elizabeth seated at her mirror, radiant in her new gown. He lingered in the doorway, unwilling to intrude, lest his presence unsettle her further.
“Yes.”
Despite his earlier resolve, Darcy could not help but feel a pang of disappointment. He longed for her to greet him with affability instead of politeness. To no avail, Darcy failed to draw her into conversation about Pemberley—its lands, its people, and the duties of its mistress—hoping to show her respect and inclusion. Yet every effort met with the same clipped replies.
Did Elizabeth suppose he meant to lecture her, as though he sought to instruct her in responsibilities? Having grown up on an estate, even though vastly smaller, surely, she knew whatwas expected of the mistress? Perhaps she found his words condescending rather than an attempt at including her. He could not understand why nothing he did seemed to encourage her to join him in conversation.
When the meal concluded, he escorted her to the library, determined not to surrender his efforts so soon. “I spend my evenings here. I thought you might join me, since I recall how much you delight in reading. Perhaps, we might even read together.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened as her eyes widened in awe. “This is a truly wonderful room. I could spend many happy hours here. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“Of course, my love.” The endearment slipped out unguarded as he took in her expression. At leastthispleased her. “You may recall that only days ago, I vowed to give you all my worldly goods. Anything you desire, Elizabeth, it is yours.”
To his astonishment, her composure gave way. Turning from him, she burst into tears.
Darcy froze, utterly at a loss. He half reached for her, then stopped himself, fearing such intimacy would only drive her further away. Instead, he hovered helplessly beside her, pressing his handkerchief into her trembling hands.
When her sobs quieted, he asked gently, “What is it, Elizabeth?”
The question broke what little composure she had regained. Her tears flowed fast, and Darcy stood helpless beside her, each sob seeming to drive her further from him.
“Dear God. This is not what I wished for when I proposed,” he murmured, the words scarcely meant for her ears. “To be married to you—I thought it would bring me happiness, not such loneliness.”
Elizabeth gave no sign of hearing him.
Darcy could not endure it. The sight of her misery tormented him beyond bearing. He had gained what he once believed would make him happiest, yet not in the way he had hoped. Instead of love, there was only bitterness. Instead of companionship, silence. What was he to do when the very thing he had most desired seemed to have brought them nothing but wretchedness? Was it not enough thathelovedher? He had never considered until this moment how much he wished to have her love him in return or why, failing that, their marriage would not as happy as he had hoped.
Unable to endure the sound of her weeping, he drew her suddenly into his arms, praying that doing so would give her some small comfort. At least she would not bear her pain alone. However, when she finally composed herself, upon realising he held her in an embrace, she pulled out of his arms and ran from the library.
The door slammed shut, startling Darcy. He shook his head, as though to clear it from such disappointments. What he would give to have her love in return.
After pacing for several minutes, he picked up a book entitledFrom Hunsford to the High Seasby Natasja Rose. He opened it and snorted at the irony:It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in desperate circumstances will attempt to remove himself to a place where those circumstances are unknown.
He felt rather desperate himself.
Chapter 8: From Hunsford to the High Seas
by Natasja Rose
Meryton, Hertfordshire
April, 1812
The militia, specifically the Derbyshire regiment, suited George Wickham very well, because many merchants extended credit, and they never stayed in one place long. As long as he could put off any merchants asking for payment for a few months or charm a convenient young lady into lending him the coin for a partial payment, Wickham marched away from his debts and left the merchants to bear the cost.
Besides, while Wickham could not abandon the regiment without being shot as a deserter, Brighton, their permanent encampment after this brief stop in Meryton, where supplies were cheaper, would be swarming with wealthy widows and young ladies seeking a handsome husband.
Once Wickham was married to a woman of some fortune, no one would question him resigning his commission to manage her property or use her money to buy an estate somewhere far away. No man could be married to two women at once, and once the girl was paid, she’d be happier with the pretence of widowhood than she would have been married to him and following the Drum.
But not all debts were monetary.
The militia had been in Southport before they decamped to Meryton for the winter. Wickham had quite liked Southport, close enough to the fashionable city of Bath to enjoy some of the luxuries offered there, and far enough away to be a popular place for smugglers. Wickham had managed to endear himself byproviding patrol schedules, which made it easier for smuggling gangs to avoid them.
Southport had also had an abundance of pretty young ladies, and while none were gentlemen’s daughters, Wickham never lacked for female company.
He’d been wise not to promise his temporary lovers anything—certainly not in writing—and he rarely expected his charming bedfellows to have family to follow after him. However, one band of brothers, when their sister presented with child, tracked him from Southport to Meryton and ambushed him in the woods on his way to meet the youngest Miss Bennet. “So, Wickham, this is where you’ve been hiding.”
Wickham looked for an escape, as several more young men slipped from behind the trees, putting paid to that idea. “The militia moves where we are ordered. I have no say in that.”
