“One day,” he said, “you may have a daughter. A granddaughter. And if she ever makes a mistake—God forbid—I hope someone would help her too.”
His father’s words rang in George’s ears for an entire week, which is when he next saw her as he rode along the path between Pemberley and Lambton. Cresting a bend, he saw two figures walking ahead of him: a young woman, and a tall, gangly lad. They turned upon hearing his hoofbeats, and his stomach lurched.
Sarah Wickham.
George urged his horse forward until he reached the spot where they waited. He dismounted and removed his hat, offering a bow. “Miss Wickham.”
She looked at him coolly. “I am sorry, sir, but I do not believe that we have been introduced.”
His face heated, and he gulped nervously. “And that is entirely all my fault, Miss Wickham. Please, allow me to rectify the error. I am George Darcy.”
“We know who you are,” the lad said, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. “What do you want?”
George looked askance at Sarah, who said, “My brother, John, asks a valid question.” Her posture was poised, her chin high. Her eyes, green as the moss lining the trees behind her, did not blink.
“I wish to apologize,” George said.
Her expression didn’t change. “For what offense, Mr. Darcy?”
He flinched. “At the assembly. I said something unkind. Foolish. Unworthy of a gentleman, and certainly of my father’s name.”
Now her brows lifted—just slightly.
“I was nervous,” he went on, “and vain. I said a thing without thought, and I regret it. I’ve regretted it every day since. I did not look. I did not see. And I judged you without knowledge or cause.”
Silence fell, broken only by a breeze through the dying leaves. John shifted beside her, looking uncertainly between them.
“I see,” Sarah said at last. “So, I was not handsome enough to tempt you—because you never bothered to look.”
The heat that rushed to George’s face could have boiled tea.
“No,” he said. “I mean—yes. That is, I said the words. But I was a fool.”
She studied him for a long moment, then turned to her brother. “Go on to the smithy, John. I’ll catch you up.”
John hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“I am.”
With a reluctant glance at George, the boy trudged off down the path.
When they were alone, Sarah folded her hands neatly over the handle of her basket. “That sort of insult,” she said evenly, “might have ruined another girl. One with less sense. Or one whose pride was more brittle.”
“I know,” George said, subdued. “I am sorry.”
Her eyes held his. “I appreciate your apology, Mr. Darcy. And your courage in offering it.”
His mouth quirked ruefully. “My conscience and my father would not allow otherwise.”
“Still, it is rare. Most men of your position would not have troubled themselves.”
“But then I would have trouble from God, and that would be worse.”
That, at least, drew a ghost of a smile from her.
“You are not what I expected,” she admitted.
“I hope,” he said, “I can become better than I was.”
