Page 82 of Courting Elizabeth

A few weeks of tight, cramped writing. Her habits. Her silences. The names of her tenant farmers and the state of their roofs. The exact hour at which she stopped being polite. Books left open. Tea too strong.

Everything was there.

Except what she had just tried to tell me.

In the neighboring drawer lay the duplicate key to the secretary—the one I had made and never used. I took it, turned it between my fingers, then put it back.

I had observed my wife with the same care I devoted to my lands, then mistaken my notes for the truth only she could give me.

No man was ever loved because he kept accurate accounts.

Chapter 19

ELIZABETH

Lydia was married two days later, after my father gave his consent and the license was issued.

The ceremony was brief, discreet, and devoid of all the boisterous joy she had imagined. Yet she smiled like a woman who had just won a victory over the world. Wickham played the loving husband skillfully enough to deceive the clergyman, but not those who now knew his true worth.

I stood beside Lydia as she spoke her vows.

I thought of my own.

I had married Fitzwilliam without loving him. Wickham was marrying my sister without loving anything but the money his consent had secured. The comparison turned my stomach, but I rejected it forcefully. My marriage had begun in error, yet it had grown each day through the freedom my husband restored to me. Nothing between us resembled the cold bargain struck the day before.

After the ceremony, Lydia took my hands.

“Isn’t it wonderful? We’ll be leaving for the North soon. Wickham says his new regiment is quite distinguished. You’ll come visit us, won’t you?”

I held her close.

“Write to me often.”

“Of course. And tell Mama I’m the first of us to bring a uniform into the family.”

“You’re not the one wearing the uniform.”

“My husband wears it. It’s almost the same thing.”

She walked away before I could find a response.

Fitzwilliam stood apart, near my uncle. He looked unwell. His features were drawn, dark circles under his eyes. Since our argument the day before, we had exchanged only the barest words.

I loved him.

He dreaded believing me before I even spoke.

His caution wounded me because it stemmed from what I had shown him since Hunsford: hesitant feelings, consent given too hastily, and since Lydia’s rescue, immense gratitude. I needed to tell him the truth in a moment that could not be mistaken for payment.

My uncle Gardiner unwittingly provided the rest of the reasons to love him.

That evening, he asked to speak with me privately. My aunt accompanied him.

“Your husband wishes me to keep silent,” he began. “I will not obey him entirely.”

“What happened?”

They explained the debts, the commission, the income established for Lydia, the money Wickham had demanded. My uncle did not mention Georgiana, but I understood that an additional threat must have been used. Fitzwilliam had paid a considerable sum and refused any reimbursement.