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My dear Lizzy,
All are well at Longbourn, although the house is much quieter with you away. Lydia and Kitty are making some good friends among the militia. Unfortunately, Mr. Wickham is away on a fortnight’s leave. Your sisters are such favorites with the officers. They understand that your father will not live forever and that they must secure suitable husbands when they can.
Charlotte Lucas—now Charlotte Collins—was married in a small ceremony on Sunday. Her father spared no expense on wedding clothes or flowers, and it was enough to make her look almost less plain. They are gone into Kent, where Mr. Collins apparently has a very nice parsonage. And, of course, Mrs. Collins may look forward to the day when she is mistress of Longbourn. It pains me to think—let alone write—such a thing, particularly when one of my own daughters might have claimed that position. Lady Lucas will not stop crowing her triumph over having one daughter married whereas I have none.
I hope you are employing your time in London to great advantage and meeting suitable young men. Otherwise you might as well have stayed at home and we should have sent Lydia.
Yours, etc.
Mama
Elizabeth crumpled the paper into a ball, ignoring her aunt’s surprised stare. Her mother never lost an opportunity to chastise her second-oldest daughter for refusing Mr. Collins. Although Elizabeth knew it had been the right decision, regret and guilt weighed upon her.
Such constant remonstrances had been one of the reasons Elizabeth had sought refuge in London, but distance did not completely alleviate the guilt gnawing in her stomach. Her mother was not wrong that Elizabeth’s marriage to Mr. Collins would have provided her family with the security that they now lacked.
If Papa should pass away while all five of us were unmarried, it would be a terrible tangle. I cannot not imagine how we would all manage. Unbidden, all sorts of visions arose in Elizabeth’s mind: becoming a governess, marrying a shopkeeper, living as a dependent relative—even the poor house. At the time of Mr. Collins’s proposal, Elizabeth had believed that Mr. Bingley was sincerely attached to Jane and would make her an offer—and he certainly could care for the Bennet women should the worst occur. Now that eventuality seemed highly unlikely.
Unequal to the task of discussing the letter with her aunt, Elizabeth picked up her needlework once more but could not see clearly enough to resume the task. The brightly colored threads blurred and swam in her vision. Her mother should not blame her for the family’s situation, but that did not prevent Elizabeth’s niggling doubts.
If her father perished, Mr. Collins would inherit. Even with Charlotte as a moderating influence, very little could stop him from descending upon the Bennet family like a vulture onto a carcass. Elizabeth shuddered. She could not recall Mr. Collins’s sweaty hands and greasy hair without disgust, yet surely she could endure far worse to ensure her family’s safety. Now they had nothing.
Well, perhaps not nothing. Mr. Wickham’s interest might be sincere. Of course, his pay was a pittance, but at least he would take responsibility and help support her family. As his wife, at the very least Elizabeth would not be a burden to her mother—or any other family members who might feel obligated to care for them. With a husband to provide for her, Elizabeth would be independent and in a position to help the others.
Her eyes lit on the bare branches of the large oak tree outside the window and the rose bushes beyond. Occasionally she felt uneasy about Mr. Wickham’s character, but his treatment at Mr. Darcy’s hands was reason enough for bitterness. The militia officer had open, pleasing manners and was amiable and easy to converse with. Elizabeth did not love him, but she was reasonably certain she could be content as his wife. Then she could be a help rather than a hindrance to her family.
She pressed her lips together in a thin line. Yes, it was decided. If Mr. Wickham made her an offer, she would accept.
***
Darcy crumpled the note in his fist. He had engaged a man to follow Wickham about London, and the man’s notes reported that in the five days since the Marlowes’ ball, Wickham had been twice received at the Gardiners’ house. Damnation! His words to Elizabeth had not been taken seriously. Darcy had intended to visit her immediately after the ball, but an emergency with flooding at Pemberley had required him to ride to Derbyshire. He had only returned a few hours earlier.
There was a knock at the door before Ward, the footman, entered, his manner as stiff as the servant’s livery he wore. “Mr. Wickham is here to see you.”
Words guaranteed to ruin Darcy’s day. The sheer gall of that man astounded him.
“He called several times while you were away, sir. Should I tell him you are still not at home?” Ward asked.
It was tempting, but a conversation with Wickham might yield some clues about what the man planned. “No. I will see him, but he will not be staying long.” Darcy stood. “Where is Miss Darcy?” Georgiana should not encounter Wickham at Darcy House.
“She is visiting friends with Mrs. Annesley.”
Thank God. “Station someone outside the front door to intercept them should they arrive while he is here.” Ward nodded. “Where did you put Wickham?”
“I considered the stables, sir, but ended up with the blue drawing room.”
Darcy smiled at his footman’s joke. “I knew there was a reason I kept you on.”
“Yes, sir.” Ward’s face was impassive, but his lips twitched with humor.
Darcy reached for the coat he had discarded on a chair and shrugged it on. Managing Wickham required Darcy to be every inch the master of Pemberley.
Ward followed Darcy as he thumped down the grand front stairs into the marble-clad front hall. Darcy stalked grimly toward the blue drawing room door, squaring his shoulders and throwing open the door.
Wickham lounged insouciantly on a fainting sofa, looking for all the world like the picture of gentlemanly idleness. “Ah…Darcy,” he drawled, “so good of you to see me.”
He does not even stand to greet the master of the house, his host! Darcy gritted his teeth. He could not allow Wickham’s petty insults to irk him. “What do you want, Wickham?”
Wickham gestured grandly to the opposite settee—Darcy’s settee. “Have a seat and we can talk over old times.”
