Chapter Sixteen
London
Darcy
The bell rang, and Darcy braced himself for George Wickham’s arrival. His father’s godson fancied himself a gentleman—if not by birth, then by association—and Mr Darcy Senior had indulged that delusion far too generously.
From Eton to Cambridge, Wickham’s charm had long masked a corrupt heart. Debts, deceit, and scandal had followed wherever he went, leaving Darcy to conceal the worst of it. His father, blinded by affection, had died believing the man worthy of trust.
Even in death, that misplaced faith endured.
Wickham was favored beyond comprehension and given ample provision for one so undeserving.
The notion of him in holy orders was intolerable.
He would lead others into vice rather than rescue them from it.
Mrs Fiennes’s suggestion had, therefore, revived an amount of hope that Wickham might choose the easier course, and so release him from the unwelcome duty of advancing such a man in the Church.
Mrs Fiennes… Elizabeth. Her name stirred through his thoughts like a benediction.
Never had he known a lady more genuine. There was laughter in her eyes, yet sorrow lay beneath, dimming them at times with some hidden pain.
He often recalled their first meeting in Hyde Park.
He had teased her—something he had done only with his sister, never with any other lady.
What on earth had he been thinking? But he could not regret it. He had gained a true friend.
Richard’s cautions had long ceased to apply.
Fiennes was dead and could harm no one; but his widow—intelligent, lovely, and possessed of uncommon spirit—was here, and…
He halted the thought before it wandered further.
She seldom spoke of her husband, as though the very mention pained her.
Though attraction had begun to stir, he could not pursue it.
She had months of mourning yet before her. To act sooner would be unpardonable.
Still, he longed for her company. He found himself seeking her out each day, their brief encounters in the park becoming the brightest part of his routine.
Her formidable escort ever kept his distance, granting them the illusion of privacy.
Each moment in her presence restored something within him—an awakening of hope where grief for his father had left only emptiness.
The sound of the door broke his reverie. Mr Briggs entered. “Mr Wickham, sir.” The disapproval in his tone was barely masked.
Wickham sauntered in, wearing a self-satisfied smile. His blue coat was new, his Hessians freshly polished. “Darcy! It has been an age.”
“It has, indeed. My father died in January, Wickham. Where have you been?”
“Here and there.” He dropped into a seat uninvited, affecting a careless air. “Your father would not have expected me to abandon all and hurry to his side.”
Darcy doubted his father had given him any thought beyond securing his future. “Well, let us settle matters.”
“Very good. What did the old man leave me? Ravenswood? Willow Grove?” Wickham leaned forwards. “I am eager to take my place as a gentleman at last.”
The audacity! Ravenswood and Willow Grove were amongst the richest Darcy holdings, each worth seven thousand a year. That Wickham could presume such a claim was laughable. “My father left you a thousand pounds…and the preferment of the Kympton living.”
Wickham froze, his jaw slack. “What?” he burst out. “That is all? I spent years currying his favour! He adored me! You mean to keep the rest for yourself!” George looked ready to do murder.
“I assure you I do nothing of the kind.” Darcy opened a folder, drawing out a sheet of paper. “His wishes are clearly stated in the will…here and here.” He indicated the relevant paragraphs with a finger. “I have a bank draft prepared—”
“This is absurd!” Wickham sprang up and began pacing.
“What am I to do with a conditional living? The incumbent may preach another twenty years.” He halted mid-stride; Darcy saw the moment the notion struck him.
“Say, Darcy, suppose I were to sign away my rights? Would you compensate me? I am ill-suited to the Church—I might study the law instead.”
Law, indeed, Darcy thought, though he felt amused that he had not needed to propose the exchange himself. He ought to have known—even Elizabeth had sketched Wickham’s character with little effort.
Affecting indifference, he inclined his head a fraction. “I may consider it. ’Tis true the present clergyman is some years from retirement.”
“Three thousand pounds,” Wickham blurted, before Darcy could speak further. “Three thousand, and I sign away every right.” He resumed his seat and crossed his legs, idly swinging the free one.
Darcy pretended to consider. Three thousand was less than he had expected Wickham to demand, and far below the income the living would return over a lifetime.
Wickham’s impatience for easy gain would be his undoing.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I shall draw up the papers and have them, and the bank draft, ready this afternoon.” He wished the matter concluded before the sun had set.
Then, he might give his thoughts to a certain pair of fine eyes.
“Capital!” Wickham looked pleased. “Shall I return in a few hours?”
Darcy had already prepared the necessary documents, but Wickham need not know it. “Two o’clock. My solicitor will call to serve as witness when the papers are executed.”
Wickham agreed readily and departed. Darcy leaned back in his chair. The seat felt foreign—it was his father’s place, his father’s study. He felt half an intruder, half a boy playing at pretence. How can I ever accomplish what he did? The question had come to him a thousand times.
Looking about the room, Darcy took in the browns and tans his father had favoured.
The elder Mr Darcy had cared little for display, preferring substance over fashion.
His private apartments in each of his homes had borne the same sober stamp.
His mother had been the reverse: her taste was refined yet sumptuous, favouring deep colours and graceful patterns.
His tastes stood somewhere between those of his parents.
Perhaps a change might help the room feel more like his own rather than his father’s.
Drawing a sheet of paper towards him, he jotted a few notes.
A new rug—dark green and gold to replace the brown and tan…
and new drapes, perhaps. These are oppressive.
Cream, tan, and green…Georgiana will know best; she has an eye for such things.
That afternoon, Wickham returned precisely at two o’clock.
Darcy’s solicitor awaited him and observed as Wickham signed each of the three copies relinquishing all claim to the Kympton living in exchange for three thousand pounds.
Darcy affixed his own signature, and the witness followed.
Darcy passed the drafts across the desk.
“Your drafts.”
“Thank you.” Wickham pocketed the papers with evident satisfaction. “I am much obliged to you.” With that, he turned on his heel and departed. Darcy watched him go and prayed the transaction would conclude all business between them, and that he need never again set eyes on him.
A glance at the clock drew his thoughts elsewhere. If he called for his things now, he might yet reach the park in time to meet Elizabeth.
Elizabeth
Still trembling, Elizabeth allowed Kane to guide her home. I cannot stay here, she thought wildly. I must leave. My child—oh, what if he harmed my baby?
She had been in the park scarce ten minutes when Burns had burst into her path. Rounding a bend before Kane had caught up gave him all the opportunity he required.
“What have you done?” he cried, seizing her arm. “I saw things being moved into my warehouse! It is mine, I tell you!” He shook her roughly. “I shall have what is mine—mark my words!” He dragged her several paces before she found breath to scream Kane’s name. Her guard came running, fists clenched.
“Release the lady,” he ordered menacingly, halting before them.
Burns sneered at them. “Not a chance. Mrs Fiennes was just about to tell me what she is doing with my warehouse!”
“It is not yours any longer, Burns.” Kane advanced on him. “The lady had no share in your dealings with the late Mr Fiennes. She was not even his wife at the time.”
“But it is all hers now. She can give it back! Mrs Fiennes is my salvation!” He shook her again, and Elizabeth’s free arm flew protectively to her middle.
“I am willing to discuss this in a rational manner.” Her voice trembled despite her efforts at calm.
“Silence! You are a woman—useless! I shall speak with Wilkens, the weak fool who did Fiennes’s bidding. He will know what to sign so that my property is restored.”
His eyes were wild; reason was beyond him. With sudden resolve, Elizabeth struck her head sharply backwards. The blow met his face, and he released her with a cry. Freed, she ran to Kane, who caught her by the elbow and hurried her away through the park until they reached the house.
“I must go back to find him,” he said once she was safe inside. “He is dangerous.”
Elizabeth nodded and sank into a chair in the vestibule. With shaking fingers, she removed her bonnet and gloves, tears pricking her eyes as she laid them aside. After taking a moment to steady herself, she went to the library, where her father sat as usual, reading a book.
“Papa, I believe it is best that we return to Hertfordshire at once.”
Mr Bennet looked up in surprise. “I thought you were undecided. What has happened to change your mind?”
Kane entered behind her, breathless. “He is gone, mistress. I cannot find him.”
Mr Bennet rose and came to Elizabeth’s side. “Burns again?” He spoke softly, showing an anxious tenderness he seldom revealed.
Blinking back tears, she nodded. “He attacked me. Oh, Papa, I must protect my child. I cannot remain here. I shall send a note to Lady Matlock and Lady Westland, and we can be gone by morning.”
It was soon arranged. With Netherfield now let, Elizabeth intended to stay at Longbourn. After informing Jane, Elizabeth directed her new maid, Sarah, to pack her trunks. “Take everything. I do not know when I shall return.” As Sarah made her way to the dressing room, Elizabeth sat to write.
My dear friend,
You know somewhat of the trials that have befallen me since my husband’s passing. With my confinement so near, and danger still abroad, I have resolved to return to my father’s house. I shall write when I arrive.
I cannot say when we shall be once more in company. Perhaps you might come to visit in the winter. How I treasure you—your friendship has been, and still is, my comfort. Do not forget me.
Elizabeth
A similar note was sent to Lady Matlock.
She then instructed the housekeeper that part of the staff must be released with letters of reference; only those needed to maintain the house properly in her absence were to be retained.
The safes and lock boxes were emptied, their contents to be packed or deposited in the bank for safekeeping.
At dawn the next day, Elizabeth quitted the house that had been her gilded prison. Only when they stopped to rest the horses did she realise she had left no word for Mr Darcy.
Do not be foolish. It is not as though he will miss you. What hold could a widowed woman, heavy with child, have on a gentleman of fortune?
Still, she felt regret; he had been unfailingly kind, and she would miss his quiet conversation and steady regard. As she looked out on the road ahead, she could not shake the sense that something precious had been left behind in town.
He will remain the most amiable gentleman of my acquaintance. Yes—Mr Darcy will be the measure by which every man is judged.
Darcy
Five days. Five days since he had seen Elizabeth. What could have happened? Had the babe come too soon? Restlessly, he paced the study before resolving to call on Lady Westland. She was Elizabeth’s closest friend; surely, she would know where she had gone.
Yet he hesitated. He detested the notion of his affairs becoming the subject of speculation.
If he went to Lady Westland, she would perceive his interest—and even he was uncertain how far that interest extended.
He admired Elizabeth, of that much he was sure.
But did he truly know her? Her husband had been a gentleman, and she must once have loved him dearly; the pain of it showed each time his name arose.
Perhaps she left because I was too forward. At three-and-twenty, Darcy knew little of the art of courtship. He had thought himself discreet, but perhaps he had unwittingly alarmed her. It would be wrong to intrude, he told himself with a sigh. She needs time to mourn.
Determined to give her that time, Darcy refrained from calling on Lady Westland, trusting that Elizabeth would soon return to town.
She never did. And Darcy, in the pride of youth, refused to seek her out.
Sometimes, when solitude pressed heavily, he wondered whether he had imagined her—an ideal formed from memory and longing rather than the woman herself.
As the years passed, the lovely young widow became the measure by which he judged all other women. However long he searched, none compared with his Elizabeth.