Chapter 30
WHOLLY UNCONNECTED
During the next several months, Darcy spent his every waking hour attending his responsibilities as the new master of Pemberley.
Any grief he suffered was largely in privacy, away from the empathetic eyes of some and the compassionate concern of others.
He did not make time for anything that did not involve his new duties, save a weekly trip to Matlock to visit his sister, who remained with his aunt and uncle.
His late father had made Darcy and his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam young Georgiana’s co-guardians.
Between the two of them, it was decided that being with the earl and the countess was best for the time being, as Darcy weighed the prospect of forming an establishment for her in London.
He worked hard every day to the point of exhaustion with the hope of succumbing each night to dreamless sleep.
Sleep so deep that he would not dream of her.
It angered him still that she thought so little of him—that she would leave Pemberley without a proper goodbye when he had nearly given her everything the female heart desired.
Having welcomed his friend Bingley and his wife to his home with open arms, Darcy looked for some hint in the latter that might lend insight into her sister’s heart. Still, he never asked about Elizabeth, and her sister, perhaps following his lead, perhaps not, likewise provided no clues.
Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his hands about his face. Why is it that the more I try not to think of Elizabeth, the more I find myself thinking of her? Longing for her? Dreaming of her?
The one dream that would not fade crept into his mind. The touches, the looks, the sounds of making her his woman for the remainder of all time: each kiss more stirring and more passionate than the last, every whisper of what was yet to come more promising than that.
Opening his eyes, Darcy sighed. I must and I will conquer this. But until such time, I would rather spend my nights dreaming of her than spend my waking hours pretending she did not bewitch me, body and soul.
Moments later, his valet entered the room, effectively recalling Darcy to the estate ledgers begging his attention.
“What is this?” Darcy asked, accepting a proffered letter.
“It mysteriously found its way into my possession, Sir. I thought you might find it intriguing.”
Intriguing indeed, Darcy silently considered as he perused the missive. The handwriting was much the same as Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s.
How did a letter from Miss Bennet find its way into my valet’s possession?
Upon further scrutiny, he espied the last words on the page: Caroline Bingley.
Aiming to mask his growing intrigue, Darcy said, “Thank you, Waters. I shall hold on to this letter for now.”
Once the valet quit the room, Darcy went over to his desk, opened the drawer, and retrieved the letter he had received from Elizabeth.
He placed the two letters side by side. At length, he muttered, “The handwriting similarities are too close to be merely a coincidence.”
Moments later, the sound of someone entering his study drew Darcy’s eyes away from the letters.
The fact that his guest had not waited to be announced before entering was sufficient to inform him who it was.
“What are you doing here, Wickham? I rather supposed you were in London,” said Darcy.
“Whittling away the fortune my excellent father bestowed upon you,” he added derisively.
Indeed, in addition to a legacy of one thousand pounds, Darcy’s father particularly recommended to his son to promote Wickham’s advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow, and if Wickham took orders, Darcy’s father desired that a valuable family living in Kympton might be his as soon as it became vacant.
Darcy recalled how he had stifled his dismay upon seeing his father’s last will and testament. As if someone with Wickham’s immoral character ought to be a clergyman.
Alas, my father’s attachment to Wickham remained steadfast to the end.
Wickham with his engaging manners and his masterful ability to conceal his vicious propensities and want of principle from his best friend and benefactor.
I suppose it is just as well that my father never realized the truth, for surely it would have broken his heart—he loved his godson that much.
Wickham held out his hand as though he expected Darcy to reciprocate the gesture. He did not.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend? Pemberley is my home after all, just as my beloved godfather intended.”
Darcy scoffed. “Please do not remind me.”
Wickham strolled casually to where Darcy stood huddled over the letters. The latter hurriedly attempted to cover them. Too late, it seemed, were he to judge by Wickham’s sly smile.
“I see Caroline Bingley’s letter found its way into your possession.”
“What do you know about a letter from Caroline Bingley?” Darcy asked, slipping both letters into the desk drawer and turning the key.
“A great deal, in fact. The details of which I will gladly share with you—for a price.”
Standing straight and tall, Darcy folded his arms, one over the other. “Have I not given you enough money already?”
“Need I remind you that I had every right to the thousand pounds I received?”
“Again, I beg you not to remind me. A better question is why would I dream of paying you for information on someone so wholly unconnected to me as Miss Bingley?”
Wickham shrugged. “It is simple. What I have to say not only pertains to Caroline Bingley. It also has to do with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy felt his color rising. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss Elizabeth with George Wickham, whose false accusations he had attributed as being the means of turning her against him. His curiosity, however, would not be repressed. “What is your price?”
“I do not ask for much—just enough to cover my expenses for the next year or so while I complete my law studies.”
Darcy shook his head. There he goes again rambling on about studying the law. I know better.
“Do not be absurd. What might you possibly have to say that would warrant such an absorbent amount?” Placing both hands on the desk and leaning forward, he said, “I shall give you one hundred pounds and not a shilling more. Regardless of what you have to say, it is a small price to pay to have you take a swift leave of Pemberley.”
“Double your offer and I shall tell you everything.”
“My original offer is my final offer. I advise you to take it,” said Darcy as he proceeded to prepare the bank draft.
Darcy knew his childhood friend too well to suppose he would walk away from a bona fide offer.
Besides, who is to say that Wickham is in possession of intelligence that might be of use to me?
Darcy held up the bank draft for Wickham’s inspection. When the latter reached out his hand to accept it, Darcy drew back his own hand. “Start talking,” he demanded.
Start talking indeed. Wickham took the chair opposite Darcy’s large mahogany desk. Likewise, Darcy took his own seat and listened as Wickham rehashed the details of Caroline Bingley’s scheme.
More than once, Darcy wanted to reach across the desk and wipe the smirk off the gentleman’s face with his fist, but each time he thought better of it.
Wickham is just being himself, after all. A greedy opportunist who values money above all else, and one who is totally devoid of human sensibilities. No—Caroline Bingley is the true culprit. She is the person who deserves the greater share of my ire.
That she had been lurking around unseen and listening to what Darcy had believed were private conversations with Elizabeth, according to Wickham's testimony, was an abhorrence. This woman who had always been a welcomed guest in his home. Never again.
I have long known the lady could be jealous and spiteful, but to have gone to such lengths to remove Miss Elizabeth from Pemberley and ultimately from me.
How could she possibly believe she would accomplish such a despicable feat with impunity, especially with an accomplice the likes of George Wickham?
By now, Darcy was hardly attending a word Wickham had to say. His mind was busily engaged thinking of but one person: Elizabeth. She had left Pemberley with the mistaken impression that he did not care for her. He had allowed her to leave thinking he wanted her gone.
He thought of how it would be if he were away from Pemberley and his obligations as its new master at such a time.
What other choice is there? I must go to her.
I must do everything in my power to clear up this misunderstanding. I pray I am not too late.