Chapter 14
Mr. Wickham’s introduction, while entertaining, was poorly timed.
Elizabeth had worked alongside Mr. Robinson for a week and had done so with more pleasure than the task merited due to his presence.
Being trapped within the confines of her prospects, she found it a delight to venture vicariously around the world through the perspective of a world traveler.
He had satiated her curiosity of foreign ports and exotic lands, and not once had he mentioned “the arrangement” or suggested that her future belonged to anyone other than herself.
His silence had won her trust. She had come to a decision just that morning, only to have it interrupted with Mr. Wickham’s unexpected call.
She had been working for hours already, ensuring that the last fields were sown with their winter crops, the livestock were brought in and inspected, and the cellars had enough space to store the turnips and potatoes that would feed them for months.
All but one tenant had settled their accounts and, given the bounty of the harvest they had enjoyed, she knew it best to collect rent while there was still money to be had.
The months after the autumn harvest were the most profitable for Longbourn, and Elizabeth had a plan for every penny received from the rents, wool, grain, livestock, and the produce from their gardens and orchards.
All this, and there was only one more shelf left to search in Papa’s library. If an incriminating document existed in that room, they had yet to find it. Elizabeth was determined not to give up hope until she had flipped through the last book on the bottom shelf.
Her mind was in the study, where Mr. Robinson had already retreated.
She knew she ought to give more attention to her sisters’ conversation in the drawing room, which was a brief but wise observation she nevertheless dismissed to return to her musings.
Unfortunately, it proved to be prescient when all eyes turned to her expectantly.
“Well, Lizzy?” Her mother blinked at her, her lips beginning to pinch with impatience. “What do you think?” she repeated, though about what, Elizabeth could not guess.
She looked at her sisters for clues. Lydia and Kitty leaned forward, only Mrs. Hexam’s frequent glances stilling their bobbing knees.
Jane peacefully embroidered, untroubled by whatever had excited the younger ones.
Only Mary offered a clue when she widened her eyes and, with a subtle shake of her head, offered a warning.
“Caution is always advisable,” Elizabeth said as confidently as one could after such a moment of inattention. Mary smiled softly and gave a subtle nod, and Elizabeth breathed in relief.
“Caution!” exclaimed Mama. “What is there to be cautious about when Mr. Wickham practically grew up at Pemberley?” She tapped her fan against Papa’s arm.
“Mr. Bennet, we must cultivate our friendship with Mr. Wickham. He can teach Lizzy about the estate and the people she will have to please.” Now Elizabeth understood Mary’s warning.
“He is only the son of Pemberley’s steward, Mama. What can Mr. Wickham possibly know about the family which might be of use to us?” asked Jane.
Had the question not come from Jane, Elizabeth would have criticized its undertone of haughtiness.
Mama was correct in that nobody knew a family better than the servants.
Mr. Wickham had said he grew up at Pemberley.
He must know Fitzwilliam Darcy. They would be of a similar age, Elizabeth guessed.
Mr. Wickham might prove to be a valuable source of information…
She shook her head, dismissing the self-serving thought.
She was not interested in furthering an acquaintance with Mr. Wickham.
To befriend him for the purpose of gathering information which might prove useful to her felt disingenuous.
Thus decided, she addressed her father, who rubbed his chin, his mind obviously elsewhere while Lydia and Kitty praised the cut of Mr. Wickham’s coat and the fashionable curl of his hair.
“Papa, I do believe Mr. Robinson is nearly finished ordering another shelf. He will need your direction.”
Papa’s eyes cleared from wherever his thoughts had taken him, and he smiled at Mama.
Taking her hand in his own and patting it, he said, “I will give your suggestion serious consideration, my dear. In the meantime, we shall be content knowing that Mr. Wickham is to receive the gift of our hospitality in three days’ time.
” He quit the room to return to his books.
Elizabeth waited until her mother had fallen asleep in her chair and her sisters were engaged in their activities to slip away.
Only Jane seemed to notice her exit. With another glance over her shoulder to ensure she had not been followed, Elizabeth returned to the study and donned the apron she had left hanging by the door, her hands instinctively patting her pocket. Good, the letter was still there.
Mr. Robinson pulled the last books and papers from the bottom shelf, then carried them over to her desk and set them down gently.
Even after so many trips back and forth to the surface, he continued to treat Papa’s assorted manuscripts with reverent care.
The observation pleased Elizabeth. Mr. Robinson was a cautious man. Her confidence was safe in his care.
Breathing deeply and strengthening her resolve, she pulled the letter he had found earlier from her pocket. When he saw her and smiled in greeting, she handed it out to him. “I wish you to read this.”
He looked at the large writing on the envelope, then back at her. “Are you certain?” Now, more than ever, she was. She pushed it closer to him.
She noticed how he rubbed his thumb over the name roughly penned on the envelope, the gentleness with which he unfolded the single page.
He glanced at her again, and she nodded for him to read.
When he still hesitated, she added, “I wrote this letter on the same day my father told me about the marriage arrangement he had made with Mr. Darcy.” She huffed softly.
“I was eight years old and confident in the knowledge that I was my father’s favorite.
When he called me into his study to speak with me, I knew he had something grand in store for me. ”
She felt the disappointment as keenly as she had that day twelve years before.
She had been convinced her father had sent for the turn-up book she had so admired at the shop in London.
When she did not see any package on her father’s desk, her excited mind had jumped to an even better possibility: a pony.
She had received neither one… at least not that day, and not from her father.
Mr. Darcy had been generous with gifts over the years, and he seemed to have a keen understanding of all the things a girl of her age would wish for.
It would have been exciting had they not felt like bribes, which made her wonder what it was about the son that had obliged the father to be so generous.
For years, she worried that she would have to marry a man with a giant wart on his nose. Or a milky eye. Or missing teeth.
Darcy looked down and read the open page.
Dear Fitzwilliam Darcy,
Papa says you are going to marry me when I am grown up. I do not think this is a very good idea because I do not know you at all and Mama says you live very far away.
I asked Papa if I could meet you first like Jane got to meet the butcher's son before she decided she did not like him, but Papa said that is not how these things work. I think that is very silly. How can you marry someone if you have never even talked to him?
I am eight years old and I am very good at sums and I can read already. I like to help Papa with his papers, and I know all the names of our tenants. I also like to climb trees, but Mama says ladies do not climb trees so I suppose I will have to stop when I am a lady.
Do you like to read? I hope you do because I like it very much and it would be nice if we both liked the same things. Also, do you have any dogs? We have three and they are very nice.
I asked Mama what happens if we do not like each other when we meet but she said that does not matter. That seems very strange to me. If you do not like someone, why would you want to live with them?
Maybe when I am bigger you could come visit and we could see if we are friends first. I think that would be much better. I would rather refuse to marry at all than agree to marry a stranger.
From Elizabeth Rose Bennet
P.S. I hope you are not mean. Some boys are very mean, but Papa says you are a good boy. I hope that is true.
He stared at the page, and his understanding of her grew. She had thought she had a choice. Her father had never sent the letter. How old had she been when she realized that her freedom had been signed away? “He gave you a husband you did not want?”
She scoffed. “I stand by my reasons.”
Darcy smiled, handing the letter back to her. “They are remarkably sound for a girl of eight.” He said it teasingly, but he meant the compliment. Even at a young age, she knew her mind, and she expressed herself clearly. If only her father and his father had listened!
“How did you learn that your future was decided?” he asked.
“Papa continued to attempt to persuade me to accept the offer. I rebelled, doing everything I could to prove my value to him, to my family, to Longbourn—” She looked away, biting her lip.
Darcy waited, wishing he could reassure her.
“I was twelve years old when I began learning estate management in earnest. It was not until I was sixteen that I realized that nothing I could do here could compare to the benefits I could offer them as Mr. Darcy’s wife. ”
This angered him. “You are resigned to your fate?”