Chapter Ten
Elizabeth
“Charlotte!” Elizabeth exclaimed, relief flooding her voice as she spotted her friend near the stone balustrade. “What brings you out here? Are you not enjoying the dancing?”
Charlotte Lucas turned from where she had been gazing across the moonlit gardens. “As much as a knight’s daughter can when her prospects remain limited,” she replied with characteristic honesty. “Though I confess I welcomed the respite. The air grows rather close inside.”
Elizabeth moved to join her friend, grateful for the cool breeze that carried the scent of late roses and wood smoke. Behind them, the sounds of revelry continued.
“I begin to think Papa should have limited the guest list,” Elizabeth said, adjusting her gloves. “Half of Hertfordshire appears to be crammed into our ballroom.”
“All eager to curry favour with an earl’s family,” Charlotte observed without malice. “Though I suppose we cannot blame them for that.”
They stood in companionable silence for a moment before Charlotte spoke again, her voice taking on an odd quality Elizabeth could not quite identify.
“Your Mr Collins approached me earlier this evening.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. “Did he indeed? And what wisdom did our illustrious cousin impart?”
“He was most complimentary about my deportment and conversation.” Charlotte’s fingers worried the ribbon at her waist. “Said I possessed exactly the sort of steady character Lady Catherine would approve in a clergyman’s wife.”
“Good heavens!” Elizabeth turned to study her friend’s profile in the dim light. “How presumptuous of him to speak of Lady Catherine’s approval when addressing you. Surely you do not take such observations seriously?”
Charlotte remained quiet, her gaze fixed on the darkened gardens below. When she finally spoke, her words carried a weight that made Elizabeth’s stomach clench with foreboding.
“Perhaps I do, rather more than I ought.”
“Charlotte!” Elizabeth grasped her friend’s arm. “You cannot mean it. Mr Collins is tedious beyond all bearing. His constant references to his patroness would drive any sensible woman to distraction within a fortnight.”
“Would they?” Charlotte turned to face her directly, moonlight revealing the lines of strain around her eyes.
“Or might a sensible woman recognise the security such a connexion offers? I am seven-and-twenty, Eliza. My father’s estate is modest, my portion smaller still.
How many more seasons can I endure before I must accept that matrimony has passed me by entirely? ”
The pain in Charlotte’s voice struck Elizabeth with unexpected force.
She had never considered her friend’s circumstances with such stark clarity—the gradual narrowing of options that accompanied each passing year, the growing desperation that might make even Mr Collins seem preferable to spinsterhood.
“You speak as though you are already resigned to the shelf,” Elizabeth said gently. “Seven-and-twenty is not so very advanced.”
“Is it not?” Charlotte’s smile held bitter acknowledgement. “When was the last time a gentleman under forty requested my hand for dancing? When has any man of property shown the slightest interest in my conversation beyond mere politeness?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. The truth was uncomfortable but undeniable—Charlotte’s opportunities had indeed grown limited, her chances for advantageous marriage diminishing with each season.
“At least Mr Collins seemed genuinely engaged by what I had to say,” Charlotte continued with forced lightness.
“Though I should not raise my hopes too high. He made it quite clear his attentions lie elsewhere. He spoke most particularly of one of Lord Hartford’s daughters—though he was too much the gentleman to specify which. ”
They both understood. Elizabeth felt her stomach tighten with dread even as Charlotte pressed on.
“I merely observe that should his current hopes prove fruitless, he might look more favourably upon a practical arrangement with someone of lesser expectations.”
“Charlotte, you deserve far better than a practical arrangement.”
“Do I? Or do I deserve whatever happiness I can secure for myself?” Charlotte moved closer to the balustrade. “Not all of us can afford the luxury of romantic sentiment, Eliza.”
“I should hardly describe myself as given to romantic sentiment,” Elizabeth protested.
“Should you not?” Charlotte’s eyes held sudden mischief despite the melancholy of their conversation. “Then pray tell me—who has caught your attention this evening? Mr Wickham seemed quite particular in his attentions during your dance.”
Heat rose in Elizabeth’s cheeks despite the cool air. “Mr Wickham is handsome and charming, certainly.”
“But?”
“But charm can be learnt, practised, employed for calculated effect. I find myself preferring substance beneath the surface pleasantries.” Elizabeth paused. “There is something about his manner that feels rehearsed, as though each compliment has been measured for maximum impact.”
“How very philosophical of you,” Charlotte observed with a knowing smile. “Then who has earned your admiration for possessing this mysterious substance you value so highly?”
Before Elizabeth could formulate a response that would not reveal more than she intended, Lady Lucas’s voice rang across the terrace with maternal authority.
“Charlotte! Charlotte, where have you got to? Mrs Phillips wishes to speak with you about the harvest festival arrangements.”
Charlotte sighed, squeezing Elizabeth’s hand with sisterly affection. “I must go, but this conversation is far from finished, Eliza. I shall extract a proper answer from you before the evening ends, mark my words.”
Elizabeth watched her friend disappear through the ballroom doors, leaving her alone with thoughts that refused to settle into any comfortable pattern. She pulled her silk shawl closer, though whether against the chill or her own unsettled reflections, she could not say.
“Lady Elizabeth.”
She turned to see Mr Wickham approaching across the terrace, his evening dress immaculate despite the warmth that had driven so many guests outside.
His smile held its usual practised charm, though something in his bearing seemed different—more purposeful than the easy confidence she had grown accustomed to.
“Mr Wickham. Are you not missing the dancing?”
“How could I think of dancing when the most accomplished lady at the ball has taken refuge out here?” He gestured towards the scattered couples who had also sought the cooler air, their quiet conversations creating a pleasant murmur against the night.
“Besides, I confess I hoped for a moment of conversation without the press of so many ears.”
Elizabeth glanced towards the other guests, reassured by their presence. “I hardly think we lack for company, sir.”
“Company enough for propriety, yet few enough for discourse.” He moved closer, close enough that she caught the scent of wine on his breath. “I have been hoping to speak more freely about my connection to this neighbourhood.”
“Indeed? I confess myself curious about your history with Mr Darcy. You spoke at tea of being raised almost as brothers.”
Wickham’s expression shifted, the easy charm taking on a harder edge. “Brothers. Yes, I suppose that is one way to describe it. Though I fear poor Fitzwilliam never quite saw it in such terms.”
“How so?”
“My father served as clerk at Pemberley for many years—a faithful, devoted man who gave his life to that estate. When Fitzwilliam was orphaned, naturally my father took on the stewardship and him with it. Suddenly he had the sort of son he had always wanted. Studious, serious, tidy—all the things I was not.”
The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable despite his attempt to mask it with casual observation. Elizabeth studied his face in the dim light spilling from the ballroom windows.
“That must have been difficult for you.”
“Difficult?” Wickham laughed, though the sound held no warmth.
“To watch a stranger receive the attention and affection that should have been mine by right? To see my own father look upon another boy with such pride whilst I…” he trailed off, shaking his head as though dismissing unpleasant memories.
“Surely your father’s regard was large enough for both of you.”
“One would hope so. Yet actions speak clearer than words, do they not? When opportunities arose—education, advancement, recommendations—somehow they always seemed to benefit young Fitzwilliam rather than the steward’s actual son.”
Unease stirred in her at the calculated way he spoke. It did not align with what Darcy had told her. Though perhaps it was merely because they had different views on the same subject.
“And yet you both seem to have prospered. You hold a living, he has employment with my father.”
“True enough.” Wickham’s smile returned, though it did not reach his eyes.
Around them, the other couples had begun drifting back towards the ballroom, drawn by the music that had resumed inside. Elizabeth became aware that they were increasingly alone on the terrace, though she could still hear voices and movement from within.
“Lady Elizabeth.” Wickham’s voice had taken on a different quality—warmer, more intimate. “I must speak plainly, for I fear my opportunity may not come again.”
Something in his tone made her step back slightly. “Mr Wickham—”
“Please, allow me to finish.” He closed the distance between them, his eyes holding a fervour that made her increasingly uncomfortable.
“These past days of acquaintance have quite overwhelmed me. I am not a wealthy man, as you well know. My living provides comfort but hardly luxury. Yet seeing you, speaking with you, I begin to believe that happiness might matter more than material considerations.”
“Sir, I think perhaps—”
“You are everything I could never have dared hope for in a wife. Beauty, intelligence, spirit—and yet beneath it all, such genuine feeling. I am quite beside myself with admiration.”