Chapter Twenty-Four
Elizabeth
Several days had passed since their departure from Hertfordshire, and Elizabeth reflected on how the time had unfolded quite differently than expected.
She had looked forward to introducing Georgiana to her family, anticipating warm embraces and easy friendship between the girls of similar ages.
Instead, she had been taken aback by her sisters’ cool reception of Darcy’s sister.
Lydia and Kitty, whom she had expected to welcome Georgiana with their usual enthusiasm for new acquaintances, had been surprisingly standoffish.
Her youngest sister had displayed an almost snobbish disdain that was entirely unlike her usual character.
Elizabeth might have attributed it to wounded pride over being sent from the dinner table, but Lydia’s manner had grown increasingly odd in recent weeks.
Only Jane had been welcoming, though when Bingley made his offer midway through Georgiana’s visit, she had been forced to remain out of sight due to their mother’s histrionics.
Having two of her titled, highborn daughters married to newly installed gentlemen proved too much for her poor nerves and she’d taken to the vapours.
However, none of this was relevant, for Elizabeth was away from Hertfordshire for at least a week now.
Their carriage rolled through the gates of Matlock, Elizabeth pushed aside these concerns to focus on the journey’s end.
The experience of travelling with Lady Matlock had proven most enlightening.
Away from her own family’s concerns and Darcy’s estate responsibilities, Elizabeth observed a different side of her husband.
Though he maintained proper formality with Lady Matlock—she remained his superior in station despite his elevation to gentleman after all—their conversation held the ease of long acquaintance.
Years of familiarity had worn away the sharp edges of social hierarchy.
Lady Matlock herself proved a delightful surprise.
Unlike Elizabeth’s mother, who remained perpetually anxious about social standing and appearances, the Countess displayed no such concerns.
Well-dressed and articulate without ostentation, she possessed a warmth that made Elizabeth feel almost immediately at ease.
“I confess myself eager to see you back in Derbyshire,” Lady Matlock observed as familiar countryside rolled past their windows. “You always seem more yourself here than anywhere else, Fitzwilliam.”
“The northern counties suit me best,” Darcy agreed. “Though I hope Elizabeth will find them equally agreeable.”
“How could she not? Wait until you see Pemberley. You must take her there whilst you’re visiting.”
Georgiana leaned forward with excitement. “The lake changes colour with the light—it so spectacular.”
“I should very much like to see where you spent your youth,” Elizabeth said to Darcy.
The carriage drew to a halt before Matlock’s imposing facade.
Upon arrival, the arrangements reflected the complex nature of their party.
Elizabeth and Darcy would lodge with Mr Wickham at his cottage, whilst Georgiana took her customary place in the servants’ quarters.
Lady Matlock naturally occupied her family seat.
Though the Earl and Countess had graciously offered accommodations in the main house, Elizabeth understood Darcy’s desire to stay with the man who had been father to him in all but blood.
They parted from Lady Matlock with promises to take dinner at Matlock Hall the following day, then were conveyed by carriage to the cottage where Mr Wickham resided.
As they travelled through the estate grounds, Darcy turned to her with obvious unease.
“I must ask a favour regarding our visit with Mr Wickham. He remains unaware of his son’s presence at Netherfield and naturally knows nothing of the circumstances surrounding our marriage.”
Elizabeth studied his profile, noting the tension in his jaw. “You wish me to avoid mentioning George Wickham entirely.”
“If possible, yes. The knowledge would distress him greatly, particularly given his declining health. I will explain the circumstances of our marriage in a way that will not vex him too much.”
Something flickered in Darcy’s eyes as he spoke—an emotion Elizabeth could not quite identify. She nodded her agreement. After all, other than George Wickham being rude and presumptuous, she had no prove he had done anything besides it.
The cottage proved charming in its modest proportions, surrounded by well-tended gardens now dormant for winter. Mr Wickham emerged to greet them before their carriage had fully stopped, his face alight with joy despite the obvious frailty of his movements.
“Fitzwilliam! My dear boy!”
His embrace of Darcy was warm and prolonged, a father’s greeting for a beloved son. When he turned to Elizabeth, his eyes sparkled with genuine delight.
“And this must be the remarkable Lady Elizabeth who has captured our boy’s heart.”
“Please, just Elizabeth. We are family now, after all.”
The resemblance to his son struck her immediately—the same bushy eyebrows, blue eyes, though these held none of George’s calculating coldness. Where the younger Wickham possessed practised charm, the elder radiated authentic kindness.
Inside, Mr Wickham had prepared a simple luncheon with obvious care, though Elizabeth noticed how his hands trembled as he served them. His partial blindness made navigation difficult, yet he refused all offers of assistance with gentle stubbornness.
“Now then, I suspect a whirlwind romance? Fitzwilliam has been sparse with the details.”
Elizabeth felt Darcy’s eyes upon her and remembered her promise. “It was rather sudden. A stranger attempted to compromise Lady Elizabeth’s reputation, and I was forced to intercede, inadvertently making me the object of gossip.”
Mr Wickham’s expression grew thoughtful, almost sad. “I had rather hoped for a tale of true love at first sight—though all the best romances begin somewhere, do they not?”
The looked passing Elizabeth and Darcy carried weight neither could acknowledge aloud. Elizabeth saw Darcy colour up and knew by the temperature of her cheeks that they too were red.
“I plan to take Elizabeth hunting whilst we are here,” Darcy said, seeking safer ground.
“A lady who hunts! That is something I have not heard of. Would not catch many a lady doing that!”
Elizabeth smiled. “There are many things I wish to learn. Mr Darcy has already taught me fishing.” She recounted her tale of catching the large trout, which amused Mr Wickham immensely.
“Well then, I’ll expect no less than a stag to come through that door when you return. Pray, are you taking her to Pemberley?” he asked them. “Only I thought you might speak to the curate to see if he has heard from George.”
“You have not heard from him?” Darcy asked.
He shook his head sadly. “I wrote to Kympton, but the curate replied that George had gone south, taking some time away. I confess myself worried—I had hoped the living would settle him, but I fear it will not. I had a mind to ask you to speak to the curate, find out where he might have gone.”
Elizabeth quickly changed the subject, feeling wretched for having pressed the matter.
“We did plan to visit,” Darcy said suddenly. “Lady Matlock suggested it, as did Georgiana.”
“I should like that very much,” Elizabeth replied.
When evening came and they prepared to retire, Elizabeth discovered Mr Wickham had assigned them a single chamber. Her momentary mortification was quickly addressed by Darcy, who began arranging pillows and blankets before the fireplace without comment.
“Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it.”
They spoke briefly of the day—of how at home Darcy seemed at Matlock, of Mr Wickham’s obvious kindness. Elizabeth found herself genuinely moved by the old man’s warmth, though it created an uncomfortable dissonance in her mind.
“It is difficult to reconcile him with his son’s character,” she observed, settling onto the edge of the bed whilst Darcy arranged his makeshift sleeping quarters.
“It has always been Mr Wickham’s greatest burden,” Darcy said quietly, his movements stilling for a moment. “That his son turned out as he did. He often blames himself, though I have always maintained the fault lies elsewhere.”
He hesitated then, as though on the verge of saying more, but seemed to think better of it. Elizabeth watched the play of emotions across his face in the firelight—guilt, sorrow, and something that looked almost like fear.
“Good night, Elizabeth.”
“Good night.”
As she settled beneath the cottage’s simple quilts, Elizabeth’s mind churned with the day’s impressions.
The genuine affection between Darcy and his guardian was evident in every glance, every gesture.
Mr Wickham’s joy at their arrival had been unmistakable, as had his obvious pride in Darcy’s accomplishments.
Yet beneath this warmth, she sensed currents of unspoken tension.
The way Darcy’s jaw had tightened when George Wickham’s name arose. The shadow that crossed his features whenever the subject of his guardian’s son emerged. The careful manner in which he had requested her silence about their circumstances.
Elizabeth turned onto her side, studying Darcy’s silhouette where he lay before the fire.
Even in sleep, his posture remained tense, as though some invisible burden pressed upon his shoulders.
What secrets did he carry about George Wickham?
What knowledge weighed so heavily that he could not bear to share it even with the man who had raised him?