Chapter 11
Elizabeth stood frozen, watching Mr. Wickham go. Her breathing was shallow, controlled. Her hands clasped so tightly together that her nails bit into her palms.
She could not fall apart. Not here, where anyone could see. Yet, the moment Mr. Wickham disappeared around the corner, her carefully maintained composure cracked. She reached out blindly for support, and Charlotte was there immediately, catching her arm.
“Lizzy! You are as white as a sheet.”
“I need…” Elizabeth could not draw enough breath past the tightness in her chest.
Three women. Three hearts broken by the man she loved.
“Tell me what he said,” Charlotte demanded. “All of it.”
The story poured out in broken fragments. The pattern. The names. The courtship and abandonment. The pride and conquest. The game. With each word, Elizabeth heard how absurd it sounded. How Gothic. How impossible.
And yet, Mr. Wickham was convincing.
“You are shaking,” Charlotte said once Elizabeth finally fell silent.
“I do not know what to believe. He seemed so sincere, Charlotte. The way he spoke—he was genuinely troubled by what he was telling me.”
“Or he is an excellent actor.”
“Perhaps.” Elizabeth pressed her hands to her face. “But what if he is not? What if it is all true and I have been blind? I was wrong about Mr. Darcy once before. What if I am wrong about him now? What if I am seeing only what I want to see?”
Stepping away from Charlotte, she stiffened her arms at her sides. “It is equally possible that I know the truth about Mr. Darcy. That Mr. Wickham is lying. That the loss of the connection to the Darcys motivated him to act against the current master of Pemberley.”
Pacing in front of her friend, she said, “I have known Mr. Darcy for a month. During that time, we have spent considerable time together.” She gasped.
“Charlotte, if he enjoys a challenge, why did he not target Jane? She is beautiful and sweet like the three ladies Mr. Wickham mentioned, and she showed Mr. Darcy not one iota of interest. The same with you, dear friend. You practically ignored him at the assembly.”
“Me?” Charlotte scoffed. “Even knowing he might be a rogue, if he showed me interest, my mother would have us in front of the altar before he could be properly introduced.”
Elizabeth stopped in front of Charlotte, her brow arched.
Grinning, Charlotte said, “Lizzy, he has eyes for no one but you. He treats me with politeness, probably because he knows we are close, but no more, as you are well aware.”
Tapping her toe on the dirt road, Elizabeth said, “I need to verify Mr. Wickham’s claims before Mr. Darcy returns from London.”
Charlotte threw her hands into the air. “But that is just it, is it not? If he keeps to his pattern, he will not return. If he does, he is not the man Mr. Wickham claims him to be.”
“Exactly.” Elizabeth gathered her composure. “I will wait. I will think clearly. I will not condemn Mr. Darcy without proof. With that said, I will not ignore what Mr. Wickham has told me either.”
“That seems wise.”
“Does it?” Elizabeth’s laugh was bitter. “I feel anything but wise. I feel like a fool.”
Charlotte wrapped Elizabeth’s arm in hers. “Come. Let us walk slowly back to Longbourn. You need time to compose yourself before your mother sees you.”
They walked in silence for a while. Finally, Elizabeth spoke. “His details were specific, Charlotte. Why would he lie? What would he gain?”
“I do not know. Revenge against Mr. Darcy for some past grievance? A desire to hurt him by hurting you?” Charlotte glanced at her friend. “Or perhaps he is telling the truth as he understands it, though misinterpreting what he witnessed.”
Elizabeth desperately wanted to believe Charlotte’s observations. She whispered, the admission torn from her. “God help me, Charlotte, I love Fitzwilliam. And if Mr. Wickham is telling the truth, then I have given my heart to a man who will crush it for sport.
“And if Mr. Wickham is lying?”
“Then I have doubted the man I love based on the words of a charming stranger. That doubt may poison everything between us.” Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears.
Charlotte squeezed her arm gently. “Then you must discover the truth before you make any decisions. Do not condemn Mr. Darcy, but do not give him your future either until you are certain.”
Elizabeth drew a shaking breath. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “No, Charlotte. I misspoke. I will not allow doubt to poison what I feel. I will not condemn Fitzwilliam in my mind before I have proof. He deserves better than that.” Her fists tightened.
“We deserve better than that. And if Mr. Wickham is lying—if this is all some vicious game—then Fitzwilliam will need me to have faith in him.”
The days following her introduction to Mr. Wickham passed in a state Elizabeth could only describe as restless uncertainty. The agony of waiting with eagerness to see Darcy again battled against the doubt that he was the man she considered him to be.
She had chosen not to return to Meryton, citing the inclement weather and preparations for the ball as her excuse. Jane accepted this without question; her mother, preoccupied with those same preparations, hardly noticed.
The very idea of accidentally meeting Mr. Wickham, of having to exchange pleasantries while her heart hammered with this dreadful knowledge, made her physically ill.
Yet neither could she find peace at home.
The ball loomed before her like some unavoidable precipice—necessary, dreaded, and drawing ever closer with each passing hour.
She needed to attend, to have this matter settled once and for all, to see with her own eyes what would transpire when Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham met again.
It was in this divided state of mind—eagerly anticipating resolution while simultaneously wishing she might avoid it forever—that Elizabeth set out for her walk on the afternoon before the ball, only to see a rider approaching. Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Her heart seized. This was her chance to know.
He caught sight of her and dismounted immediately, his face breaking into a warm smile. “Miss Bennet! What perfect timing. I only arrived an hour ago and was about to call at Longbourn.”
“Colonel,” She curtsied, her heart racing. “You have returned for the ball? Is Mr. Darcy with you?”
“Darcy was delayed in London by some business matter. He assured me that he would be here tomorrow.”
Delayed? A frisson of doubt shot through her. She tamped it down.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam.” She swallowed. Forced herself to continue with a question that surely resembled stepping off a cliff. “May I ask you about people you might know from Rosings Park?”
“Of course.” He was entirely at ease, unaware of the precipice she stood on. “Do you know my aunt?”
“I do not.” Her hands twisted together in the folds of her skirt. “Are you acquainted with Miss Olivia Mason, Miss Margaret Smythe, and Miss Constance Hampton?”
His brow furrowed in thought. “Mason…yes, I believe so. I often saw all three at Rosings during some of my visits there. Why do you ask?”
The world tilted beneath Elizabeth’s feet. Her vision began to narrow, black spots dancing at the edges.
“Miss Bennet, you look quite pale. How do you know these women? Are you acquainted?”
“They…” Elizabeth’s voice shook. “They were all at Rosings Park? All three?”
“Yes, at various times over the past few years. Though I believe they have all left.” The colonel reached out to steady her. “Miss Bennet, please, tell me what is troubling you. Have you heard bad news about them?”
Good lord! The pieces to the pattern were aligning exactly as Mr. Wickham suggested, except… Shaking her head, she could not figure out what was wrong. She only knew that doubt was eating away at her, and it hurt.
“Miss Elizabeth?” The colonel’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “You are unwell. Please, let me escort you home. You should not be walking alone in this state.”
“No!” She stepped back, needing distance, needing to be alone before she shattered completely. “I must go. Thank you, Colonel. Forgive me for troubling you with such strange questions.”
“It is no trouble at all, but Miss Bennet…”
“Good day, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
She hurried away before he could see the tears beginning to blur her vision. Her steps were quick, almost running, her breath coming in short gasps.
Behind her, she heard his confused comment: “What on earth was that about?”
She could not stop, could not satisfy his curiosity or his concern. Because if she stopped, if she allowed herself to comprehend what he confirmed fully, she would fall apart there on the road where anyone might see.
And tomorrow night, at the ball, she would have to face the man she loved—the man she thought she loved—she barely kept from sobbing.
Once she made it back to Longbourn to the safety of her room, only then did she allow the tears to fall.
Her father found her a few minutes later, curled on her bed, her face buried in her pillow.
“Lizzy?” Elizabeth heard the worry in his tone. “What has happened? Jane said you came home looking like you had seen a ghost.”
Elizabeth could not answer at first. Could not form words past the sobs that kept tearing from her throat.
Her father gathered her in his arms, holding her, offering silent comfort until the worst of the storm passed.
Finally, when she could speak again, she told him everything.
About Mr. Wickham. About the three women.
About Colonel Fitzwilliam’s confirmation that they all existed.
How all three left Rosings Park, as Mr. Wickham stated, as did Mr. Darcy.
Her father was quiet for a long time. “Lizzy girl, did the colonel say why they left?”
“He seemed puzzled that I was asking about them at all.” Elizabeth sat up, wiping her face with shaking hands. “I do not know what to think, Papa.”