Chapter 9 A Devil’s Bargain #2
Elizabeth weighed her words carefully. “Mr. Collins’s visit has certainly brought my mother joy.”
“But not you,” Wickham noted, watching her face with unsettling intensity. “And yet a woman in your position might welcome such security. Longbourn entailed away, five daughters to provide for… many would consider it a sensible match.”
“I have never aspired to sensibility above all other virtues,” Elizabeth replied stiffly, wondering how to shake the officer who wanted to engage in idle conversation when she had plans to make… mainly finding a stagecoach or traveling companions.
Wickham’s laugh was genuine and warm, surprising her. “No, I cannot imagine you have. You strike me as a woman who values her independence and her principles. Admirable qualities, if sometimes… impractical.”
They had reached the edge of town, the road to Longbourn stretching before them like a sentence of doom. Elizabeth slowed her pace, her mind desperately searching for some escape.
“Miss Elizabeth, might I have a word in private? What I have to say cannot wait.” Wickham guided her toward a sheltered alley between two buildings.
Elizabeth hesitated, glancing around at the nearly deserted street. “This is hardly proper, Lieutenant.”
“Forgive me, but propriety must yield to necessity,” he insisted, his expression unusually grave. “I assure you, this concerns a matter of the utmost importance.”
Against her better judgment, Elizabeth followed him into the relative shelter of the alley, maintaining a respectable distance. Her curiosity—and desperation—overrode her caution.
“You’ve received something recently,” Wickham said, his voice low. “Something that has disturbed your peace of mind.”
Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” Wickham’s eyes never left her face. “A letter, perhaps? Something that has caused you to visit your uncle, the solicitor, with questions about inheritance law?”
“How could you possibly—” Elizabeth caught herself, narrowing her eyes. “You were listening at the door. How ungentlemanlike.”
“Not the door, but I happened on a late bloom of Michaelmas daisies, a mix of purples, blues, and pinks, underneath the window.”
Elizabeth was in no mood for flowery speculation. “I do need to get on my way, Lieutenant Wickham. My family will expect me.”
“And yet… I note your reluctance to return to Longbourn.” He paused, watching her carefully. “These are not the actions of a woman with an ordinary problem.”
“My problems are my own concern, Lieutenant,” Elizabeth said coldly. “I fail to see what interest they could hold for you.”
“Perhaps more than you realize.” Wickham’s voice dropped even lower. “You visited your uncle with questions about inheritance disputes, particularly regarding a female heir previously believed dead. A rather specific legal inquiry for a young lady, wouldn’t you agree?”
Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face. “As I explained to my uncle, I am contemplating writing a novel.”
“Of course,” Wickham grinned. “A novel about a young woman who discovers she is not who she believed herself to be. A young woman whose birthright has been stolen through deception and murder.”
Elizabeth backed away a step, her back pressing against the damp brick wall. “How could you know that?”
“I know many things, Miss Elizabeth. Or should I say, Miss Darcy?”
“You’re mad,” she whispered, though her reaction had already betrayed her.
“Am I?” Wickham’s expression softened. “I suspected when we were introduced at Meryton. Something about your eyes… They’re so like your father’s.
John Darcy had the same intelligent gaze.
And then at Lucas Lodge, when you revealed your middle name was Rose—” He broke off, shaking his head.
“I knew then that you must be Elizabeth Rose Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. The sounds of the street seemed to fade away. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I knew your parents,” Wickham replied. “My father was steward at Pemberley, and I grew up on the estate. John Darcy was a good man—kind, fair, beloved by all who knew him. His murder was a terrible injustice.”
Elizabeth’s heart quickened at the mention of her father. “You knew my father?”
“I was very young when he died, but yes, I remember him,” Wickham said, his expression softening. “And your mother was a beauty—spirited and clever, much like yourself.”
“If you knew them, then you must know who killed them,” Elizabeth pressed, her heartbeat skipping erratically.
Wickham hesitated, his expression troubled. “There were many who benefited from their deaths, primarily William Darcy, Fitzwilliam’s father. But proving it after all these years…” He shook his head. “That would require evidence.”
“What evidence?” Elizabeth asked eagerly, stepping closer despite herself.
Wickham appeared to wrestle with some inner conflict. “I shouldn’t say. It’s not my place to interfere.”
“Please,” Elizabeth implored. “I have nowhere else to turn.”
Wickham sighed heavily, as if reluctant to disclose this information. “There’s someone who might know more. Someone who was there the night of the fire.”
“Who?”
“My mother,” Wickham admitted, as if the words were being dragged from him unwillingly. “Martha Wickham. She lives at Rose Cottage on the Pemberley estate—the very place where your parents died.”
“Your mother?” Elizabeth breathed, pieces falling into place. “She was there?”
“Yes, she was the one who wrote you,” he replied, watching her reaction closely. “She was there the night of the fire at Rose Cottage. She’s been waiting twenty years to fulfill her promise to your parents.”
The world seemed to tilt beneath Elizabeth’s feet. She steadied herself against the brick wall, heedless of its rough surface. “Your mother saved me?”
“Yes, she did, at great personal risk,” Wickham confirmed, his voice low with intensity. “She delivered you to your uncle Bennet. She’s kept certain items secure all these years.”
“What items?” Elizabeth demanded, her pulse racing.
Wickham glanced nervously toward the mouth of the alley.
“Documents, a small portrait, a letter from your mother to you—things that could prove your identity beyond question.” He looked back at her, his expression grave.
“She sent me to find you, to ensure you received her letter, to help you claim what is rightfully yours.”
“I received a letter,” Elizabeth admitted, “but it was unsigned.”
“A necessary precaution,” Wickham explained. “If it had been intercepted… well, there are still those who would prefer the world believe Elizabeth Rose Darcy died in that fire.”
Elizabeth studied his face, searching for signs of deception. “If what you say is true, why did your mother wait until now to contact me?”
“She believed you were safer in obscurity until you reached an age to claim your inheritance,” Wickham explained. “The terms of the settlement specify that you must stake your claim before your twenty-first birthday. Time grows short.”
“November first,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Precisely.” Wickham nodded.
Elizabeth was torn between desperate hope and nagging suspicion. “And what of your own interests in this matter, Lieutenant Wickham? Surely you do not assist me from pure altruism.”
“I gain nothing from Darcy keeping what is not rightfully his,” Wickham replied.
“While William Darcy treated me as a son, the current Mr. Darcy has refused to acknowledge his obligations. If justice can be served while removing Darcy from his undeserved position, I confess I would find satisfaction in such an outcome.”
The logic was compelling. Wickham had every reason to oppose Darcy’s interests and none to protect them. Still, she hesitated
“I have no means to travel to Derbyshire,” Elizabeth admitted. “No funds, no protection, no ally willing to accompany me.”
“That, at least, I can remedy.” Wickham reached into his coat and withdrew a small leather purse. “Five pounds. Enough for a post-chaise to Lambton, where my mother will meet you and take you to Rose Cottage, to your first home whilst you were but a babe.”
Elizabeth stared at the purse, tempted despite the impropriety. Five pounds was not insignificant. “I thank you and swear I will repay you as soon as I have come into my inheritance.”
“Oh, I’m certain you will, Miss Elizabeth, and let us say, I have my reasons for wishing to see Fitzwilliam Darcy humbled,” Wickham smiled. “Justice for you would be… satisfying to observe.”
It was, Elizabeth realized, a devil’s bargain. Trust Wickham and risk walking into a trap, or remain at Longbourn and surrender to a life with Collins, forever wondering what might have been.
“I cannot return to Longbourn,” she said at last. “Not with Mr. Collins waiting to claim me.”
“Then the choice seems clear,” Wickham replied. “My mother can offer sanctuary at Rose Cottage while you gather what you need. She has connections among the Pemberley staff who remember your parents fondly. Your father was generous and kind, and your mother was a beauty, full of wit.”
Elizabeth’s heart raced at the mention of her parents. She yearned to learn more about them, to walk where they had lived and died, and speak to those who had known them.
“I would need to depart immediately,” she said slowly. “Today, before my family discovers my intentions.”
“A post-chaise can be arranged within the hour,” Wickham assured her. “I can provide a respectable companion to escort you and ensure your safe departure.”
“You are too kind, Lieutenant Wickham. I accept your mother’s assistance, and I thank you for your kindness in facilitating it.”
Wickham’s smile was triumphant. “You have made the right choice, Miss Elizabeth. My mother will be delighted to finally fulfill her duty to your family. As for your family here, leave a letter explaining that you’ve gone to visit distant relations for your health,” Wickham suggested.
“To be delivered after your departure, of course. By the time they realize the truth, you will be well on your way to claiming your birthright.”
Elizabeth nodded, though the deception left a bitter taste.
She waited beneath the inn’s sheltering eaves while Wickham arranged her passage, watching as he charmed the innkeeper and secured a post-chaise with remarkable efficiency.
She tried to ignore the small voice in her mind that whispered warnings about trusting a man she barely knew with her life and future.
She had exhausted every respectable option, and Wickham’s offer was the only path that led anywhere beyond Collins’s parsonage and a lifetime of regret.
There was no turning back. For better or worse, she had chosen her path.
Elizabeth Rose Darcy was going home to Pemberley.