Chapter 20 #2
Darcy’s head snapped up. That was not John’s voice. It held none of the tired grumble of the elderly stable hand. Nor was it one of the handful of footmen who still remained—they would not dare raise their voices within earshot of the house.
No. This voice was unfamiliar. And yet, familiar at the same time.
His brows drew together. Who could have come to call? There was no parson. The post had not come in days. Perhaps a tenant? A former tenant, more likely, coming to demand what could no longer be given.
Then he heard it.
Hooves.
Fast. Loud.
Not the heavy plod of a delivery cart or the meandering trot of a farmer’s mare—but something sharper. Eager. A stallion. He frowned. The only horse in the stables was Nelly—and she was too old for such sport.
A sharp whinny split the air.
Darcy stiffened. Someone was in the stable. A thief?
He dropped the spade and picked up the pitchfork lying near, then rushed forward.
His boots crunched over the frost and gravel, his breath tight in his chest. Rounding the corner, he raised his makeshift weapon, half-expecting to find a thief haltering Nelly.
His fists clenched. He would defend what little remained of Pemberley if it came to that.
But he stopped short at the sight before him.
It was not a thief.
It was worse.
George Wickham.
∞∞∞
The fire crackled quietly in the drawing room hearth, lending warmth to the morning light that spilled across the worn rug and well-scoured floors.
Elizabeth sat near the window with a length of pale muslin spread across her lap, carefully pinning one of the repurposed panels from Lady Anne’s gowns.
Across from her, Georgiana leaned forward in her chair, her own needle poised over a faded infant cap she had unearthed from a forgotten trunk.
The last several days had been spent in the attic, wrapped in dust and memory.
They had uncovered a small trove of baby garments—caps, bonnets, gowns no longer than a foot in length.
There were bolts of unused cloth and two gowns of Lady Anne’s that, though outdated in style, were of fine make and sound fabric.
Elizabeth had carefully begun to alter them to suit Georgiana’s swelling form, and Georgiana, to Elizabeth’s delight, had taken up the work herself with surprising eagerness.
“This one was mine,” Georgiana said now, lifting a gossamer blanket with a smile both wistful and proud. “Mrs. Reynolds said I cried endlessly unless I was swaddled in it. She kept it for years in a box with my first lock of hair.”
Elizabeth smiled. “A sentimental heart in such a formidable housekeeper. I never would have guessed.”
“She can be very softhearted when she thinks no one is looking.”
Georgiana folded the gown gently and returned to her stitching. After a long pause, she said, “I do hope this baby is a boy.”
Elizabeth glanced up from her work. “Why is that?”
“Because then he may inherit,” Georgiana said simply. “He could be the master of Pemberley and stand on his own. If it is a girl…” Her voice trailed off. “A girl will be nothing but a pawn. Like I was.”
Elizabeth set her needle aside and leaned forward. “That may be true in part. But even pawns can move. Even within the constraints of our world, you have choices. Not all of them, but some.”
Georgiana looked unconvinced.
“You choose to get out of bed each morning,” Elizabeth continued softly. “You choose to sew, to speak, to come down to this room. You may not choose everything in your life, but you can choose how to fill your hours. You may decide what books to read, what colors to wear, how to spend your time.”
“I used to play,” Georgiana said suddenly. “All the time. The pianoforte, I mean. I would sing, too. For hours. But I have not touched it since I married.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “Then I think it is high time you did.”
Georgiana shook her head. “It does not feel right.”
“Your husband has already taken so much from you,” Elizabeth said gently but firmly. “Do not let him take this, too. Do not let him win one more thing.”
Georgiana was quiet, her needle still. Then, slowly, she straightened her back and looked toward the hallway.
“Very well,” she said. “I shall open the music room today.”
Elizabeth smiled with quiet pride. She bent again to her mending just as a sudden noise from outside made her freeze.
Raised voices.
A shout. Then another.
She rose quickly and crossed to the window.
“Oh no,” she gasped.
Behind her, Georgiana turned sharply in her chair. “What is it?”
Before Elizabeth could form a reply, the door burst open and Mrs. Reynolds hurried into the room. Her usual calm was nowhere in evidence; her cheeks were pale, her eyes wide with something like fear.
Georgiana stood at once. “What is going on?”
Mrs. Reynolds’ voice was clipped and tight with urgency. “It is your husband,” she said. “Mr. Wickham. He… he has returned.”
∞∞∞
Darcy watched in shock as Wickham fought to bring his horse under control. The animal was spirited and barely broken, wild-eyed and frothing, its bridle askew.
It was far too majestic a creature for a coarse man like Wickham.
“Stupid beast!” Wickham bellowed, jerking the reins and lashing its flank with the crop.
The horse reared again in protest, hooves slicing the air. Wickham barely held his seat.
A low grunt of disgust sounded just behind him.
Darcy turned, startled to find John standing at his shoulder, arms folded and jaw clenched.
“Pity the brute was not thrown,” the older man muttered under his breath.
Darcy said nothing aloud, but in his heart, he agreed.
They both remained where they were, unmoving, as Wickham cursed and wobbled in the saddle, trying to force the animal into a tight circle.
Then he saw them.
“Oi!” Wickham shouted. “You there! Come help!”
John exhaled sharply through his nose. “If only to spare the beast his lash,” he muttered, then moved forward with stiff limbs and a weary sigh.
Darcy remained rooted, spade still in hand, as John approached the horse and caught the reins with practiced ease. The animal huffed and pawed the dirt, but calmed slightly under a steadier hand.
As soon as all four hooves were firmly on the earth, Wickham sneered and slid from the saddle with all the grace of a sack of grain. He staggered slightly as his boots struck the frozen ground, then, with a flourish, he pulled a flask from the inside of his coat and took a long draught.
Foxed.
Darcy’s stomach turned. It is not even midday.
Wickham wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, swaggered a few steps toward the house, then lifted his voice in a crude bellow.
“Where’s my wife? Georgiana! Georgie, my girl!” His voice slurred over the words, and Darcy winced at the unpolished speech from a man who had always prided himself on his gentlemanly behavior. “I’m back, Georgie! Come give your Wickham a kiss!”
Darcy stiffened, fists curling tight around the handle of the spade he had forgotten he was holding. His whole being bristled with fury—but as he took a step forward, John’s hand came down hard on his arm.
“Do not,” the older man said quietly.
Darcy looked at him, confused and outraged.
“Best not to get involved,” John added in a low tone. “You may have been a gentleman before you came here, but you are no longer. Nothing good comes from standing up to a master. Not when you’re a servant. Not even to the likes of him. The law is no friend to men in livery.”
The words struck Darcy like a blow. He drew a sharp breath and looked down at the worn coat he wore, the trousers loose at the waist, the calluses on his hands. His clothes were homespun. His boots scuffed. To all the world, he was a servant. And if he intervened—
“But, my wife,” he said, desperately, “is not just a servant. She is a gentleman’s daughter.”
John’s eyes softened slightly. “Aye. I know. So does Mrs. Reynolds. She will do what she can to protect the girl.”
But the grim concern in the man’s voice spoke more honestly than his words.
Darcy turned back to the courtyard. Wickham was shouting again, something slurred and incoherent, waving the flask toward the front door.
If he harms one hair on Elizabeth’s head—on Georgiana’s—Darcy thought, his vision blurring with rage, I will not be held responsible for what I do.