Chapter 21
Elizabeth stared at the housekeeper in horror before turning to Georgiana, whose face had gone white.
So white, in fact, that for a moment Elizabeth feared she might faint. Her fingers clutched the arms of her chair. Her mouth trembled open. “He… he is here?”
From outside, Wickham’s voice rang loud and clear: “Georgiana!”
The girl flinched.
Elizabeth turned to Mrs. Reynolds, who stood stiffly with both hands wringing the corner of her apron. Thinking quickly, Elizabeth stood and crossed the room to Georgiana.
“Quick, Mrs. Georgiana,” she said firmly, taking the girl by the elbow. “Let us get you upstairs. You are quite ill, after all, and must remain in your bed for the baby’s sake.”
Georgiana blinked. “Ill?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, guiding her toward the door, “with something contagious, perhaps. A stomach ailment. You have been vomiting and are in frequent need of the chamber pot. You are weak. You must stay abed and away from others.”
“I—”
“That is perfect,” Mrs. Reynolds cut in, suddenly animated. She seized Georgiana’s other arm. “Yes, that is exactly right, missus. A dreadful fever. The master will not wish to catch it.”
They hurried down the corridor, feet muffled on the worn carpets, just as the heavy front door banged open below with a deafening crash.
Georgiana gasped and stumbled.
“Almost there,” Elizabeth murmured, her heart pounding. They made it into the bedchamber, and Mrs. Reynolds immediately moved to the window to pull the drapes shut.
“I will go help—” Elizabeth started, but a desperate grip on her hand stopped her.
“Do not—do not leave me,” Georgiana whispered, eyes wide with terror.
Elizabeth turned back, startled. She looked from Georgiana’s pale, stricken face to Mrs. Reynolds’.
The housekeeper’s expression hardened with sudden resolve. “It is probably best if you stay in the room with your mistress,” she said briskly. “You must tend to her, after all.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to object, but Mrs. Reynolds shook her head sharply.
“Mr. Wickham will not care that you are married, Beth,” she said, voice low and urgent. “For your husband’s sake, you must remain as unseen as possible.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She gasped, horrified—and nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Heavy, uneven footsteps stomped up the stairs.
“In there.” Mrs. Reynolds pointed to the small dressing room off the bedchamber. “I will handle him.”
Elizabeth darted into the space, heart thundering. She knelt behind the edge of a tall linen press and gently eased the door nearly shut, leaving only the smallest crack near the hinges through which she could just glimpse the room.
Mrs. Reynolds helped Georgiana into bed, yanked her hair down from its careful braid, and drew the covers up to her chest just as the bedchamber door burst open.
“Georgie!”
Wickham’s voice was loud—too loud—and thick with alcohol. He staggered in, one arm raised in mock greeting. The stench of spirits wafted into the dressing room, making Elizabeth’s stomach churn.
Georgiana whimpered.
Wickham swaggered over to the bed and blinked at her, his lips curling. “What happened to you?” he asked. “You have gotten fat.”
Mrs. Reynolds stepped forward swiftly. “It is the babe, sir.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Wickham let out a raucous laugh. “A father! Well, then! I knew I had it in me. Just a few nights of fine work, and look what it got me!” He grinned wide and leaned down, lips puckered.
Georgiana turned her head quickly, gagging.
He drew back sharply, offended. “Do I disgust you now, Georgie? You were not like this a few months ago. As I recall, you were quite eager for my kisses. Is there someone else?” His voice grew harsh, angry. “Is the babe even mine?”
Elizabeth’s nails dug into the linen press.
But Mrs. Reynolds was already speaking. “Of course it is yours, sir! Mrs. Wickham has been terribly unwell. The babe made her sick enough, but then she caught a fever—or something like it. Stomach pains. Vomiting and the like. We suspect one of the maids or the tenant children passed it on.”
Wickham recoiled.
“Very contagious, whatever it is,” Mrs. Reynolds continued smoothly. “She has not left her rooms for two days. We were just about to summon a physician when you arrived.”
He sniffed and took a step back. “Well then. I suppose I shall leave you to it, my dear.”
He turned without another word and sauntered out, closing the door with a thud behind him.
Elizabeth let out a breath she did not realize she had been holding.
“There,” Mrs. Reynolds said at last, voice shaking just slightly. “That should give us a few days, anyway, to decide what to do.”
Elizabeth emerged slowly from the dressing room. Georgiana’s eyes were wide and glassy, but she was not crying.
“Both of you,” Mrs. Reynolds said, gesturing between them. “Stay in this room. I will bring you food, books, whatever you need. No one else comes in. No one else sees you.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Thank you,” Georgiana whispered, able to speak at last.
∞∞∞
Darcy’s arms ached from the weight of the firewood stacked in his grip, but the ache was welcome. It gave him something to focus on—something other than the image of George Wickham striding into Pemberley as if it were his birthright.
With a grunt, he shifted the bundle higher and nudged open the rear servants’ door with his boot. The kitchen corridor was warm, the air heavy with the scent of onions and roasting meat—though tension practically crackled from the other end of the hallway.
“Three courses!” came a sharp, aggrieved voice. “Three bloody courses!”
Darcy set the logs down just as Mrs. Wells appeared in the kitchen, red-faced and fuming. A mixing spoon was clutched in her hand like a weapon. She slammed it onto the counter, snatched a copper pot off the shelf, then turned in place as though unsure which indignity to tackle first.
“He has not been here in weeks—weeks—and now he returns like a conquering general, barking orders as if he pays the bills! Cake with his tea, he says! Venison for supper!” She spun back around. “Venison, when we have not had a proper kill since Michaelmas!”
She reached for a bag of flour and slapped it onto the counter.
Darcy stepped forward cautiously. “I can bring in more wood for the ovens, if needed.”
Mrs. Wells flinched, then huffed. “Aye, and water too, while you are at it. If he wants cake, the man will get dry bread unless we get the batter thick enough to rise.”
Darcy nodded and made to leave again, but just then Mrs. Reynolds appeared in the doorway, a strand of hair coming loose from her bun.
“Do what you can, Mrs. Wells,” the housekeeper said without preamble. “With any luck, he will be too sotted by supper to recall half of what he ordered.”
Mrs. Wells scoffed. “We should be so fortunate.”
Mrs. Reynolds turned to Darcy. Her eyes were sharp, but her voice was low and firm. “Beth and Mrs. Wickham are secure upstairs. For now, we are maintaining the pretense of illness—a stomach ailment, very contagious. That ought to keep him away from them for a few days.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, nodding. “Thank you.”
“But with your wife confined, I am down one set of hands. I shall need help.”
“Of course,” he said quickly. “Anything.”
“I hope you do not mind some maid’s work,” she said bluntly. “There is polishing, trays to carry, fires to tend. He will expect the usual service. And I will be… preoccupied with diverting him as much as possible.”
“I understand,” Darcy said at once. “And… thank you.”
“Thank me when it is over,” she muttered.
Then, after a brief hesitation, she added more grimly, “I am hoping he will tire of country life within a day or two. That is his habit, at least, from what I remember of him. But something in me fears he has returned because he is out of coin—or worse, because he is running from trouble.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “Let us hope trouble does not follow him.”
Mrs. Reynolds nodded once, then turned to the cook. “Do what you can, Mrs. Wells. Even if it is stew and a scorched cake, make it look like a feast.”
Mrs. Wells muttered something about the devil’s appetite, but Darcy was already lifting the wood and heading back to the scullery—eyes sharp, ears alert.
The remainder of the day continued in the same manner. All day long, he found things to polish, trays to carry, fires to stoke, boots to clean. The rhythm of the work helped keep his hands from trembling, but his mind…
His mind would not still.
From the moment Mrs. Reynolds had closed the door behind her that morning, he had not seen Elizabeth once. No shared glances. No whispered asides in passing. No chance to brush her fingers as he passed the dishes at supper.
He was simply alone.
And Wickham—Wickham was everywhere. Stomping through the halls, slurring orders, knocking over a decanter in the study and laughing as the footman scrambled to clean it.
From the murmurs of the kitchen staff, he learned Wickham had already sent for wine twice more and spent a full half hour in the music room yelling at the old piano for being out of tune.
“Even the furniture has abandoned me!” he had bellowed.
Darcy clenched his jaw each time he passed the study. He kept his eyes down, as a good servant ought, but every muscle in his body screamed to turn back and confront the man. To drag him bodily from this house and throw him out into the snow.
But he could not.
Not now.
Not when the cost of being discovered might endanger Elizabeth.
As night fell, he retreated at last to the small servants’ room he and Elizabeth had shared since arriving at Pemberley. The bed was neatly made—his hands had done so that morning—but now it looked foreign. Empty. Wrong.
He stood for several moments before sitting down heavily on the edge of the mattress. His hands burned with the effort of the day—blisters forming in new places beneath the calluses he had already earned—but he barely noticed.
He kept staring at the hearth, watching the flame’s flicker begin to die.