33. Merely a Friend
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MERELY A FRIEND
George Wickham’s presence at Pemberley was rather like a raincloud at a garden party—unwelcome, persistent, and impossible to ignore.
Elizabeth schooled her features into polite unconcern, though the prospect of sharing breakfast with him, feigning ignorance of their history, threatened to turn her stomach.
She imagined Georgiana already waiting in the breakfast room, innocent and unsuspecting, and wished herself anywhere but there.
Darcy, too, appeared to be avoiding the breakfast room, and so, Elizabeth contented herself with listening to his movements in the adjoining chamber. She was grateful he had sought her out on his return from London—that they had spoken in the pavilion without Wickham’s presence.
Something had shifted after she had returned the brass key—the one that unlocked the cabinet holding Lady Amelia’s documents.
For once, her curiosity took no root. Some secrets, like sleeping dogs, were better left alone.
She would not unleash her words, nor allow her opinions of Darcy into her life. There simply was no need.
The thud of boots and the decisive click of the door announced Darcy’s departure.
Only when his footsteps had faded did Elizabeth summon Clarice for tea and toast, as if nourishment might clarify what Darcy’s presence only muddled.
She was not angry—at least, not in any way she could name.
He had handed her the keys to Pemberley, let his gaze linger with a tenderness she could neither accept nor refuse, yet spoke not a word about marriage, forgiveness, or even the reasons she had been angry, because at this moment, she was not entirely sure whether those reasons were right.
Through the window, she watched him cross to the stable yard, dressed for riding though it was barely past eight. Perhaps he was off to see Mr. Blythewood regarding the papers Wickham must sign. He did not nurse headaches and linger in bed, and neither should she.
She closed her eyes, and the memory rose unbidden—last evening, after the pavilion, when she had taken his arm and walked beside him toward the house. The nursery door had stood ajar, and Thomas had looked up from his tin soldiers with such desperate hope that Elizabeth’s heart had cracked.
When he spied Darcy, he had not run to him. That was what struck her most vividly. Another child would have launched himself across the room, begging to be lifted and chattering noisily. But Thomas stood, frozen, as though afraid that movement might shatter the vision before him.
It was Darcy who crossed the distance and knelt on the nursery floor.
Heedless of his good coat, he opened his arms, and Thomas walked into them slowly, carefully, as though approaching something precious and breakable—and then his small arms had wrapped around his father’s neck, and his head had dropped to Darcy’s shoulder, and his eyes had closed.
Just quiet. Just holding on.
They had stayed that way for a long, long moment—longer than any two-year-old should be capable of stillness.
Darcy’s hand moved slowly up and down the child’s back, his own eyes closed, his face holding such brokenness that Elizabeth finally understood what this man had been carrying alone.
Grief for a son he was not allowed to acknowledge by a woman who did not concern herself.
Elizabeth was not that woman, and found herself unable to condemn a man for concealing wounds he had never chosen.
Darcy had not sought rejection, nor the shadow of illegitimacy, nor the necessity of deception.
The lies remained, but so did his longing for a family—first with Thomas, and now, perhaps, with her.
She opened her eyes. The stable yard was empty now; Darcy had gone. But the memory lingered, warm and aching, and she did not know what to do with it.
She ought to be downstairs, reviewing menus, confirming the seating arrangement, and performing all the small rituals expected of a mistress with a dinner party looming.
Mrs. Reynolds would soon begin to wonder, and Wickham could not be avoided indefinitely.
If fortune smiled, the solicitor would secure Wickham’s signature, and he would vanish by morning.
She dressed sensibly in the dove grey silk Clarice had laid out, hastily securing her hair beneath pins before stepping out into the corridor. Her first stop would be the stillroom, where she would allocate the stores of preserves, pickles, cordials, and spices for the dinner party.
Elizabeth found Mrs. Reynolds already there, consulting her ledger.
“We are lower than I thought,” the housekeeper said by way of greeting. “The dinner will require additional lavender cordial, and I am not certain we have sufficient stores.”
Elizabeth held her hand out for the ledger. “I can complete the inventory, Mrs. Reynolds. Then we can sit together and allocate the budget to replenish the supplies.”
“Very well then. I must speak to Cook regarding the fish and game,” she said. “But I shall send Hannah to assist you.”
“Yes, please.” Elizabeth opened the ledger to the cordial section. She was peering at the labeled bottles and making notes when a voice from the doorway startled her, and her skin prickled at the throat-clearing that preceded George Wickham’s ingratiating smile.
“Good morning, Mrs. Darcy.” Wickham slouched in that overly familiar way, standing against the doorframe.
He had dressed well as he always did, above his station with a cravat tied in the manner favored by London salons.
“Imagine finding the Mistress of Pemberley in a humble still room. Although I am not surprised.”
“Mr. Wickham, did you lose your way to the breakfast room?”
“Not at all. The layout has not altered since I was a boy.” He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the shelves. “Lady Anne used to bring me here. She would let me taste the elderflower cordial if I promised not to tell my father, as it was meant for company. Said it would be our secret.”
“Our supply of elderflower cordial does not allow you the liberty of tasting,” Elizabeth said curtly, hoping Hannah would appear. “If you will excuse me, I have to finish the inventory.”
“You are looking well, Mrs. Darcy.” His gaze traversed her silks.
She did not thank him. She was no longer the girl who had looked for love, believing in a world of romance and affection. That was before her father’s illness—thankfully, he was recovering—and the marriage of convenience that had made it possible.
“Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy,” he spoke her name as if it were a marvel. “Imagine my surprise when I heard my brother had married. He was always so reticent regarding such matters. But then I learned the name of his bride, and suddenly it all made a delightful sort of sense.”
“I cannot imagine what you mean.” She turned back to the shelves, counting bottles of lavender water she had already counted twice. If she kept her hands busy, perhaps they would not tremble.
“Can you not?” His reflection appeared in the glass of a cabinet door. “We are old friends, you and I. Surely we are past such formalities.”
“I beg your pardon.” She walked past him to count the rose water.
“How cold you are.” He wandered closer, examining bottles with apparent interest. “I remember a warmer Miss Bennet. Livelier. Quicker to bestow her smiles.”
“People change, Mr. Wickham.”
“Do they? I wonder.” He picked up a bottle of elderflower cordial, turned it in his hands, set it down. “Marriage agrees with you, it seems. Or perhaps it is merely the clothes—you are dressed far more elegantly than I remember. Silk suits you.”
“Pemberley provides adequately for its mistress.”
“More than adequately, I should imagine.” His smile widened, revealing knowing eyes. “You have done very well for yourself, Miss Bennet. Very well indeed.”
“Mrs. Darcy.”
“Yes. Of course. Mrs. Darcy.” He let the name hang in the air between them, weighted with implication. “I owe you an apology, I think, for disappearing so abruptly. You must have wondered.”
Elizabeth’s hand stilled on a bottle of something viscous and dark—blackberry cordial, perhaps, or sloe gin. She had wondered; in fact, waited rather painfully on that day when he had not shown. But she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
“I confess I had nearly forgotten,” she said. “So much has happened since.”
“Has it? I suppose it has.” He was closer now, close enough that she could smell his cologne. “An untimely death, and complications. Family matters. I am sure you understand how these things go. One intends to write, to call, to explain—and then somehow the weeks slip past and the moment is lost.”
“The moment was lost some time ago, Mr. Wickham. I see no purpose in revisiting it.”
“No? A pity.” He propped himself against the worktable, arms crossed. “I had hoped we might be friends. Old friends, renewing an acquaintance. After all, we have so much in common.”
“I cannot imagine what.”
“Can you not?” That smile again, knowing and sly.
“We are both outsiders here, Mrs. Darcy. We arrived at Pemberley through… unconventional means. Neither of us was born to this.” He gestured broadly, encompassing the stillroom, the house, the whole vast machinery of wealth and privilege that surrounded them.
“You understand what it is to come from nothing and find yourself surrounded by everything. To perform a role you were never trained to play. To smile and nod and pretend you belong when everyone around you knows perfectly well that you do not.”
“I belong here.” The words came out sharp. “Mr. Darcy married me. That is belonging enough.”
“Is it?” Wickham tilted his head, studying her with an expression that was almost sympathetic. “Forgive me, as I do not mean to cause offense. I merely observe that marriages of convenience are… complicated. One wears a mask for so long that one begins to forget there is a face beneath it.”