33. Merely a Friend #2
Elizabeth set down the bottle she had been holding before she dropped it. “My marriage is not your concern, Mr. Wickham.”
“No, indeed. I speak only from fellow feeling.” He spread his hands, the picture of innocence.
“Be honest with yourself, Mrs. Darcy—you married my brother for his fortune. There is no shame in it. We must all navigate the world as best we can, and you have done so with remarkable success. I truly admire you for it. Your secret is perfectly safe with me.”
“I have no secrets.”
“No?” Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, or perhaps triumph.
“Then I must be thinking of someone else. Another Miss Bennet, perhaps. One who spent several weeks in Cheapside this past winter, attending coffee houses and literary salons, accepting tokens from a gentleman she believed intended to offer for her hand.”
“I held no such belief.” The blood drained from Elizabeth’s face and she turned away, reaching for another bottle and making a note of its contents.
“Such a romantic girl, that Miss Bennet,” he continued, his voice soft, almost tender. “I recall she accepted a signet ring in exchange for a locket. Silver, rather fine. Containing a lock of brown curls—quite delightful.”
“I do not know what you are suggesting, Mr. Wickham.”
“Suggesting? Nothing at all.” He pushed off from the worktable and followed her to the next section. “I merely wonder, sometimes, what became of that ring. Initials G. W. Whether the lady still has it. Whether she takes it out at night and remembers a time when she believed herself loved.”
“Mr. Wickham—”
“I am not asking for anything, Mrs. Darcy.” He turned back to her, and his smile was gentle now, almost kind.
“I am merely observing that we are alike, you and I. We recognized opportunities, and we seized them. The only difference is that you succeeded where I failed. But we are family now—united in our circumstances, for better or worse. And I find myself in need of a friend.”
“I am not your friend.”
“No? Perhaps not yet.” He moved toward her, and she held her ground with an effort that cost her more than she wished to admit.
“But consider—your husband need never know about our… previous acquaintance. The locket, the ring, the promises we made. I have no wish to cause you distress. I ask only for what any family member might expect. A place at Pemberley. A home.”
“That is a matter for Mr. Darcy, not for me.”
“Is it?” He was very close now, close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes.
“You hold the keys, Mrs. Darcy. You manage the household. Surely you could find room for a poor relation. Rose Cottage, perhaps—it has stood empty since my mother died. A small thing, really. Hardly worth mentioning to your husband at all.”
Footsteps in the corridor approached. Hannah appeared in the doorway, a basket over her arm, her expression cheerfully oblivious to the tension she had interrupted.
“Mrs. Darcy! Mrs. Reynolds said you needed help with the inventory. Oh—” She bobbed a curtsy as she spotted Wickham. “Begging your pardon, sir. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Just leaving.” Wickham’s entire demeanor shifted—the predatory stillness melting into easy warmth, the threatening intimacy becoming brotherly affection.
“Mrs. Darcy was kind enough to show me the stillroom. It awakens such pleasant memories. Lady Anne used to bring me here when I was a boy, you know.”
“Did she, sir?” Hannah’s eyes were wide with interest. “I’ve heard she was ever so kind.”
“The kindest woman I have ever known.” Wickham’s voice caught, just slightly—a masterful performance of grief barely contained.
“I miss her still. But I am glad to see Pemberley in such capable hands.” He smiled at Elizabeth, and to Hannah it would look like nothing more than familial regard.
“My brother chose well. Very well indeed.”
He departed with a graceful bow, his footsteps light on the stone floor, leaving Elizabeth alone with Hannah and a heart that refused to cease its frantic beating.
“Such a charming gentleman,” Hannah said, beginning to unpack her basket. “And so handsome! It must be lovely having family to stay, ma’am. The house seems brighter with company in it.”
Elizabeth murmured an appropriate response and turned back to the shelves, counting bottles she could no longer see through the film that had descended over her vision.
Her hands were steady—she was proud of that—and her voice did not shake when she asked Hannah to make note of the lavender water shortage.
But beneath the calm surface, her thoughts churned.
She might confess to Darcy at once, cast herself upon his mercy, and hope that the man who had looked at her with such warmth last night would not become again the stranger who had once bartered for her at Longbourn.
But confession demanded a courage Elizabeth was not at all certain she possessed.
She would get through the dinner party first. The Apethorpes would be present, as well as Darcy’s aunt and uncle.
She had to hold it together, and if Darcy stormed out, if he could not forgive him, then the scandal surrounding their family would deepen.
But if she remained silent long enough, perhaps Wickham would take his price, sign the papers, and depart—leaving Cheapside safely unspoken.
It was not a plan—hardly even a hope—but it was all she had.