Chapter 18
Elizabeth went down to the breakfast parlor early the following morning.
As she had hoped, Mr. Robinson sat at the table with her father.
She filled her father’s teacup, earning her a brief thank you before he returned his attention to the newspaper spread before him.
Then she filled Mr. Robinson’s cup and took a seat opposite him.
He stared at his tea just as he had stared at his wine glass the night before, only this morning, he smiled.
She thought of offering him cream and sugar even though he did not take either in his tea.
Instead, she got to the point. “You were quieter than normal at the table last night.” She tore off a piece of bread, pretending more interest in the morsel than in her wish for an explanation.
“There was enough conversation. I had no need to add to it.”
She spread butter on her bread and waited for further comment, but none came. Very well, she would try a different tack. “Mr. Wickham was charming company.”
Mr. Robinson raised his teacup to his mouth. “Thank you,” he said before drinking. He said nothing about Mr. Wickham.
She was this close to scowling at him. Was he avoiding her prompting on purpose? Well, her subtle hints might be insufficient, but she was not afraid to be more direct. Not with Robinson. “What is your opinion of Mr. Wickham?”
He did not flinch or pause or choke on his tea… nothing, which suggested he had been expecting the question. He was an intelligent man, she knew. Very intelligent. Had he observed something she had not?
Setting down his cup gently, he captured her glance and held it long enough for her to begin to feel the impertinence of her question.
Why should she care what Robinson thought?
What made her think he would explain his silence when she was nothing to him?
Perhaps it meant nothing at all. Most men were not so inclined to conversation as Mr. Wickham, or say, Sir William Lucas.
It was entirely possible that Robinson had been disinclined to converse at dinner for no reason at all, and she had spent all the previous night worried over nothing.
Finally, he said, “Mr. Wickham shared his opinions freely for so new an acquaintance.”
True, but she did not like that reply, feeling the need to defend Mr. Wickham. “I, for one, am grateful for the information—what little it was, really—that he shared. How else can I learn what my life is to be if nobody speaks?”
Robinson’s look intensified. “You have decided you will marry this Darcy?”
Her cheeks heated. “Not at all.” She looked away, picking at her sleeve, frustrated and increasingly embarrassed.
“I am not so selfish that I would deny the gentleman his inheritance merely to satisfy my desire for more freedom. But I know nothing about him, and I wish I could at least meet him before…” She could not bring herself to finish the sentence.
Her father still hid behind his newspaper, but he had not turned a page since she entered the room. He was listening.
“What if he is as Mr. Wickham implied? Would you refuse him?”
Her father’s grip tightened around the paper. She would have to choose her words carefully, though she wished she could be more truthful with Robinson. “I mean to be fair and give Mr. Darcy proper consideration. However, that does not mean that I have no standards.”
“I am glad to hear it. A young lady such as yourself ought to hold the gentleman she intends to marry to a high standard.”
Something in Robinson’s eye made her stiffen her spine.
A challenge. “I do.” His unwavering gaze encouraged her to add, “I expect him to treat me kindly, with respect and consideration. Of course, I would hold my own conduct to the same standard of respect, kindness, and, I hope in time, genuine affection.”
“You speak of love. Is it possible in an arranged marriage?”
Likely? No. Possible? She had to believe it so. However, the prospect of being trapped in a loveless marriage took the wind out of her sails. She could not bring herself to admit it aloud. “Do you?”
“You deflect the question. Do you fear the answer?”
“No,” she replied defiantly, untruthfully.
What was she doing? Robinson knew too much about her and her family’s circumstances.
Yet he had proven that he would not abuse her confidence.
She sighed. “Yes. I am afraid. Terribly so.” She twisted her fingers around the bottom of the tablecloth.
“My future happiness lies in the hands of a man who ran away rather than face his responsibilities, who chose to extract himself from his father rather than make peace. Yes, Mr. Robinson, I am afraid.”
He sat silently for some time, sharing her fear and sadness.
Then he reached for the teapot, filled her cup to the brim, and scooped half of a teaspoon of grated sugar into the brew, just as she liked it.
She accepted his kindness gladly, carefully stirring the sugar and breathing in the calming vapor.
“Thank you.” Taking a sip and feeling the weight of her concerns melting off her shoulders, she relaxed in her chair.
Robinson regarded her kindly, making her smile return. “I have no doubt you will make the best of the situation, whatever you choose.”
She wished she could share his confidence.
Taking another deep sip of her tea, she cradled it to her chest, its warmth soaking into her soul and softening the grip her fears had on her.
Tea was a magical brew. It made everything better.
“I do not know if I can trust Mr. Wickham’s opinion of Mr. Darcy, but I have nobody else to ask.
” Her aunt Gardiner was the only other source of information, having spent her youth in Lambton, a village near Pemberley.
Unfortunately, aside from assuring Elizabeth that Mr. Darcy was a handsome young man, she had not known him well enough to shed much light on his character.
Elizabeth peeked at Robinson through the steam of her tea. If only he had known the Darcys. He admitted to being from the north, but that was all she knew about his ties to England. Even so, she trusted his opinion.
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If you are to rely on Mr. Wickham’s judgment, then you would do well to understand what he stands to gain by influencing your opinion.”
She scoffed. “What could he possibly gain by swaying my opinion of Mr. Darcy?”
He held her look as though he fully expected her to come up with the correct answer, as if there was one! Then he carefully answered, “Mr. Wickham himself repeated several times that he was as close as a brother to Mr. Darcy.”
“Which makes him a credible source, does it not?”
“If he is speaking truthfully.”
Elizabeth frowned. She had not considered questioning Mr. Wickham’s veracity. He spoke so confidently, so certain of his place. But it was true that she had no proof other than his word.
Robinson continued, “It makes me wonder if he believes he stands to inherit much more than one would ordinarily expect a steward’s son would receive.”
“He would not be so presumptuous!” As soon as the exclamation passed her lips, though, doubt crept into her mind.
Mr. Wickham had emphasized the connection more than once.
Why? What was his purpose? Then again, she had directly asked his opinion, and he had given it.
That was not manipulation; that was honesty.
“No, he merely answered my question. That he did not hold a high opinion of Mr. Darcy is just that—an opinion, and an old one, as Mr. Wickham himself pointed out. Had he wished me to think poorly of Mr. Darcy, he would not have been so cautious in his phrasing. He might have been a great deal more liberal in sharing his views.”
“And yet you think less of Mr. Darcy after his conversation.”
She squirmed in her chair because he was right, and she did not like how easily he seemed to read her mind when she could not do the same to him.
It was not fair. “I hope I am not so easily influenced by the opinions of others, especially recent acquaintances.” She leveled her gaze at him, including him in her comment.
“A wise way to live.” He tipped his head at her.
His reasonableness was vexing. “And what of you, Mr. Robinson? Am I to heed your warning and suspect everything Mr. Wickham says when I know so little about you?”
He did not look away or even blink. “Only a proud fool would tell a capable, insightful young woman what to do or how to think. I merely encourage you to question his motive.” He slid his chair back and stood.
“If you will excuse me, I have some letters to write and a meeting with Mr. Philips.” He turned to her father. “Will you be joining us, sir?”
Papa lowered his paper just enough for his spectacles to be visible over the top. “Is my presence necessary?”
“It would be preferable, sir, though not explicitly necessary.”
That was clearly the answer Papa wanted to hear.
“Then I will leave you to it, Mr. Robinson.” At that, he returned to his paper.
Robinson bit his lips together and took a deep breath.
With a bow, he dismissed himself, leaving Elizabeth every bit as dissatisfied as she had been when she first walked into the room, and much more frustrated.
She stabbed a sausage and bit it off the fork, chewing forcefully. He had called her insightful and capable, had encouraged her to think for herself and form her own opinion. He had acted just as a gentleman ought, so why was she so nettled?
Her father folded his newspaper and set it aside, then regarded her with a look that told her she had not been as careful in her selection of words as she had thought. “You are very interested in Mr. Robinson’s opinion. Allow me to remind you that he is in my employ. A secretary.”
Elizabeth bristled. Robinson’s manners were more cultured than most of the gentry she had met, certainly superior to anyone in Meryton or the villages surrounding them. “He is a capable gentleman. More than anyone! You must see that.”