Chapter 18 #2
“Yes, he is very good at his job, as any good secretary ought to be. I feel I must warn you against forming any attachment to such a man when you are promised to a gentleman who is far superior.”
Superior? Based on what merit? His family’s prominence?
His wealth? Elizabeth bit her tongue, knowing her protests would only add credibility to her father’s reasoning.
Mr. Darcy could be an ungrateful fool who shirked his responsibilities.
That was how Mr. Wickham made him sound—an opinion which Elizabeth would challenge at their next meeting, in honor of fairness—as Robinson had pointed out to her.
Her father continued, “Mr. Wickham is a likable fellow. He grew up at Pemberley, Lizzy. Given his firsthand knowledge of the estate, he is a reliable source of information. He means to call today, and I encourage you to make inquiry of him directly.”
Mr. Wickham intended to call again? Why? His conversation had been pleasant, but his attention had mostly been directed at her—the one person at the table who was not free to receive it.
Elizabeth attempted to distract her mind with books, embroidery, paints, and pastels.
In one particularly desperate moment, she pulled out Longbourn’s ledger to check the numbers and sums once more.
The harvest had been better than she had expected, the income from its sale higher than in previous years.
She had enough for everything they required to purchase seed, make repairs, and a little extra to add to her family’s comfort.
If she could convince her father to allow them all a trip to town, they could secure fine fabrics for new gowns that would last long enough to see Longbourn prosperous again.
That would make her sisters happy, and it would do their mother good to visit her brother and his family.
They had not seen the Gardiners in years due to Mama’s fear that the connection with a tradesman’s family might discourage Mr. Darcy.
It was no longer a concern now that Mr. Darcy was not alive to make any changes to his will… more was the pity.
After closing the ledger, Elizabeth went into the hall.
The sound of giggles and her sisters’ whispers led her to the back parlor, where she found Kitty and Lydia crowding the window, shoving each other, and threatening to stamp on the other’s foot for a better view.
Mary stood at its edge out of the way of their elbows and heels.
“You are blocking my view!” Lydia huffed.
“If you would agree to take turns as Mary suggested, then we would not be having this problem,” Kitty retorted.
Elizabeth paused in the doorway, curious to know what was on the other side of the glass to cause her sisters so much discord.
Mary fanned her face and sighed. “As the psalmist said, we are, indeed, wonderfully made.” With a grin, she took a final glance at the window and departed from the room.
Intrigued, Elizabeth stepped into the place Mary had abandoned by the window and peered outside.
She sucked in a breath and bit her lip. Robinson’s coat lay draped over the water pump.
His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned, muscled arms and strong hands that gripped an ax handle.
Placing a piece of wood on the chopping block, he raised the ax over his head and split the wood with one powerful strike.
“Again!” cheered the girls excitedly. Had Elizabeth less dignity, she would have joined them.
He placed another piece of wood on the block, raised the ax, and took a vigorous swing.
The blow split the wood neatly in half with a mighty crack.
For a moment, he leaned against the head of the ax, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
His hair looked damp, and his shirt clung to his back, his chest, and his arms. Mary was right. He was wonderfully made.
Lydia swooned. “I wish I were that handkerchief.”
“Ew! So he could wipe his stinky sweat all over your face?”
“I bet his sweat smells good,” Lydia cooed.
Kitty wrinkled her nose, but she still did not pull her gaze away from the spectacular form. “Do we have more wood to split? He has almost finished the pile.”
Lydia shoved her. “Go ask Hill. Quick! Before he finishes!”
“Why should I go? You can go as well as I can.”
“It was your idea.”
While the girls continued bickering, Elizabeth tried to calm her racing heart and heating skin. She had seen sweaty men in shirtsleeves before—one could not oversee a harvest without observing how the men worked. But none of them made her pulse race and her skin warm.
Robinson stopped chopping again, looking up the drive and standing taller as he spoke to someone further up the road… someone who sat on a carriage, perhaps? Mr. Wickham?
She noticed that Robinson now gripped the ax between both hands in front of him, implying that he was preparing to use the tool as a weapon if necessary.
Unable to see who the unwelcome visitor was but increasingly convinced it had to be Mr. Wickham, Elizabeth ran into the kitchen and out the back door behind Robinson.
His back was wide. When she drew closer, she found his form even more impressive than it had been from her previous vantage point.
Rounding the drive sat Mr. Wickham on a fashionable curricle.
She called out to Mr. Wickham so as not to startle either gentleman.
“Good day to you, sir. What brings you to Longbourn?” By this time, she had reached Robinson’s side and ascertained that, while his sweat did not smell sweet, he more certainly did not reek like the tenants who only bathed on Saturday.
Mr. Wickham was all smiles. “It is a fine morning, and I had hoped you might join me for a drive up the public path.”
“Me?” she asked, still surprised even though her father had suggested this might happen.
“I would much rather include all of your family, but this curricle only has two seats. That being the case, I decided to start early so that I might offer each of you a quick turn up and down the main road before the clouds spoil the weather and ruin our diversion.” He was not singling her out but was helping her and her sisters pass an otherwise uneventful day before the rain would surely keep them indoors.
He was being kind rather than improper, then.
He looked to jump down from the curricle, but before he tossed the ribbons to the stable boy, Robinson held his hand up. Mr. Wickham stopped. The servant turned to Robinson, waiting to be told what to do. For a secretary, the man possessed extraordinary command.
“Johnny, fetch Miss Elizabeth’s gloves, coat, and bonnet, if you please. Mrs. Hill will know where they are,” he said with polite authority. Elizabeth had departed from the house so quickly, she had forgotten them.
When the items were delivered, he held her coat so she could put it on.
Tying her ribbons at her chin, she turned to thank him, the intensity in his eyes warming her through.
That he wished to tell her something was evident.
That he would not tell her in Mr. Wickham’s hearing was equally so.
Tugging the bow tight, she smiled softly at him and nodded, communicating her appreciation and trying to offer reassurance that she would exercise caution.
He softened, returning her slight smile to convey his confidence in her, though his apparent mistrust of Mr. Wickham made her suspect that he would listen for the crunch of their wheels on the road until they returned in a timely fashion.
Turning to the curricle, he wiped his palms against his breeches before holding his hand out to assist her into the carriage.
The roughness of his skin scraped against her kid gloves, and the heat from his touch soaked into her palm, sending tickling currents up her arm and down her spine.
She looked down at their hands, then at Robinson, locking eyes with him before the horse’s harness jingled and Mr. Wickham said something neither of them heard.