Chapter 33
Elizabeth walked past Papa into his book room, half-turning to ensure Robbie followed just as the door slammed at her back with a finality that made her flinch.
She spun around fully, startled at the sound and her father’s marked incivility.
What had Robbie wanted to say? And why did Papa not wish for his presence?
Her father placed himself between her and the door, his expression impatient but kind.
Perhaps he had not seen Robbie? Perhaps the draft from the window had blown the door shut with unnecessary force?
Across the room, Mr. Wickham rose from the chair nearest the fire. He smoothed his coat, bowing elegantly and smiling as though he had expected her arrival and was pleased to see her.
Elizabeth did not move. She had assumed that Mr. Wickham’s calls over the past several days concerned his progress with the Collector of Customs, that he would produce documentation securing the discharge of her father’s debt.
It was what she told herself every afternoon Mr. Wickham called, conversing for a brief spell with them in the drawing room before joining her father in the book room for another quarter of an hour.
It was a sensible explanation, and she had clung to it.
Now her certainty was shaken, replaced with unease. The expression on Mr. Wickham’s face was not one of a man who had come to discuss paperwork.
Nor was her father’s. “My dear,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. Before she could ask for an explanation, he moved to the door. With the brisk, unburdened step of a man discharged from his duty, he left, the door closing behind him with a decisive click.
The room contracted. Elizabeth could hardly breathe.
She was not a child, and she was not without sense.
The situation was precisely what it appeared to be: a private room, a closed door, a gentleman watching her with warm regard, and not so much as a housemaid or a prying little sister within calling distance.
Every instinct she possessed counseled her to reach for the latch.
Mr. Wickham crossed the room toward her, his manner so easy and gently solicitous that the moment slipped past before she could seize it.
When he held out his arm, she rested her hand on it more out of instinct than by choice.
He guided her toward the chair by the fire with the easy, practiced courtesy of a man who assumed his welcome, and the moment passed before she could act on her inclination.
The unreality of her situation put her in a daze-like state, and she became an observer watching herself be led.
Once settled, hands folded in her lap, Elizabeth waited, trying hard to quiet the voice in her mind that asked with increasing urgency what Robbie had been about to tell her.
After pulling another chair closer to hers, Mr. Wickham sat, his knees angled toward her, his attention fixed on her as he spoke.
“First, I must thank you for agreeing to allow me to speak with you privately.” He paused, allowing her time to respond, but what could she say?
Had she agreed to this? Her father had not allowed her the opportunity to refuse this conversation.
“The last thing I want to do is add to your distress when you have endured so much over the last few weeks already.”
Her father’s debt, the damage to her family’s reputation, news of Mr. Darcy’s alleged death, and Mr. Robinson’s avoidance…
Yes, it had been a distressing time of late.
Elizabeth did not care to think about those things now, however.
What she needed were some clear answers so she might make sound decisions for her own benefit and that of her family.
“Therefore, allow me to reassure you that my intention is to be helpful. I hope to grant you the clarity you need to make the best choice for your future, which will, in turn, ensure your family’s security.
” She turned to face Mr. Wickham, astonished that he offered her the very reassurance she so dreadfully needed.
Cautiously, she nodded for him to continue.
He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, unfolding the linen to reveal a signet ring. “This is Darcy’s ring.”
“How did you convince the authorities to part with it?” Elizabeth gasped, looking more closely at the design.
Wickham shrugged. “I asked Mr. Wrayburn to allow me to show it to you.”
“Did he explain why we must go to Pemberley for the reading of George Darcy’s will if the son is no longer alive for me to marry?”
“Not explicitly.” He paused, considering his words.
“He did, however, mention that certain formalities must be observed.” This did not surprise Elizabeth.
As the Darcys’ family solicitor, Wrayburn was paid to ensure that the letter of the law was followed.
What did surprise her is that he would admit as much to Mr. Wickham.
He pushed the ring closer to her. “Take it. Hold it in your hand and see for yourself.” The ring was heavy, the gold warm and the bloodstone smooth under her fingertips, the coat of arms remarkably clear after what must have been decades of use.
“See the three stags on the shield? They represent the Darcys’ ancient lineage,” Mr. Wickham explained.
Elizabeth turned the ring carefully in her palm. It was undeniably real. Undeniably the Darcy heir’s ring. His ring. Something tightened in her chest that she did not entirely wish to examine. “Mr. Wrayburn must trust you a great deal.”
Mr. Wickham nodded. “I must return the ring to his office before nightfall or face the consequences. He is aware of my history with the family, that I hold them in the highest regard and would never say or do anything to damage their heritage. He trusts that I will not disappoint him.”
“Why did you do this?” Carefully, she placed the ring back in the handkerchief. “If this ring were lost, the family could press charges. It would be a hanging offense, given its value.”
He looked pained. “Is your life no less precious than mine?” He looked like he intended to say a great deal more but cut himself short.
Rubbing his hand over his face, he heaved a sigh.
When he spoke again, his tone was calm, rational.
“Miss Elizabeth, if I risk my freedom to help secure yours, how are we different? Until you get clear answers, your future is in an uncertain purgatory. I cannot imagine you find the situation agreeable.”
She laughed at his choice of words. How accurately he described her feelings. “It is dreadful.”
“Then allow me to act as your friend. That is all I ask.”
The tension in Elizabeth’s shoulders began to ease, but he had yet to earn her trust. “You are very kind,” she said carefully, “but I wonder what it costs a gentleman to offer friendship to a young lady whose family is in disgrace and whose prospects are diminishing by the day.”
He inclined his head, the bow suggesting respect.
“You are right to question me.” His gaze met hers steadily.
“I can only answer that I know what it is to have your prospects diminish, your expectations collapse, and your future rendered uncertain through no fault of your own. I would not wish it on anyone. Least of all you.” It was well said.
Too well, perhaps. Yet he spoke with so much sincerity, she was inclined to believe him.
She settled back slightly in her chair. She would listen.
Then she would decide if Mr. Wickham was trustworthy.
He stopped, turning to face her. “I admire how loyal you have been to a gentleman to whom you could not have formed any particular attachment. Darcy would have been fortunate to gain you as his wife.” She looked away, shocked at his forthright speech, not knowing how to reply.
“It cannot be easy for you to imagine what your life might have been as the mistress of Pemberley, to have your dreams crushed.” She felt her brow furrow.
Should she have dreamed of Pemberley? She had heard that it was grander than most estates, that any lady would be proud to preside over such a wonderful place.
But she had never considered that as a loss.
Pemberley was not her home, just as Longbourn was not.
Everything she had ever done, all her exertions, had been to prove herself self-sufficient, to find fulfillment in her own company through the things achieved by her own hands.
She had done well, had taken pride in the results of her diligence despite obstacles she had endured and threats to her family’s security.
But the way Mr. Robinson had avoided her recently affected her acutely at the moment.
She felt the loss heavily, much beyond any feelings regarding Pemberley.
She had believed him to be a friend and had hoped he might be more.
Just when such a possibility actually seemed possible, he had begun evading her. Did he not want the same?
Mr. Wickham sat beside her, pulling his chair closer so that their knees nearly touched.
She shifted her weight and smoothed her skirt.
“Your intelligence and dedication to your family do you credit. The friends worth treasuring will not abandon you.” Most of Meryton society avoided them still.
Even Charlotte’s calls had been less frequent—a choice Elizabeth was confident was not of her friend’s own making but that of her mother and father.
“I shall not abandon you.” Elizabeth shook her head. She could see where Mr. Wickham’s attention was heading, and she was in no frame of mind to hear it.