Chapter Twenty-Two
The morning had dawned with a clarity that might, in another season of her life, have invited ease.
The light fell cleanly across Grosvenor Square, catching upon the polished glass and pale stone of the houses opposite, rendering every detail sharp and distinct.
Elizabeth stood at the window of the small sitting room adjoining Jane’s chambers, her hand resting lightly against the frame as she looked out upon the street below.
She had not meant to linger.
Her purpose in coming there had been simple enough—to speak with Jane before the morning’s engagements began, to consult upon some minor household matter that would, in any case, resolve itself without consequence.
Something in the stillness of the hour, in the quiet before the day fully asserted itself, had drawn her to the window and held her there.
Darcy House had long been occupied, though its doors had remained closed to them. Servants came and went, as they must, and there had been occasional signs of habitation, but no formal calls had been made, no cards exchanged. It stood, in effect, as a place reclaimed but not opened.
Elizabeth’s gaze rested upon it without particular expectation.
Then, as she watched, a carriage turned into the square.
It was not one she recognized.
That fact registered at once. She had grown accustomed, whether she wished it or not, to observing the movements of Ashcombe House, to noting the arrival and departure of its well-appointed conveyances.
This carriage bore a different character.
It was large, well-maintained, but lacking the distinctive elegance that marked the Count’s equipage.
It drew up before Darcy House.
Elizabeth straightened, her attention sharpening.
A footman descended first, followed by another, and then the door of the carriage was opened. One of the footmen stepped forward, offering his hand within.
A lady emerged. Her bonnet was drawn low, its brim casting her features into shadow, but there was something in her carriage, in the slender grace of her form, that struck Elizabeth with sudden force.
Another followed, older perhaps, her movements more assured, though she too kept her face carefully concealed.
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
No…
She leaned forward, her fingers tightening unconsciously against the wood of the frame.
The younger lady paused upon the step, turning to speak to her companion. The angle of her head, the line of her profile, revealed just enough—
“Jane,” Elizabeth said, though her sister was not present. The name escaped her before she could check it.
Her heart began to beat more quickly.
The ladies were assisted within, the door closing behind them with finality. Elizabeth did not move for several seconds. It cannot be—
Despite the doubts, she knew.
She turned at once, leaving the room with a swiftness that would have startled anyone who observed her. Her steps carried her down the corridor and toward the morning room where she knew Bramley was accustomed to spend the earlier part of the day.
He was there, seated at a small writing table, a sheaf of papers before him. He looked up as she entered, surprise flickering across his expression at her evident urgency.
“Elizabeth?”
“There is a carriage at Darcy House,” she said without preamble. “Two ladies have just arrived.”
Bramley set aside his pen. “And this concerns you because—?”
“Because I believe one of them is your cousin.” That was sufficient.
He rose at once, crossing the room to join her. “Come.” They returned together to the window, Elizabeth stepping aside just enough to allow him a clear view.
“They have already gone in,” she said. “But I am certain—Bramley, I have seen her before. At Ramsgate. It was only for a short time, but I could not mistake her.”
Bramley studied the house, then nodded slowly.
“And the other?”
“Mrs. Younge,” Elizabeth said, her tone tightening. “Her companion. I am equally certain of it.”
He glanced at her.
“You do not sound pleased.”
“I am not.”
The admission was firm.
Bramley considered this, his expression thoughtful.
“If my cousin has come to Town, it is curious that we have not been informed.”
Elizabeth’s gaze remained fixed upon the house.
“Yes.”
He was silent briefly.
“Will you call?”
She hesitated. “I do not know,” she murmured. “It would be…natural, perhaps. Given our extended correspondence. Though I would not wish to intrude where I am not welcome.”
Bramley inclined his head. “If she intends to keep the acquaintance, she will send her card.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes.”
He glanced at her again. “And if she does not?”
Elizabeth drew a breath, steadying herself. “Then I shall call.”
Three days passed. Elizabeth waited. She did not speak of it to Jane, nor did she mention it beyond that first conversation with Bramley.
Her attention remained attuned, whether she wished it or not, to every movement at Darcy House.
Each morning, she found some excuse to pass by the window.
Each afternoon, she listened for the sound of a carriage drawing up across the square.
No card came.
By the third day, her patience, never infinite, gave way to resolve.
She dressed after her walk, selecting her gown with more care than the occasion strictly required. It was not a formal call, not in the sense of established acquaintance, but neither was it entirely casual. The balance must be struck with care.
When she fastened the shell necklace at her throat, her fingers lingered upon it for slightly longer than necessary.
If she is there…if it is truly she…
The thought remained unfinished.
Elizabeth descended, informed the butler of her intention, and set out on foot. The distance between Matlock House and Darcy House was slight, but the walk felt longer than it ought, each step carrying with it a growing awareness of what she might encounter.
When she reached the door, she paused only briefly before knocking. A servant answered. Elizabeth presented her card, expecting, if not refusal, then at least hesitation. Instead, she was admitted at once. That, more than anything, surprised her.
She was shown into a parlor of considerable elegance, though it bore the unmistakable marks of neglect. The furnishings were arranged with care, but there was a sense of incompleteness and disregard, the house giving the impression of having gone too long without proper attention.
Elizabeth had scarcely taken in these details when her attention was drawn to those within.
Mr. Hargrave sat near the hearth, Mrs. Younge occupying a chair beside him. And at the pianoforte, her back partially turned, her hands moving lightly over the keys, sat Georgiana Wickham.
Elizabeth’s heart leapt.
The music faltered as she entered.
Mr. Hargrave rose at once, his expression smooth, his manner composed.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, inclining his head. “What a pleasure.”
Elizabeth curtsied, her gaze moving briefly to Mrs. Younge before returning to him.
“Sir.”
Despite Mrs. Younge's smile, no warmth accompanied it.
“Miss Bennet. How unexpected.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, her tone polite but cool.
“Mrs. Younge.”
Mr. Hargrave’s attention lingered upon her, appearing to assess something not immediately visible.
Then, with a lightness that did not quite disguise its intention, he turned to Mrs. Younge and bent to kiss her cheek.
“I must leave you, my dear,” he said. “Business calls.”
Mrs. Younge accepted the gesture with evident satisfaction. Elizabeth found it…odd.
Mr. Hargrave straightened and bowed once more.
“Miss Bennet.”
She returned the acknowledgment, watching as he departed.
Only then did Georgiana rise.
She turned fully, and the years seemed to fall away.
“Miss Bennet,” she said, her voice low but brightening with unmistakable pleasure. “How glad I am to see you.”
Elizabeth’s reserve melted at once. “Mrs. Wickham,” she said warmly, stepping forward. “I am pleased to see you.”
Georgiana came to meet her, her expression open, her manner unchanged in all the ways that mattered. There was, perhaps, a greater composure in her bearing, a maturity that had not been present before; still, the essential gentleness remained.
“You are very kind to call,” Georgiana said. “I had meant to send my card, but the journey and the settling of the house—everything has been so very hurried.”
“I am only glad to find you here,” Elizabeth replied.
Mrs. Younge rose.
“Miss Bennet,” she said, “you will forgive us. There are matters of the household that require Mrs. Wickham’s attention.”
Georgiana turned to her. “You may leave us,” she said. It was said serenely, and with a firmness that surprised Elizabeth.
Mrs. Younge hesitated as if she meant to protest, then inclined her head. “As you wish.” She withdrew.
Elizabeth watched her go, a flicker of approval at Georgiana’s rebellion stirring beneath her surprise.
Her friend turned back, her expression easing once more. “Pray be seated.”
They sat together, the earlier tension easing into something far more natural.
“I am so glad you are in Town,” Elizabeth said. “You must find it a great change.”
“Oh, it is,” Georgiana replied. “Though I am pleased to be here. There is so much to see, so much to do. I have been promised a visit to Bond Street, and I am quite determined to refresh my wardrobe before the season advances further.”
Elizabeth smiled. “A most sensible resolution.”
They spoke of small things at first, of travel, of the differences between town and country, of mutual acquaintances. Elizabeth listened carefully, watching, always watching, for some sign that might confirm or deny what she suspected.
“The season has been most lively,” she said at length. “There is much talk of a certain count who has recently taken a house nearby.”
Georgiana’s expression remained unchanged. “Indeed?”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “Count Vendicarsi. You must have heard of him.”
“I cannot say that I have,” Georgiana replied.