17. Wickham in the Garden #3
Elizabeth’s stomach dropped. “Wait? What is she planning?”
“As soon as she has sufficient funds. And she’s been playing the numbers most assiduously.”
“But what about my father? Does he agree?”
“Your father reportedly said, ‘Mrs. Bennet may go to London, to the moon, or to the devil, provided she goes quietly,’ which she did not take as the refusal he intended.”
“Mr. Bennet is holding the line,” Charlotte said. “For now. But your mother is persistent, Eliza, and your father’s resistance has limits.”
“Very specific limits,” Lady Lucas agreed. “Two bottles of port and a promise to be left alone with his books. Mrs. Bennet knows this. She is working on him.”
Elizabeth pressed her hand to her temple.
The headache was coming. Her mother, laying siege to London, would soon be in Lady Sophia’s drawing room, exclaiming over the curtains, critiquing the meals, and telling everyone that Lizzy had fifteen thousand a year, with earls and viscounts circling, and Mr. Darcy managing her fortune.
Was this not wonderful for Lizzy and all her girls?
“Surely Papa will not permit it,” she said, though even she could hear the uncertainty in her voice.
“Your father has never been able to refuse your mother anything she truly wanted,” Charlotte observed. “He retreats instead. The question is whether retreat eventually becomes surrender.”
“And Kitty and Lydia?” Elizabeth asked, dreading the answer. “How are they managing without us?”
Lady Lucas’s expression pinched with practiced concern. “Lydia is Lydia. She has been to Meryton every day this week, and the officers have been most attentive. Kitty follows where Lydia leads, as always.”
“The officers.” Elizabeth’s voice flattened.
Charlotte was watching Elizabeth with sudden intensity, and Elizabeth knew what was coming before Lady Lucas spoke again.
“There is more,” Lady Lucas said, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Mr. Wickham has left the militia.”
“Left the militia?” Elizabeth repeated. “Whatever for?”
“Apparently, he has decided to study the law,” Lady Lucas said with a significant look.
“He sold his commission and has taken a position as clerk to your Uncle Philips. He claims to have been accepted at Lincoln’s Inn.
” Lady Lucas delivered this with the relish of a woman who considered all information equally entertaining.
“He has been to Longbourn twice since. Kitty and Lydia are thrilled, and your mother is in raptures. She says a man of the law is far more respectable than a militia officer.”
Elizabeth’s heart shrank to a hard little knot.
She had known about Wickham since Darcy’s letter—knew exactly what he was capable of—but she had told no one.
Georgiana’s reputation was not hers to risk.
Now Wickham had scented money and, like any predator, was circling closer.
Her fifteen thousand a year had changed everything, and Wickham was already calculating how to profit.
“Mr. Wickham at Lincoln’s Inn,” Elizabeth said. “How ambitious of him. I wonder when he has had the time to take his studies.”
Charlotte’s hand found Elizabeth’s on the settee, letting her know she sympathized, although she could do nothing.
“Is he not a charming young man?” Lady Lucas continued, oblivious to the temperature change in the room.
“He dined with us last week, and he was all that was pleasant and amiable. He asked most particularly after you, Elizabeth. He wished to know whether you were enjoying London and whether the Season had been everything you hoped.”
“Did he.”
“He seemed quite genuinely interested in your welfare,” Lady Lucas said. “Such agreeable manners, and so handsome. Your mother thinks he might make a very suitable match for one of your younger sisters?—”
“Mamma, I believe we are late for our other engagement,” Charlotte said smoothly. “We have kept Sir William waiting long enough.”
“But I have not finished with Mr. Wickham and how he is an intimate of the Darcy family,” Lady Lucas protested.
Elizabeth could not speak. The horrible, unintentional irony of describing Wickham as practically family to the Darcys pressed against her throat like a hand.
“Another time, Mamma.” Charlotte rose from her seat, shooting Elizabeth a sympathetic look. “We might want to gather John from the music room.”
Charlotte embraced Elizabeth, whispering, “Write to me. About all of it. Everything you cannot say in front of my mother.”
“I will.”
John Lucas emerged from the music room with the dazed contentment of a man who had spent forty minutes turning pages and listening to music and would have happily spent forty more. “The Handel was splendid,” he told Elizabeth at the door. “Miss Mary has a remarkable touch.”
“She does.”
“And Miss Darcy is very kind. She made me feel as though I was helping, rather than merely observing.”
“Georgiana has that gift,” Elizabeth said, and meant it. John Lucas had always been invisible and kind, and she was glad he had found friendship turning pages in a music room.
The Lucases departed, leaving Elizabeth drained, the emptiness in her gradually replaced by dread. Her mother was on her way to London with her youngest sisters, spending her pin money on lottery tickets, and George Wickham had left the militia to remain in Meryton, circling Longbourn.
“Elizabeth.” Lady Sophia’s voice pierced her misgivings. “You know something about Mr. Wickham that you have not shared with me.”
“I know a great deal about Mr. Wickham—nothing good. He is misusing his father’s association with the Darcys to advance himself in society, and he will steal a man blind… As for young women…”
“I am aware of the name,” Lady Sophia said. “I have my sources and ears in several counties. What concerns me is not the past but the present. Wickham near your youngest sisters, with knowledge of your fortune.”
“I must go see my uncle and aunt Gardiner,” Elizabeth said. “He is my mother’s brother. He will know what to do.”
“Shall I send word to Darcy? He is at the moment, transferring your Consols to your mother and sisters, making them even more of a target.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I mean to give them the Consols. I trust my uncle will not allow them to be touched.
“But Darcy should be informed of this new complication, and your mother’s plans to visit.”
“Not yet. Let me think. I do not wish for Darcy to be involved in my family’s affairs.”
Lady Sophia raised an eyebrow. “I do believe he is concerned enough to help.”
“He is only the trustee because you wished it to be so,” Elizabeth replied. “He does not concern himself with other matters. You heard what he said. That a lady’s misery cannot be laid at the gentleman’s door.”
Lady Sophia’s expression softened, almost pitying. She nodded once, as if conceding that Elizabeth had exiled herself—perhaps she was the Mortimer Delvile after all.
Raising her book, she said, “Very well, my dear. Go to Cheapside. Harris shall have the carriage brought round for you at ten o’clock tomorrow.”
The permission was given, and the subject closed with the smooth finality of a falling latch.
Elizabeth turned and climbed the stairs to her room, leaving the gaiety and absurdity of the Season and suitors behind.
The house was quiet now; the music room doors had closed, and the Handel duet was a thing of the past. She stood by her bedchamber window and pressed her palms to her face, discovering with a quiet, sudden tremor that the room felt too cold.
Through the shared wall, she heard nothing. Number 34 was silent. Darcy was at his club, or at his solicitor’s, or attending to the hundred obligations of a man with ten thousand a year, a sister to launch, and a woman next door whose problems kept multiplying.
She had told Darcy she wanted a trustee who kept his distance—a gentleman who would never again trouble her with an affection she had so imprudently rejected. She had gotten exactly what she asked for. Somewhere beyond the garden wall, Nettle barked once and was quiet.