by Violet King
Considering Mr. Collins, in his gazes and increasingly embellished compliments of Elizabeth’s imagined character, was making his intentions to attempt a courtship well known, Elizabeth doubted his ability or interest in chaperoning. It served his own self-image to pretend he, who got winded after a mile walk, would somehow be able to protect her. It was infuriating. Unfortunately, without spurning him, which her family could not afford, she would instead have to cut her walk short and return to hide in her father’s study, as she had since yesterday when Mr. Bennet had risen from his bed.
“It is best we return home,” Elizabeth said.
“Do not—” Mr. Collins wiped his sleeve over his forehead. “I pray, cut short your morning exertions on my behalf,” Mr. Collins said. The longing look he cast over his shoulder to the main house undercut his gallantry.
“It is no trouble,” Elizabeth lied. Though Elizabeth hardly set a brisk pace returning home, by the time they reached the main door where Mr. Collins, in his overblown sense of propriety insisted they enter, he looked near collapse.
Mr. Collins caught his breath and bowed, “I thank you, Miss Elizabeth, for the pleasure of your most amicable company. I did so enjoy our walk, and pray I may again be allowed another such extensive tour of these lands.”
“Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said with a curtsy. “I must make certain my father does not overexert himself at his work.”
“You, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, are the portrait of filial duty. A married woman, of course, would enjoy many benefits and freedoms, and not be chained to a study and her father’s correspondence.”
Elizabeth wished she could smack him. “Mr. Collins, I must go.”
Mr. Collins, taken aback for a moment, his eyes widening, gave her a second, hurried bow. “Of course. It was my pleasure to accompany you this fine morning, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth could not bring herself to lie, even in the interest of politeness, as Mr. Collins would take even the slightest cordiality as encouragement.
Elizabeth opened the door to her father’s study. Mr. Bennet called out, “Lizzie, is that you?”
“Yes, Papa.” Elizabeth pulled the door shut behind her. She took a step into the room before noting her father had company. “Mr. Darcy!”
A flutter of gladness like a butterfly’s wings rose in her chest. Mr. Darcy with his tall frame, lean muscle, and fluid grace would not expire after walking a mile. Mr. Darcy also would not attempt to win her over with hollow platitudes. This was followed by the more troubling thought that Mr. Darcy would not attempt to win her over at all. And though Elizabeth was delighted to see him, she could not help but wonder why he was here. “Has your sister written?” she ventured.
“Mr. Darcy was discussing with me an odd request from Mr. Wickham concerning your sister Lydia.”
It was like the ground fell out from underneath Elizabeth in that moment. Mr. Darcy promised to keep the clandestine meeting between Mr. Wickham and Lydia secret. Elizabeth had trusted him. And yet, now, he and her father were discussing the pair. Lydia. Wickham. “Mr. Darcy! What did you—?”
“I have no explanation why Mr. Wickham would insist on speaking only to your daughter Lydia.”
“He what?” Elizabeth was confused.
“As I was informing your father, Miss Bennet, Mr. Wickham was tracked down by an investigator I hired to a seedier portion of London. He was carrying stolen correspondence from your father’s home, and now he insists only on speaking to Miss Lydia Bennet concerning information of great import. His words. He has also made other outrageous claims of a disturbing nature.”
“What claims?” Elizabeth asked.
“The ravings of a desperate man who has overstepped himself one too many times,” Mr. Darcy said. “I had only felt it important to share Mr. Wickham’s statements, as relayed by my solicitor, because his actions concerned you and your household. I would not put your daughter, any of your daughters, in harm’s way.”
“Please, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth insisted, “share with us exactly what Mr. Wickham said.”
Mr. Bennet gave a curt nod. “Please, Mr. Darcy. It will ease our concerns to know the full situation.”
“So be it,” Mr. Darcy said. “Mr. Wickham claims an attempt was made on his life. It is possible there is truth to his claim, considering the neighborhood where he was found, but he insists the threat is not a cutpurse but an assailant of a less usual nature. Further, the method of his assault, which again I must caution you is likely an exaggeration, was by means of a ring with some manner of pin inside.”
“A needle?” Elizabeth breath caught.
“I suppose. Mr. Wickham claims it held a poison, but Mr. Wickham will say anything to avoid the consequences of his own actions.”
A needle. A ball. A prince.
Elizabeth did not believe in fortune tellers, but she recognized not everything was within her ability to measure or understand. The hidden cipher had intimated a threat against the Regent, and now, a man who used a needle to kill.
“Lydia must not speak with Mr. Wickham alone,” Elizabeth said.
“Of course we cannot involve your sister,” Mr. Darcy said with a curt wave of his hand.
“We must. But she cannot speak to Mr. Wickham alone. I will go with you to hear his words. I believe they are connected to the situation your brother intimated about in his second cipher.”
“The one you refuse to tell me anything about.”
“You told Mr. Darcy of the second cipher?” Mr. Bennet flushed. “How could you reveal such a thing? You have put all of our lives at risk!”
“She told me nothing except a second cipher existed,” Mr. Darcy said. “And Mr. Wickham had no way of knowing what Miss Elizabeth spoke of at her sister’s sickbed. He must have been sent by another to steal your notes.”
Elizabeth said, “Papa, we must speak to Mr. Wickham and find out what he knows. What point is there in remaining here and pretending at a false safety if Bonaparte destroys all we love?”
“Lizzie…” Mr. Bennet’s voice held the undertone of pleading. “If anyone should go, it is I.”
“No. You are only just recovering from Mr. Wickham’s attack. You cannot tolerate jostling, and your vision still goes black at points.” Elizabeth had thought Mr. Wickham was a feckless seducer, but she had underestimated him. Just as she had underestimated Mr. Darcy. “Lydia and I will go to London with Mr. Darcy to speak with Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth said. “Please, give us your blessing, Papa.”
“You would go whether or not I gave my blessing.”
“Papa!”
Mr. Bennet shook his head. “I have raised you to think for yourself, Lizzie. Whether that was in error hardly matters now. You have my blessing. Take Mrs. Hill. My wife can do without her for a few days, and nobody will doubt her ability to protect any lady’s virtue.” Mr. Bennet turned to Mr. Darcy. “It is only because you have been honorable in protecting this house I feel comfortable giving consent for you to take my daughters to London. I expect you to return them both safe and well.”
“You have my word, sir,” Mr. Darcy said.
“Then you may as well tell Mr. Darcy the rest, Lizzie. If nothing else so he knows which questions are of the greatest import.”
Elizabeth went through what she had discovered in the second cipher, ending with, “If the king or the Prince Regent is killed, it will put our government and thus the war effort into disarray. Perhaps even opening us to a usurper or an invasion.”
Mr. Darcy said, “My brother. I tried not to doubt him for where and how his body was discovered. I feared he had betrayed us, but instead... I hardly knew him. He was my brother, and I hardly knew him.”
Elizabeth wished she could put a hand on Mr. Darcy’s to comfort him. His expression was brittle and so sad. “Your brother lived with honor,” Elizabeth said. “His work for us may have been irregular, but he did it with honor.”
Mr. Darcy nodded. He took a breath, pulling his shoulders back. “Yes. Reggie
was always honorable, even in his tricks.”
Mr. Bennet said, “Go now, get Lydia. I will tell your mother what has transpired after you are all on your way. My wife’s brother has a home in town. Make certain to deliver my daughters there to overnight when your business with Mr. Wickham is finished.”
27
“London! And Mr. Wickham insisted I was the only one with whom he could share his pain. Is that not romantic, Lizzie?” Lydia asked for the twentieth time since she had learned of Mr. Wickham’s request to see her and only her.
Mr. Darcy sat across from the two women, his gaze fixed out the window. Mrs. Hill sat beside him in one of Mrs. Bennet’s castoff frocks, bright blue with raised hem and brought in at the waist to fit her shorter, slighter frame. Mrs. Hill’s hair had gone almost to gray. She wore muslin gloves and had, since taking her place in the carriage, knitted, her needles tapping a steady click-click at they rode.
“It is not romantic,” Elizabeth muttered.
“Mr. Wickham and I are destined to wed. It is as Mme. Godiva said. You do not speak so critically of Mme. Godiva as you had before. Perhaps Mary is right and you are having a secret courtsh––”
“Quiet!” Elizabeth said, grabbing her sister tightly by the wrist. “Not one more word.” She glanced at Mr. Darcy, who thankfully appeared indifferent to Lydia and Elizabeth’s conversation. “Mr. Wickham robbed us. How can you persist in this infatuation?
“You cannot be certain Mr. Wickham was responsible.”
“He was found in London with our father’s papers. The papers that were stolen from Papa’s study. You cannot think those papers came to Mr. Wickham by chance?”
“Perhaps he discovered the thief later. And perhaps the thief is the man who attempted to murder Mr. Wickham.”
“And perhaps Mr. Wickham is a lost Russian prince, and perhaps all he wishes is to take you back to his kingdom in the snow. You will eat borscht and drink honey wine every night.”
“Now you are fooling with me. You dislike Mr. Wickham. Both you and Mr. Darcy dislike him.”
“Both I and Mr. Darcy have good reason to dislike Mr. Wickham. Lydia, will you at least consider the possibility he may not be the fair-haired man of Mme. Godiva’s vision?”
Mrs. Hill looked up from her knitting. “Emily, she is a good sort.”
“Emily?”
“Mme. Godiva, my apologies. She has a kind heart. She helped Billy and his mom with their eggs from the market last Sunday.”
“Exactly. Mrs. Hill is right,” Lydia said, bringing her gloved hand, in a fist, up to her collarbone. “Mme. Godiva is a good woman. And her visions have truth in them. Why, I believe though Jane will not speak of it directly, Mme. Godiva told her Mr. Bingley and she were meant to fall in love.”
“Mr. Bingley often falls in love,” Mr. Darcy said, his gaze still focused on the growing sprawl of London through the carriage window.
Elizabeth’s stomach lurched. Mr. Bingley had said it himself. He was as content with the country as the city, happy wherever his feet took him. Elizabeth had feared at the time his heart was inconsistent. Now Mr. Darcy confirmed her worst fears. “Mr. Bingley is fickle then?” Elizabeth ventured to ask.
“Not so much fickle as quickly infatuated.” Mr. Darcy shifted in his seat. “I have helped him through many a loss.”
“He was spurned?” It was hard to imagine any woman casting Mr. Bingley aside, but if his previous courtships had ended because the woman was feckless, then Jane had nothing to fear. Jane loved with her whole heart, and she would stay true to Mr. Bingley. So long as Mr. Bingley was honest in his approbation for Jane, then everything would work out for the best.”
Though it was better Jane occupy herself with securing Mr. Bingley’s regard, Elizabeth wished her sister had joined them for this trip. Jane was the best at talking sense into Lydia. Elizabeth had no such skills. The harder she pushed, the more Lydia rebelled.
Now, Lydia seemed ready to forgive Wickham for bludgeoning their father and outright theft. It was infuriating. If she could have gotten Mr. Wickham to speak without involving Lydia, she would have. As it was, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy both, as well as Mrs. Hill, were forced to suffer through Lydia’s increasingly fanciful imaginings of love.
But was Elizabeth any better? She too had been swayed by Mme. Godiva’s words. A needle. A ball. A prince. Elizabeth glanced across the wagon Mr. Darcy again. The fluttering butterflies in her chest had descended to her stomach. The carriage was warm, which justified the heat in her cheeks and her neck. The same cold features Elizabeth had initially dismissed now compelled her. Would they ever have a chance at a second dance?
A needle. A prince. A ball.
He will ask your hand in marriage.
Elizabeth shook her head. She was not traveling to London for balls or princes, and certainly not to woo Mr. Darcy, if any such a thing were possible. While Elizabeth, like a ninny, admired Mr. Darcy, he would not even look at her. And how could she blame him for his current disinterest? Mr. Darcy had every good reason to wish never to see Mr. Wickham again, and yet faced with all reasonable evidence, Lydia continued to sing the blackguard’s praises.
Mr. Darcy must think Elizabeth’s entire family mad.
Upon leaving Netherfield, Mr. Bingley had insisted both Elizabeth and Jane take the books Mr. Darcy had lent in Jane’s sick room. Now, Elizabeth read the small folio of theorems Mr. Darcy had chosen for her. The equations were not related to coding, but instead a pure mathematics that predicted the movement of the planets. Mercury. Venus. Mars.
Elizabeth, not being well-versed in physics, had only skimmed the surface of what the author, a Russian, had put forth. The text was in Cyrillic, which Elizabeth could not read. Still, the nights after Mr. Darcy had left, Elizabeth had flipped through the pages, her finger tracing the author’s neatly organized equations. She felt a closeness to these numbers.
“Are you still reading that dull book?” Lydia asked, peering over Elizabeth’s shoulder. “It is not even in English?”
“Mathematics is universal,” Elizabeth said.
Mr. Darcy looked up and rested his gaze on the front cover of the book Elizabeth held. “You are enjoying it?”
“I cannot claim to understand everything the author has written, but reading it offers a new perspective.”
“Does it?” Mr. Darcy shook his head. “I fear I did not understand it at all.”
“Understanding comes with time. And companionship.”
“Whatever are you on about, Lizzie?” Lydia squinted at the book. “It looks like gibberish to me.
Elizabeth forced a laugh. “Some equations are an acquired taste.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes widened.
Lydia sighed. “Well, I doubt I shall ever acquire it. I cannot wait until we reach London. Mrs. Hill, can you hand me my bag? I have a pillow to finish embroidering.”
Two hours later, they arrived at Mr. Darcy’s London townhouse. The sun was setting. A mist hung in the air, but it thankfully was not the yellowish-green encompassing fog that sometimes descended upon the city.
For a young woman used to the country, London had always held for Elizabeth an impression of both energy and a sense of overcrowding. She was grateful Mr. Darcy’s townhouse was in a quiet area. The oppressive scent of horse dung, while still present, was not so strong here. And the houses were orderly and well maintained.
Mr. Darcy alighted first. He held out his arm for Mrs. Hill, Lydia, and then Elizabeth. Elizabeth caught a whiff of Mr. Darcy’s scent as she rested her gloved hands on his forearm for just long enough to maintain propriety before continuing after her sister to the house.
Elizabeth clutched her shawl around her shoulders. As she walked, the damp air muffled the sound of her footsteps on the cobbles. The house was grand, four stories in height, and immaculately kept. They passed through a small courtyard to the main door. A butler opened it, took their outer wrappings, and led them up a flight of stairs to the drawing room.
Mr. Darcy
and his butler Mr. Pritchard spoke briefly, asking after Mr. Darcy’s guests. Elizabeth explained her and Lydia’s luggage was to go ahead to the Gardiners, her aunt and uncle, who were prepared to receive them after this meeting.
Lydia, in the interim, made excited remarks about the decorations. “My, that is a lovely painting!” she said, pointing to a seascape hung above a flickering wax candle on the mantle. “Is it Brighton? I so wish to visit Brighton!”
“My sister painted it,” Mr. Darcy said.
The painting was small but vivid, drafted with an exacting eye, and yet there was something charming to the brush strokes. The ocean seemed almost playful, waves capped with white foam like cake icing.
“It is lovely,” Elizabeth said.
“Where is Mr. Wickham?” Lydia asked.
Mr. Darcy said. “We will speak with him in the library.
Elizabeth, though tired and thirsty from their long ride, was eager to speak with Mr. Wickham and find out all he knew. But before she could ask to meet with Wickham, a second man came into the room. “Mr. Darcy? Which of these ladies is Miss Lydia Bennet?”
“I am,” Lydia said, stepping forward. “Mr. Wickham asked for me.”
Mr. Darcy made introductions. “My solicitor, Mr. Hart...”
After exchanging courtesies, Lydia asked, “How is he?”
“As well as can be expected. He refuses to open the curtains of the guest room where he is installed. Mr. Pritchard was concerned he might run, but I think he is too frightened.”
“But not of me?” Darcy asked.
“He muttered something about the devil you know.”
Elizabeth said, “We would like to speak with Mr. Wickham as soon as possible.”
“And you are Miss Lydia’s sister?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Darcy said, “Miss Bennet has a practical mind and a familiarity with Mr. Wickham’s machinations. As such, it was necessary she joined us.”
A practical mind? It was almost a compliment from Mr. Darcy, but best not to put much stock in it. He probably meant she was not a ninny who was easily seduced.
