Elizabeth did not wait to be told again. Still clutching at the reticules, she dropped the pen-knife from her grasp, dashed past him and flung the door open, to clatter down the stairs without a backward glance, nearly tripping over the folds of Georgiana’s long pelisse, still thrown over her arm. He must have stood to watch her go, for the slamming of the door rang behind her only when she had reached the corner of the building.
That was also when the delayed shock caught up with her. Her breath came in loud, uneven gasps, and she leaned against the stone wall for support because her knees were shaking.
Deep breaths. Long, deep breaths to calm herself, before she had to summon the courage to make her way into the inn proper and ask for a post-chaise.
She burst into a nervous giggle. After the last encounter, nothing could unnerve her. Not even walking unescorted into the taproom of a country inn.
She straightened and tightened her hold around the armload she was carrying, then walked on. The noise of the carriage rolling to a stop beside her barely caught her notice in the surrounding din, but the crest did. Goodness, had she been waylaid by Mr Wickham for so long that Georgiana had already had the time to reach Pemberley and send the carriage back for her?
The door opened with a sudden jerk, and placid surprise gave way to boundless joy. This carriage had not come from Pemberley. It was larger, mud-splattered and above all, not empty. By the time it had drawn to a complete standstill, Mr Darcy was already out. He briefly touched his hat in greeting and stretched his hand, palm up. Then remained waiting, his back as rigid as a well-trained footman’s. He handed her in without a word, followed, and closed the door.
The only words that passed his lips were, “Drive on, Morgan.” The only glance in her direction – dark and brief. Then he turned towards his window, and she to her shattered joy.
* * * *
He could not trust himself to speak, nor look at her. Uncivil, but so be it. It was either that or red-hot rage. He had given her his heart, his trust, was about to give her everything – only to find her on an assignation with Wickham, of all people. Wickham!
The nightmarish journey had brought him into Lambton a short while ago, to the unspeakable relief of spotting the rogue climbing the side stairs to the upper parlour of the Crossroads. Which, the good Lord be praised, meant he was nowhere near Georgiana, at Pemberley or elsewhere.
A careful scrutiny of the carriages clustered around the inn had given further reassurance, for none of them bore the family crest. So at long last, after too many gruelling hours, fear’s grip had begun to slacken and he had sunk into the cushions, his chest expanding with the first unhindered breath he had drawn since reading Georgiana’s letter. Nor were his fingers drumming on his knee any longer in exasperation at the throng of carts and people cluttering the narrow road and slowing his progress. Slowing it to a halt eventually, right into the thick of it, where a large waggon and several overloaded carts were at a standstill, with crowds milling about and loud, persistent braying compounding the commotion.
He had half-heartedly leaned out for a glimpse into the cause of the disturbance, although the noise was sufficient indication. The bucking donkey could easily be spotted and likewise the irate peddler, cursing eloquently as he tugged at the taut rope. His efforts had no effect whatever as regards the bucking and the braying, nor could they prevent his wares from rolling out of the panniers onto the muddy road. Expletives poured, each more rounded and descriptive than the other, and over the ear-splitting din Darcy could hear his coachman apologising for the vexing delay.
“Not your doing, Morgan. Rest easy and take your time,” he had called back, settling in for the wait with all the patience he would not have felt, had he not spotted Wickham at the inn ahead.
The wait had not been overlong. More curses and the liberal use of a cane had finally coerced the donkey out of the way and a couple of bystanders had come to lend a hand, subdue the wretched animal and retrieve the scattered wares. The surrounding carts had jolted into motion to squeeze past each other, and the carriage had cautiously followed suit.
Not a long wait. Yet long enough to deal the crushing blow. Elizabeth – his Elizabeth – leaving Wickham’s parlour at a run. Stopping to draw breath. Laughing to herself. Not at Pemberley, where he had thought her, but here. At the inn. On an assignation. With Wickham!
His fist clenched on his knee and he gritted his teeth with jaw-breaking force, rocked to his core by the vilest admixture of overwhelming hurt, fury and revulsion.
How could she?
Of all the men in all the world!
How could she?
* * * *
The silence was oppressive. The tension – unbearable. For some minutes now, having left the bustle of Lambton’s main thoroughfare, the carriage was progressing briskly past the last few cottages on a much quieter stretch of road. And still he had not said a word. Would not even look at her, but kept staring fixedly out of the window, jaw tightened, fist clenched on his knee. Clenched so tightly that the knuckles had turned white.
Never before had she seen him so angry, not once, and her heart broke for him. What made it a thousand times harder to bear was the knowledge that he was angry at her. So angry that he could barely greet her. Without a word there either, just a brief touch to the brim of his hat.
Much as it pained her, the chilling anger was deserved in no small measure. It was her duty to keep Georgiana safe, and she had very nearly failed her. Failed him. She had no business to allow Mr Wickham to call as frequently as he had – no business to let him call at all. Her instructions had been perfectly clear as far back as the summer. To keep themselves to themselves at Pemberley in Mr Darcy’s absence. She had no business to enjoy listening to Mr Wickham and secretly delight in glimpses of Mr Darcy as a boy. Foolishly grasp at a privilege that was not hers, instead of doing what she had been engaged to do. Look after Georgiana’s interests. Sharpen her ears and her senses to detect deceit and peril. See Mr Wickham for the schemer that he was, see through his ploys and vengeful designs sooner – a vast deal sooner.
Mr Darcy must have known what he was. He would not have hastened back from town, had he not been terrified by the sheer notion of that man near his sister. So terrified that he had arrived as soon as humanly possible – must have left within hours of receiving Georgiana’s letter; must have travelled without stopping, day and night.
He might have felt at fault as well, for not leaving instructions that Mr Wickham should be denied the house. But his failure to anticipate that need could not possibly excuse her failings. She all but shuddered at what might have happened earlier that day. She had no business to linger in the bookshop dreaming of the man who paid her wages and any gifts she might have found for him, while Georgiana was being lured into a scheme that could have ended in her ruin.
It had not, the Lord be praised, and she had been able to preserve her, but it should not have come as close as that. She should have seen through Mr Wickham’s schemes – and through Miss Fenton’s. With hindsight, she could think of so many instances that should have aroused suspicion. And would have, had her head not been so unpardonably full of Mr Darcy.
She bit her lip and winced. She could not tell him that. But she would have to acknowledge most, if not all, of her other errors.
Now?
She winced again. It had to be done. In private. Their present circumstances afforded enough privacy. Quiet words would not carry to the coachman and footmen, over the noise of the moving carriage. He was fair. He would listen. Might not be too quick to forgive, but a full explanation might soften some of his unbearable anger. And she could not withstand another moment of the wretched silence anyway.
Her chin came up and she bit the bullet.
“Mr Darcy, I am woefully aware that I have failed you– ”
His eyes shot up to her, silencing her with their dark glare. He stared, daring her to continue. Daring her to provide an explanation. When she could not quite find the wherew
ithal to do so, he turned back to the window.
“You failed yourself more than you failed me,” he said, his voice ice-cold. His lips tightened into the grimmest mask of profound displeasure and he spoke again, without turning. “Distasteful as it might be to bring this up, I feel you should be warned before matters get well and truly out of hand. Do not pin your hopes on marriage. Your charms, substantial as they might be, are insufficient without a considerable dowry or at least well-placed connections.”
She froze. So he did know her secret. The shock of the disclosure was overpowering, and his choice to address this here and now scarcely less so. As was his dismissive reference to her shortcomings. And the words he had used. Distasteful. Her eyes stung, but with the greatest effort she kept herself in check. Her back stiffened and she clasped Georgiana’s crumpled pelisse closer to her chest.
“I wonder at your mentioning it at all, since it is so distasteful,” she replied, her tone just as icy, hurt feelings getting the better of her. “And I might as well wonder at your being so ungentlemanly as to feel the need to put it in so many words.”
His outrage was instantly apparent.
“Ungentlemanly? You lay that on me?”
“I most certainly do,” she defiantly retorted. “This is hardly the time or the place, but while we are on the subject pray let me assure you that I need no such warning. I had not pinned my hopes on marriage.”
His dark glare swept over her with something akin to disbelieving horror.
“Yet, knowing that, you would still choose to be in this untenable position?”
She shrugged and forced herself to reply crisply:
“As you see.”
His stare remained unbroken for a few awful moments, and then he looked away.
“You must understand that under the circumstances you cannot continue as my sister’s companion,” he said flatly, and the finality of the heartless statement chilled her to the core, as did his next, when he resumed. “You should leave to be with yours as soon as may be. At least there you might be at some distance from unsuitable associations.”
Her chest swelled in indignation.
“Unsuitable indeed! You have said quite enough, Sir. I perfectly comprehend your feelings and have now only to be ashamed of what my own had been. Rest easy, I shall leave Pemberley as soon as possible.”
Stony silence fell. Darcy turned to stare out of his window and Elizabeth out of hers. She would not cry! By all that was holy, she would not burst into tears like some weakling – like some spurned damsel. She wrapped her still burdened arms closer to her chest, as though to cover the gaping hole within.
The rolling hills scrolled before her eyes, eliciting no reaction. Least of all sadness at forsaking such glorious sights forever. If she never returned to Derbyshire again, it would be too soon.
CHAPTER 17
Elizabeth pushed the door open as soon as the carriage had come to a halt, not waiting to be handed down, nor for the step to be lowered. She spotted the other carriage just ahead, on the cobbled circle before the main entrance, with Joseph at the reins, presumably readying to drive back to Lambton to fetch her. She unnecessarily said to the young footman, who had jumped off his place at the back:
“No need, Peter. I am–” She was about to say “I am home now,” but the words caught in her throat. “I am here now,” she said instead.
“And the things, Ma’am? Have they been retrieved?”
“Yes. I will take them up.”
Peter nodded. Then, with a quick bow to her, he walked off to greet his master and give any assistance that was needed. Elizabeth paid no further heed to either Mr Darcy or his people. Instead, she made her way into the house.
She found Georgiana above stairs, in her bedchamber. The dear girl sprung up from the window seat to clasp her in a warm embrace.
“Lizzy! Thank goodness! That was very quick. Did everything go well?”
“I found your pelisse and reticule,” was all that Elizabeth was prepared to tell her. “Here they are. There was nothing else to look for, I hope.”
“I think not. Oh, you were so kind. And brave. I thank you.”
“Do not mention it. It was the least I could do, after leaving you at the dreadful risk of being lured away under false pretences.”
“False pretences?”
“Aye. Mr Wickham as good as admitted that.”
“Oh!” Georgiana gasped. “So you have seen him.”
“Briefly.”
“Goodness! Was it very awful?”
Elizabeth’s strained countenance darkened further.
“Sickening, rather,” she owned dejectedly, her voice gathering strength as she continued, “Georgiana, I am sick with guilt at what might have happened if he were allowed to have his way.”
“To do what?”
“Spirit you away. Inducement into matrimony, he cynically called it,” Elizabeth imparted with a grim set to her mouth. “Instead of being grateful for your father’s generosity, he felt himself cheated of a great deal more. He sought to gain it by marrying you.”
Georgiana’s eyes widened.
“So the professions of gratitude to my father…”
“Lies, all lies,” Elizabeth bitterly exclaimed. “His show of gratitude, his regard for your brother, his wishes for a reconciliation. A mere ploy to elicit your sympathy and play on your affectionate heart with childhood recollections. Only to resort to dire measures when he found himself running out of time. Force your hand, and your brother’s, to consent to the union through compromise.”
Georgiana brought her hand to her temples.
“How can anyone be so utterly devoid of every proper feeling?” she whispered.
Elizabeth put her arms around her.
“I know not. Nor do I know why Miss Fenton saw fit to lend him assistance, but– ”
“She did?”
Elizabeth let her arms drop and stepped back to catch Georgiana’s eye.
“Can you not see? She brought him here. She objected to my accompanying you to Lambton this morning. She took you to the inn and made herself scarce when Mr Wickham joined you by so-called happenstance. She sought to send your own carriage away.”
Georgiana shook her head in shocked incomprehension.
“Why would she collude to such a betrayal?”
“I know not,” Elizabeth replied with a deep frown that twisted into a wince. “I am to blame in this as well. For giving a Fenton the benefit of the doubt,” she all but spat the name, making Georgiana look up.
“What makes you say that?”
“No matter. I beg you would forgive my blindness as regards her, and worse still, Mr Wickham. He should not have been allowed to call and ingratiate himself with you.”
“Oh, Lizzy, hush,” her friend protested, clasping her hands in hers. “How were you to know? How were either of us to know it was all fabrication, when he sounded so open and genuine– ”
“So plausible and simpering,” Elizabeth scoffed. “He had no business to be here in the first place. I was not authorised to encourage gentlemen to call upon you, was I? In that, at least, your brother has every reason to be vexed.”
“You think he will be?”
Elizabeth pursed her lips and looked away.
“I know he is. Forgive me, I should have already told you. He is come.”
“My brother?”
“Aye.”
“So soon?”
“Post-haste, by the looks of it.”
“Oh, dear. The tidings in my letter must have been even more worrisome to him than we have anticipated. Rightly so, with hindsight,” Georgiana sighed and her brow clouded. “Is he very angry, Lizzy?”
“Yes,” was Elizabeth’s terse reply.
“How do you know? What did he say?”
“Not much. But enough to make his feelings clear.” Her lips tightened. “Would you excuse me? I would like to go and change.”
“Of course, do. I will see you when you come down. Or here i
f you prefer, as soon as you are ready. But pray do not look so downcast. I will speak to my brother and he will understand. Surely he must see we would not have given Mr Wickham the time of day, either of us, had we known what he truly was – had my brother but told us. And he must learn that if I was preserved, it was all thanks to you.”
Elizabeth could only shrug. That was as might be – all of it. Yet it changed nothing. Not the main reason why she would have to quit Pemberley. Georgiana’s mediation was powerless against it. Her countenance set, Elizabeth left her friend’s bedchamber for her own.
There was no comfort to be had, there or elsewhere. But she had not come seeking comfort. Just a quiet, private place, behind a closed door.
* * * *
The door was still closed and she was still leaning against it, sitting on the floor with her knees huddled to her chest. No tears. This was not a time for tears. She did not feel like crying anyway. She felt drained, empty of all feeling – or rather drained of the capacity to feel.
Too long a day, and too much upheaval. Fear for Georgiana. The rush to preserve her. The repulsive encounter in the parlour. The heart-breaking carriage journey. The dark look of disdain in Mr Darcy’s eyes. His warning – harsh and cutting. She would have thought him far above such wanton cruelty. Rightly hurt and disappointed as he might have been on account of her failings as regards his sister, did he really have to return measure for measure and injure her in his turn? State so very clearly that she was not good enough for him? As though she did not know as much already. As though she needed this, over and above his anger!
The light tap on the door behind her made her jump. She ignored it, hoping that whoever it was would go away, thinking the room empty. The tap turned into a knock, longer and more audible. She ignored that too and pressed her eyes shut. And waited, motionless and in perfect silence.
It was a small mercy on this day of frightful turmoil, but she was still thankful that she did not hear a third knock.
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