Fitzwilliam Darcy, Guardian

by Jennifer Joy

  “One is sufficient until we are able to return. I must beg your understanding. There is an urgent matter waiting for my attention. Our attention,” William corrected himself, his eyes flickering to Elizabeth.

  What did he mean by this? She did not know whether to be happy he included her or upset he had changed their plans once again without consulting her.

  Madame brushed him off with a wave of her wiry hand.

  “Nonsense. If Mrs. Darcy did not have a trousseau made before her wedding day, then she ought to have one now. She is a Darcy. I will make her the most beautiful lady in England, and all the wives will wish they had such attentive husbands as hers.”

  Elizabeth wished she knew what to make of William’s attentions. There were moments he made her madder than she had ever been, and then there were moments like the assembly and that morning when she really felt they had a chance at happiness together. This swaying back and forth was exhausting.

  “Let me see you together,” Madame Givenchy said, grabbing Elizabeth by the shoulders and moving her with a shocking amount of strength over to stand by William.

  Their sleeves brushed, sending tingles running like shivers out to Elizabeth’s fingertips and toes.

  Stepping back and pinching her chin, Madame frowned. “Closer. There is no need for this distance. You are married, oui? Your father, he never lost an opportunity to embrace your mother.”

  William moved behind Elizabeth. If she tilted her weight back slightly, she’d rest against his chest. The perfect height to hear his heartbeat. That she was tempted to lean back warmed her through.

  “Mon dieu, she is your wife! Embrace her! I need to see how you fit so that I may create my best design.

  William’s arm wrapped over Elizabeth’s shoulder and around her waist. He was warm and solid, and she fitted perfectly into the crook of his shoulder. Her skin felt every brush of fabric, and she wondered if it were possible to melt when his fingers rested at the top of her hip.

  She draped her arm over his as naturally as if they were lovers and nestled against him until his posture stiffened. William’s heart beat as wildly as hers did. Elizabeth could hear it.

  Madame walked around them, oblivious to what she had done. “Yes, you are the perfect match. You must have silk gowns in deep purple, robin’s egg blue, resplendent green … aside from her riding habits and morning gowns … and perhaps a little something special I can stitch together for the night, oui?” she added with a suggestive arch of her brow.

  William jumped away, crossing his arms over his chest and leaving Elizabeth perturbed at her own reaction to his nearness.

  She wrapped her arms around her torso and thought about the hatpin under her pillow. Even worse than the thought of William coming to her bedchamber that night was the thought that he did not wish to come at all. What hope did she have of understanding him when she did not even understand herself?

  Elizabeth shook her head. No, the hatpin would remain until she knew William enough to know herself in love with him. She would be greatly disappointed in him were he to try to induce her to love him before she was ready.

  Madame snapped her fingers, and several books appeared on the counter. Elizabeth focused on the dressmaker, thinking that safer than her own thoughts. And she was partly right. Madame flipped through the drawings, commenting briefly on which details she thought would accentuate Elizabeth’s features while her seamstress took notes as quickly as she could write.

  Elizabeth had never considered herself vain, but through Madame’s assessment, she gained a new appreciation for her thick, shiny hair, her slender frame, and her sun-kissed skin. Not one feature was seen in a negative light, but, rather, it was meant to be accentuated. Every comment Madame uttered lifted Elizabeth up in her own estimation until the woman would have had her believe she was a great beauty.

  The way William looked at her before acquiescing to some of the elderly woman’s demands warmed Elizabeth from the inside out. He was not so indifferent as he had led her to believe, and she basked in the warmth of his regard.

  And, so, it was decided. Elizabeth would get a full wardrobe from top to bottom. Madame ensured William knew the best places to complete her ensembles with the proper bonnets, slippers, fripperies, and even jewels to wear with her gowns. Elizabeth tried to pay attention, but it was overwhelming.

  When, hours later, Elizabeth departed from the shop, she overheard William’s only request. “I give you carte blanche, Madame. There is only one favor I will ask. Finish the green within the week.”

  “I cannot convince you to extend your stay?” Madame asked yet again.

  “It is nonnegotiable.”

  Madame sighed, then purred, “The green is an excellent choice. She will look like a goddess of the forest, a queen of the emeralds.”

  A part of Elizabeth — the romantic part that dared to hope she was so fortunate as to marry a good man worthy of her heart despite their rough beginning — softened to allow for an improved opinion of her husband. It was easy enough, for she wanted to think well of him. But she knew the danger of the game she played and prayed he would not prove false to her hope. Elizabeth did not know if she could bear another betrayal.

  For now, though, for this moment, it was enough.

  William had remembered her favorite color.

  Chapter 17

  While Evelyn was a valuable source of information regarding the Darcys, she was remarkably close-lipped when Elizabeth mentioned Mr. Wickham’s name.

  Looking about and dropping her voice to a whisper, Evelyn had said, “Mr. Wickham is not to be spoken of here. He is a very bad man.”

  “Do you know him?” Elizabeth had asked.

  Evelyn shook her head, her eyes wide. “I do not, nor would I wish to know the man who has caused more suffering to the Darcys than any other.”

  That was all Elizabeth could get from the girl, nor did she have greater success the following day when she casually mentioned his name in conversation with Mrs. Fischer and Cook. Both of the women had gone silent.

  Elizabeth had no other option but to wait impatiently for her husband to tell her why Mr. Wickham’s name was treated like a curse at Darcy House. She would not hold her breath.

  Two days had passed since their chance meeting at the park, and while William did not inspire her trust (he had too many secrets for that), he did encourage Elizabeth’s respect. Not once had he knocked on her bedchamber door. Her hatpin lay untouched under her pillow where it would remain until he deemed her worthy of his confidence.

  That morning, she found William sitting in the breakfast parlor. He drank coffee at the table she had pulled closer to the window, a pile of platters worthy of a small regiment lined up on the sideboard. His hair was still damp from the attentions of his valet. Elizabeth liked how the ends of his hair curled over his collar.

  She liked, too, how he poured her a cup of coffee and set it at the place to his right as she walked into the room. He even added two scoops of sugar and a dollop of milk. He had been paying attention. That was exactly how she preferred her coffee when sugar was to be had.

  Filling her plate, Elizabeth joined him. “Are we expecting company for breakfast or is this Cook’s way of telling you to eat more?”

  William smiled. “Did you rest well?”

  Two days of interviews, fittings, and riding around London in search of bonnets, slippers, and other fripperies had been fun for the first few hours. Not so much the entire following day. Elizabeth was tired of ribbons and lace, and yes, she was even tired of the jewels. She sat beside him, saying, “Well enough. And you?”

  He held up his cup, saluting the air with it. “This is my third cup.”

  William’s brow creased as he set down his coffee, staring into the dark, steaming liquid.

  What troubled him? Elizabeth wanted to help if only he would let her.

  Reaching over the table, she smoothed over the grooves with her fingers.

  His eyes met hers. A flash of green.
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  The tips of her fingers burned with the intimacy of her gesture. She pulled them back, clasping her hands together in her lap. It had seemed so natural. As natural as William’s embrace at the dress shop. It almost made Elizabeth forget she had been forced to marry him three days before. Had it only been three days? It felt like a lifetime ago.

  William cleared his throat and straightened his posture away from her. “I have to call at my solicitor’s office. I will be away most of the day, but the footmen are at your disposal should you wish to go to the shops.”

  She tried to hide her disappointment. And she tried to understand why she felt disappointed.

  Taking a sip of her sweet coffee, she said, “As exciting as it is to plan a new wardrobe, I have had my fill of it. But since I am free and unoccupied, then I shall follow my heart’s desire and spend all day at the bookshop. If I am not home in time for dinner, you may send someone to fetch me at Hatchards.”

  Elizabeth needed to surround herself with her oldest and truest friends. She had been in town for three days now and had not met one person she knew. Even her letters to Aunt Gardiner had gone unanswered. Elizabeth knew her aunt must be away with Uncle on one of their trips, but it did not lessen her loneliness.

  William did not object, nor did he offer to accompany her. “Do you wish for me to inform Mrs. Fischer of your change of plans?” he asked.

  The lady’s maid interviews. How could she forget? Feeling as if the wind had been taken out of her sails, Elizabeth said, “I will return in time, though the temptation to linger at Hatchards is great.”

  “The proprietor is well-known to me. I will send a message to instruct him to charge your purchases to my account. It is yours now, too.”

  Elizabeth’s heart pitter pattered. Books, glorious books! Did William understand what he offered her? She asked, “How many may I purchase?”

  William started. “As many as you want, of course.”

  All the novels she had been waiting for at the circulating library suddenly became acquirable, and Elizabeth could practically feel the weight of the volumes in her arms. She could have kissed her husband! (She did not, of course. But she wanted to. Any man who provided an endless supply of books was worth a kiss.)

  First, a gorgeous green gown. Now, as many books as she wanted. Ought she be more cautious? Was he trying to distract her from the truth she sought with gifts?

  Would this distrust never stop? Elizabeth hated the constant, uncertain wavering.

  No sooner had rational thought put Elizabeth on her guard, than William said, “You will love the library at Pemberley. I wish I could go with you, but I really must see Mr. Rochester today.”

  Now, that was better. He would miss her. And, he liked books. And, he had a library. That had to mean something.

  Was it silly of her to place so much importance on his attitude toward literature? Try as she might to think otherwise, it was important to her. It meant they had something in common.

  A woman who would rather spend the day surrounded by books than at the dress shops? Darcy could not believe his good fortune. No wonder Elizabeth’s conversation was so well-informed and thought-provoking. He had enjoyed her company the day before as they had gone to the shops Madame Givenchy had sent them to. He would have liked to accompany her to Hatchards, too. But if he wished to leave for Pemberley in four days’ time, he had to visit Mr. Rochester that same day. Elizabeth would be safe. They had not seen Wickham, and Darcy would send his largest footman along for protection.

  Darcy’s forehead still tingled where she had smoothed his brow. A calm he had not felt since he had last held Little Anne in his arms had settled over him. She was not angry with him anymore.

  Sleep still evaded him, but for the first time in months, Darcy dared to hope all would turn out well. If he and Elizabeth could continue amicably, they might grow to love each other. An heir would naturally come, and Anne would be safe. Wickham would not want her.

  Elizabeth’s innocent expression of sheer delight remained in Darcy’s mind all the way to Mr. Rochester’s office. He would do everything in his power to limit the time of their meeting. He would join Elizabeth at Hatchards. And he would tell her everything that afternoon. It was time.

  Chapter 18

  Piccadilly bustled with clip clopping hooves, squeaking cart wheels, and hawkers selling everything from ribbons to eel pies. It was a far cry from Longbourn. The excitement should have cheered Elizabeth. It had the day before.

  She had hoped that the anticipation of going to Hatchards would cure her melancholy. Instead, it reminded her of her father.

  Elizabeth, twelve years old the last time she had accompanied her father to town, had curled up in a chair with a beautiful tome of painted illustrations while he had spent hours pulling books from shelves, petting their covers, and flipping through pages in an effort to select a few new treasures to add to his own collection at Longbourn. He had spent more than he had intended, but the enchantment of the shop had remained with Elizabeth. She prayed they would work their charm on her that day.

  The crowded streets made her crave the fields surrounding Longbourn. She peered out of the carriage’s window, but though there were a multitude of faces to see, Elizabeth did not know anybody. She missed Meryton, where she knew everyone. How long would it take for her to feel as contended at Pemberley?

  The carriage stopped, and Elizabeth alighted. Slowly, savoring every inch, she stepped past the shop windows into the wonder-filled building where she could fall in love, investigate a mystery, or accompany explorers on a fantastic adventure. The bookshop had not lost its charm. Already, she felt better.

  The footman proved useful as she wandered down the rows of shelves, the stack of books she acquired growing quicker than he could accommodate them in his arms. One would think she was royalty with the way he followed her, his eyes constantly sweeping the room as he loomed nearby.

  He did not complain under his burden, but common sense told Elizabeth that the pile of books he carried had to be dreadfully heavy after an hour had passed. She was now at the back of the shop, having perused the tomes covering the length of the wall. With another side of the shop yet to delve into, Elizabeth took pity on the footman. “Please take those to the shopkeeper. I will take the five on the top with me to Darcy House, but I think it best for the rest to be wrapped.”

  The man’s eyes widened at “the rest,” but he was trained well and said nothing.

  Elizabeth, however, could not help adding, “Or perhaps I ought to see about them packing a crate to deliver directly to Pemberley. Mr. Darcy’s carriage is grand, but I would hate to have to choose between my books and the trunks containing my new wardrobe.” Who was she trying to fool? The books would win that contest without much of a struggle. So long as the green gown made it into her trunk. Everything else could come later.

  After securing the area around Elizabeth once again, the footman said, “I will return shortly,” and left reluctantly.

  William’s instructions must have been explicit and concise. While Elizabeth appreciated his concern, she failed to see the danger with which he had clearly impressed the vigilant footman. The chance of her seeing Mr. Wickham a second time was limited. A gentleman such as he would be more likely to frequent the linen-drapers and haberdashers than a place to improve the mind.

  No sooner had Elizabeth turned back to the shelf, than someone behind her began whispering.

  “Mrs. Darcy,” a man repeated several times, until Elizabeth prayed an attendant would see the tiresome interloper out of doors where he might speak as loudly as he wished.

  That is, until she remembered she was Mrs. Darcy.

  Spinning around, she saw Mr. Wickham crouched at the end of the shelf closest to her.

  Elizabeth was instantly annoyed at her own blunder and his furtive manner. She had questions, but her instincts warned he would not give a truthful answer. She said, “We have not been introduced.”

  Mr. Wickham bowed deeply. “P
ray excuse my delight in meeting the woman who has captured Darcy’s heart. I suspected you were his wife when I saw how closely you sat in the carriage, and my suspicion was confirmed when I saw the livery of the footman accompanying you. It is an honor to meet you, madam.”

  “The pleasure is all yours, sir,” she said dismissively.

  He grinned. “I apologize, Mrs. Darcy, but I could not rightly approach you with that giant guard dog around.”

  “You fear his bite, as well you should, when you ought not approach me at all.”

  Mr. Wickham clutched his heart dramatically. “Your tongue is a sword, madam, but I mean no harm.”

  “Then why did you wait until the footman left before approaching? Why not call at Darcy House and offer your congratulations like a respectable gentleman?”

  He stood a little taller, looking warily in the direction of the front counter. “I am not a fighter.”

  “No, but from what I gather, you are a great many other things.”

  His smile melted, and he rubbed his chest as if it ached. “I cannot blame Darcy. There are times I despise myself.” Mr. Wickham looked off in the distance, blinking hard and shaking Elizabeth’s firm opinion of him ever so slightly. His remorse, whatever the cause of it, seemed genuine.

  Without more facts, Elizabeth had no way of knowing how best to proceed. Was this not the opportunity she had wished for? Or should she heed her instinct and William’s warning?

  Cautiously, Elizabeth asked, “Why are you here?”

  Mr. Wickham bowed his head, his shoulders slumped. “I wish to make peace; to beg for forgiveness. What happened … would I could turn back time…” he stopped, shoving his hand through his hair and shifting his weight.

  Just when his conversation was getting interesting. In the hope he would continue without any more help from her, Elizabeth said, “Like it or not, the past is beyond your control to alter.”