A Chance Encounter in Pemberley Woods

by Brigid Huey

“You lie as usual, Wickham,” Darcy said. He spoke with confidence, yet inside…he was not so sure. The child had appeared on his lands in the most unusual of circumstances, and he had never had a chance to question the mother. A sudden swell of dread made him swallow hard.

  “Perhaps.” Wickham took a large draught of his ale. “Perhaps not.”

  Darcy stared at him. How he loathed this man. Could he even be called such? A liar, a thief, a womanizer, and a scoundrel. He could have fathered many children by now.

  “And what are we to have as proof?” Colonel Fitzwilliam demanded, coming to stand next to Darcy.

  “I have no proof that you would consider valid,” Wickham sneered. “But I doubt that it will matter much.”

  “He means to besmirch my family name,” Darcy said heavily. “He will make such a claim whether it is true or not.” And we shall be painted with the same brush of infamy, merely by association.

  “A girl, isn’t it? The child?” Wickham said. “Her mother was a lovely thing. A bit dull, I suppose, but well worth the effort, I should say. From Matlock. Blonde and fair, just as I like them. She sent word to me when she entered her confinement.”

  That he knew the particulars of Daisy’s mother was unsettling. There was no way to disprove Wickham’s claim. An image of Elizabeth flashed into Darcy’s mind. In truth, she was never far from his thoughts—especially now as the fate of her sister remained so uncertain. How would she accept such news? Would she believe it?

  “Of course, I have no use for a child, especially a girl. So, I simply had the messenger leave her with you, where she would benefit me the most.”

  Darcy leveled Wickham a look of as much authority and disgust as he could muster.

  “Terms,” he stated flatly, unwilling to remain in this room a moment longer without broaching the matter most important to Elizabeth.

  Wickham smiled, looking every bit the snake he claimed to be. “Always so abrupt, Darcy. Where are your manners?”

  “Terms,” Darcy said again. “Cooperate now, Wickham, or I will have you court-martialed and hung for desertion.”

  For the briefest moment, Wickham’s smug face held a look of uncertainty. Darcy himself was not sure he could make good on such a claim, but it seemed to be credible enough that Wickham ceased prevaricating.

  “Fifteen thousand pounds, a living, and my freedom,” he said.

  “A living? As a clergyman?” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his tone full of disbelief. “You may or may not have fathered various illegitimate children, you elope with a young woman, and you wish to be a clergyman? You are infamous.”

  Wickham only smiled in response, lifted his ale lazily to his lips, and took a long draught, his eyes on Darcy.

  “No,” Darcy said sternly. “You will never have a living from me or any other gentleman. You are unfit for the position.”

  “Is that so unusual?” Wickham quipped.

  “I offer you this,” Darcy said, ignoring Wickham’s jest. “A commission in the army and five thousand pounds.”

  “Ten thousand,” Wickham countered.

  Darcy inclined his head slightly. “Provided you marry Miss Lydia immediately and travel with her to your place of commission directly after you are married.”

  Wickham heaved a dramatic sigh.

  “Must I? She is so tiresome.”

  “Really, Wickham,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said dangerously, “I would not push our patience further. I would hate to see your pretty face come to harm.”

  Wickham smirked. “Very well then, Darcy, ten thousand pounds and the commission.”

  “If you marry Miss Lydia.”

  “Very well! I will marry the strumpet. It is no more than she deserves.”

  Darcy held out his hand to Wickham, feeling a deep loathing. He hated attaching Miss Lydia to this scoundrel, no matter how foolish she had been. No one deserved a life with this man. Wickham took his outstretched hand, gripping it firmly.

  “Be ready for us tomorrow morning,” Darcy said. “We shall call and tell you the wedding arrangements and your new place of employ. Be warned, Wickham. No money shall be yours until you are married.”

  Wickham rolled his eyes. “Ever the purist, Darcy. I look forward to hearing from you, my old friend.”

  Without a word, Darcy turned and left the room. It was the best he could do for Elizabeth, but his heart felt heavy. It was his fault, and his alone, that her sister must marry such a man. With Colonel Fitzwilliam beside him, they collected Miss Lydia from the parlor and made their way to Gracechurch Street. It was time to deliver her to her aunt and uncle.

  ***

  Elizabeth sat in the bay window of her father’s library, staring out at the dusty road. No word had been received from their uncle. Nothing had been heard of Lydia. Elizabeth shivered. Where was she? Was she safe? Did she continue to live with Wickham, or was she in an even more dreadful state—alone and friendless in London?

  Her father sat in the chair by the fire, staring into its depths. How much he must feel this misstep. She knew he held himself responsible.

  Elizabeth glanced down at the book in her lap: Shakespeare’s sonnets. She had given up reading it an hour ago, choosing instead to look out the window. She straightened as she realized there was dust on the road.

  The post.

  Stealing a glance at her father, she rose as calmly as she could, trying not to alert him. Stealing quietly out the door, she made her way to the front hall where Jane was already standing, eager as well to meet the post. Hill paid the postman, and he handed the older woman a letter.

  It was not for their father but for Elizabeth herself. Jane sighed. “It was too much to hope for, I suppose, to hear something from our uncle so soon.”

  Though Elizabeth thought it was past time to hear something of Lydia, she nodded her assent, not willing to add anything to Jane’s burden of worry.

  She glanced down at the letter in her hands. She did not recognize the script, but it seemed to be written in a delicate, feminine hand. Excusing herself, she retired to the garden to discover its contents.

  Elizabeth’s heart leapt as she realized the letter was sealed with the Darcy crest. Oh! How wretched she felt! Not a week ago she had been there, at Pemberley, with Mr. Darcy and his sister. Were they truly still friends? Elizabeth thought again of their last meeting. Mr. Darcy had been adamant that Wickham would not be allowed to prevent their friendship.

  Friendship. It had become a most confusing word. She found now that she deeply desired the Darcys’ friendship, and not only because of her dear Daisy. She missed the child terribly, it was true, but there was something more. She missed the quality of conversation, the felicity of time spent listening to Miss Darcy practice, the lovely walks amid the roses of Mrs. Darcy’s garden.

  Even now, Elizabeth knew she was fooling herself. It was Mr. Darcy’s face that filled her mind at this moment—more so than the roses, Miss Darcy, or even Daisy. She thought of him again, asleep in the chair, holding Daisy. The image had become most precious to her in a way that she could scarcely understand.

  Shaking herself out of her unsettling thoughts, she broke the seal on the letter and sat down upon a bench amid the lavender flowers to read the missive.

  It was from Miss Darcy and was filled with enjoyable stories of Daisy’s adventures in the summer sun. “Her smiles light up my days,” Miss Darcy went on, “but she suffers greatly, the poor dear, from my brother’s absence. He has been obliged to travel to London. Indeed, he left directly after you and your relations. Daisy misses him terribly, as we all do. And no one is as adept at calming her, though I find that I am beginning to learn out of necessity!”

  Elizabeth’s thoughts flew again to Mr. Darcy. What could have taken him to town? She hoped he was well and it was only a matter of business. Indeed, it must be, for Miss Darcy did not seem concerned for his welfare.

  Would he call on her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner? Would he be able to, considering the disgrace her family had brought upon them a
ll?

  A tear rolled down her cheek as Elizabeth thought of all that was lost.

  So engrossed in her own thoughts was she that the clatter of hooves on the gravel drive startled her to her feet. Surprised to see another messenger on horseback, Elizabeth hurried forward to meet him.

  “A letter for Mr. Bennet,” the messenger said, dismounting.

  Elizabeth fished in her pocket for a coin, paid the man, and took the letter with shaking hands.

  “Thank you, miss,” he said, mounting his horse once more and heading directly for the village.

  Elizabeth stared at the letter in her hands. She recognized the script at once. It was from her uncle.

  Chapter Ten

  Darcy took another sip of his port. Surely, Mr. Bennet had received the missive from Mr. Gardiner by now. Miss Lydia was safely ensconced in her uncle’s home, the date for the wedding set. Darcy had procured a commission for Wickham just this morning and had made sure to make his posting as far from the Bennets as possible.

  He felt a certain sense of relief that Miss Elizabeth was saved from any further mortification, that her family’s reputation had been salvaged. And yet, he was deeply unhappy.

  He stared for a moment into the fire. His London home was comfortable, and the library was his favorite room. Tonight, however, it felt cold despite the fire in the hearth.

  How could Elizabeth ever forgive him? It was through his mistaken pride, his insufferable superiority that her sister was allowed to be exposed to such a man as Wickham! And now this foul creature was a part of her family. His sweet Elizabeth was to be forever sister to a soulless wretch of a man.

  Darcy thought again of his last conversation with Wickham. The man insisted that Daisy was his. He had described the mother with unsettling accuracy. What was Darcy to do? How would he tell Georgiana? He must tell her, he knew, for there was nothing keeping Wickham from spreading this tale. Oh, Darcy had threatened; he had warned. But he knew without a doubt that as soon as the opportunity arose, Wickham would take advantage of this connection without hesitation.

  He sighed, finishing his port with one last, large swig. He traveled to Pemberley on the morrow where he must face the truth. He must break Georgiana’s heart by revealing Daisy’s parentage. And he must face another, more bitter truth even than this—that he would remain at Pemberley, alone and without his dearest Elizabeth, till the end of his days.

  There was a soft knock at the door. The hour was late, but Darcy knew it was Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  “Enter,” he called gruffly.

  “Darcy, I thought I would find you here,” the colonel said. He walked to the sideboard and poured himself his own port. “More?” he asked Darcy, motioning with the bottle.

  But Darcy shook his head. Drinking himself into oblivion would only make the trip to Pemberley more difficult.

  “Well,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, settling himself into an armchair. “It will be done by tomorrow week. Miss Lydia will be married, and the happy couple will be on their way to Newcastle.”

  Darcy laughed without humor. “Happy, indeed,” he scoffed.

  The colonel shrugged. “Miss Lydia seems happy, at least.”

  “True,” Darcy said. “But she is a child. She will deeply regret this union, I have no doubt.”

  “Perhaps,” his cousin conceded. “Perhaps not. She seems oddly well matched to Wickham’s selfishness.”

  Darcy did not respond.

  “Are you sure you do not wish me to accompany you to Derbyshire?”

  “I am certain. I do not yet know how I can tell Georgiana the truth, but I know I must.”

  “And Miss Elizabeth?” the colonel’s voice was almost too casual.

  “What of her?”

  “Will she know the truth as well?”

  Darcy was silent for some time. Of course she deserved the truth. He knew in his heart how devoted she was to Daisy. Such news seemed to require a visit. And yet, how painful it would be to see her again, to deliver information that would cause her distress, and to know that she would be divided from him forever. How could he ask her to be his—to help him raise her brother-in-law’s bastard child?

  He found some comfort at least in the promise he had extracted from the Gardiners that Elizabeth would have no knowledge of his involvement in her sister’s marriage. The last thing he wanted was for Elizabeth to carry a burden of gratitude. He wanted her friendship, he yearned for her affections, but he could not accept a marriage based on a misguided sense of obligation.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “Of course Miss Elizabeth will know the truth. I have no doubt that Wickham will try to use it to control her in some way, and I will be damned if I allow that to happen.”

  “Their mother has invited them to Longbourn, you know,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said.

  “Damn that woman!” Darcy said. He sat down opposite his cousin in defeat. “She has caused me a great deal of trouble.”

  Fitzwilliam laughed. “Do you think they will accommodate her?”

  “I have no doubt of it. I did wish to spare Miss Elizabeth their company.”

  “You care for her, do you not?” the colonel said.

  “Deeply,” Darcy replied, surprised by his own frank admission. “But it matters not. She will not have me, not after this.” The words seem to stick in his throat, and he swallowed hard against the strength of the emotions welling inside him.

  “Cousin—”

  “And now I must sleep, Fitzwilliam,” he said, abruptly rising from his chair. “I am for Derbyshire at first light.”

  “I wish you luck, my friend,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, rising as well and clasping Darcy’s hand. “My thoughts go with you.”

  Darcy walked his cousin to the door and then retired to his chambers. He spent a restless night, filled with dreams of his sister’s despairing face, Daisy’s blue eyes, and Elizabeth’s gentle laugh. He felt a certain sense of relief when dawn broke at last, gray and bleak though it was.

  ***

  Elizabeth breathed in the refreshing morning air as she walked to Oakham Mount with Jane and Mr. Bingley. It was such a relief to be away from Longbourn. Her mother had gone from despair to rapture upon hearing that Lydia was to be married. Jane and Lizzy were distressed that Lydia should marry such a man, yet they understood that there was nothing else to be done. It was a miracle their uncle had found the pair so quickly.

  She still wondered at it. Not only had Uncle Gardiner found Lydia and Wickham, but he had somehow managed to convince Wickham that marriage was the best course of action. He had secured a commission for him and taken care of his debts in London. Uncle Gardiner must have paid Wickham as well. There was no way that scoundrel would marry for less than ten thousand pounds. It was astonishing that their uncle should take so much upon himself.

  “Miss Elizabeth?” Bingley said, interrupting her thoughts. He and Jane were looking at her, evidently expecting an answer to a question she had not heard.

  “Forgive me,” she said at once, “I find myself quite distracted this morning.”

  “Do not worry, Lizzy,” Jane said in her gentle way. “We all are, I imagine.”

  “It has been a tumultuous week,” Bingley agreed.

  They had reached the Mount, and Jane and Bingley took the opportunity to sit together on the little bench in the clearing. Elizabeth felt restless. She wanted to run.

  With a sigh, she turned from the couple to look upon the vista before them. The rolling hills stretched out, offering a pretty view, though it was nothing to the sights she had enjoyed in Derbyshire. She wondered whether Miss Darcy had received her reply. Lizzy found herself eager for news of Daisy, and of Mr. Darcy. Had he returned from Town? Was his business resolved to his satisfaction? Did he miss their conversations at all?

  She shook herself.

  “Lizzy?” Jane came to stand beside her. “You seem to be in low spirits.”

  “I am sorry, Jane. You are correct: I am indeed out of sorts this morning, though I am grate
ful to be here with you instead of at home with Mama and her effusions.”

  “It has been difficult for us all, I know,” Jane replied.

  “Enough of my ill humor!” Lizzy said. “Shall we return for tea?”

  Mr. Bingley rose from the bench and offered the ladies his arms. “That sounds marvelous,” he said.

  Elizabeth’s smile was genuine as they began the journey home. It was such a pleasure to have Mr. Bingley with them. His devotion had not faltered in the face of Lydia’s scandalous marriage, and Lizzy was glad of it.

  Her uncle had explained in his letter that the wedding had been set for Friday. It was the earliest they could secure the license. Lydia was at least residing with her aunt and uncle in Gracechurch Street. She must be absolutely insufferable. The couple was threatening to visit Longbourn before they journeyed north to Newcastle. Elizabeth hoped that her father might at least prevent this from happening. As much as she missed Lydia, she had no wish to see Mr. Wickham again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Darcy’s heart sank as he rounded the bend toward home. He had never before dreaded his arrival at Pemberley. He cantered up the drive, having ridden ahead of the coach to take advantage of the fresh air and solitude. He passed the main entrance in favor of the stables. His mind was too full. He had spent nearly the entire trip from London rehearsing his speech to Georgiana. He knew he must tell her the truth about Daisy’s parentage, but he was loath to do it.

  “Brother!”

  Darcy blinked. He had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he had not even noticed Georgiana in the stables. She had clearly just returned from her morning ride.

  “Georgiana,” he said, trying to smile naturally. He failed miserably.

  “Does something trouble you?” she asked immediately, her face clouding with concern.

  He sighed. The older she got, the more perceptive she became. It was a wonderful quality though he found it a little disconcerting at times.

  “I wish I could say nothing was wrong, my dear, but I cannot. Let me assure you that I am well, as is Colonel Fitzwilliam, who sends his love.”