“Were Mama and Papa aware?”
“Papa was.”
“Who told him?”
“I did. When Darcy asked for my hand, I explained to Papa what Darcy had done for our family.”
“What did Papa say?”
“That we owed Darcy a great debt, but I insisted to Papa that he must never mention it to anyone, least of all Darcy, who didn’t want anyone to know of his kind act.”
“I see.” I was mortified. Especially about Papa, who’d never really had much use for me. To the end, he saw me as a silly girl who’d tarnished the family name. Lizzy was always his favorite and remained so until the day he died.
Throughout my marriage, the one thing that sustained me at least a little was the fact that Wickham fancied me enough to wedme, that he chose me over my more sophisticated older sister. I’d held on to his desire for me no matter how badly our marriage turned out.
Now I didn’t even have that.
I did not leave my cottage for the next several days. I barely managed to get out of bed most mornings, and I napped a great deal in the afternoons. I couldn’t bear to see anyone. I did not know how I would face Lizzy or Darcy again. Years ago, I had thought my humiliation was complete, and now that Lizzy revealed the truth, shame and embarrassment overtook me.
On the fifth day of my self-imposed exile, a firm knock sounded at the door. I ignored it, but the tapping persisted for several minutes.
“Mrs. Wickham, are you in there?”
I recognized the voice. It was the vicar. I couldn’t bear to face him or anyone else. “I am fine,” I said through the door.
“Are you certain?” he said. “I have been worried.”
Michael Haddad was concerned about my absence? First, he tried to keep me from coming near his precious church, and then he worried when I obliged him. I had had it with all men. Wickham. The vicar. Even Darcy. I resented him for helping me. For knowing of my humiliation and keeping it from me. I could not abide being pitied by Lizzy and Darcy. I abhorred how it made me feel.
“There is no need to worry about my well-being. My thanks to you for coming by. Good day,” I said firmly.
I peeked through the window and watched as he walked down the walk, pausing at the gate to look back at the house. Then he continued on his way, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
But he came back the next day and the day after that. Apparently, there was no discouraging him. On the third day, I finally relented and faced him.
Surprise lit his face. “You opened the door.”
“It not as if you gave me any choice.”
“I’ve been concerned about you.”
“Why? I am perfectly well,” I lied.
He cocked his head. “Forgive me, but I do not believe you.”
I huffed. “You, sir, are impudent. A gentleman would take a lady at her word.”
“Your garden tells a different story.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is overgrown and looks like it hasn’t been tended to in at least a week.”
I peered out at my garden and was aghast by what I saw. The plants showed signs of stress, growing tall and thin, sure indications of overcrowding. I chastised myself for wallowing about a transaction that was long in the past—even if I had just become aware of it. Meanwhile, my prized garden, the one place where I excelled and was the envy of my neighbors, had suffered.
Another gardener might not be alarmed by a little overgrowth, but I kept my garden in pristine condition. That’s why it was the model of the neighborhood. Eight days of neglect had taken a toll on my plants. I hadn’t given the garden much thought while I came to terms with Lizzy’s revelation that my husband was forced to wed me. But now I could think of nothing else.
I grabbed my work bonnet off the nearby hook. “Well, I must remedy that posthaste before everything is ruined.”
