“Well then, I’ll expect no less than a stag to come through that door when you return. Pray, are you taking her to Pemberley?” he asked them. “Only I thought you might speak to the curate to see if he has heard from George.”
“You have not heard from him?” Darcy asked.
He shook his head sadly. “I wrote to Kympton, but the curate replied that George had gone south, taking some time away. I confess myself worried—I had hoped the living would settle him, but I fear it will not. I had a mind to ask you to speak to the curate, find out where he might have gone.”
Elizabeth quickly changed the subject, feeling wretched for having pressed the matter.
“We did plan to visit,” Darcy said suddenly. “Lady Matlock suggested it, as did Georgiana.”
“I should like that very much,” Elizabeth replied.
When evening came and they prepared to retire, Elizabeth discovered Mr Wickham had assigned them a single chamber. Her momentary mortification was quickly addressed by Darcy, who began arranging pillows and blankets before the fireplace without comment.
“Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it.”
They spoke briefly of the day—of how at home Darcy seemed at Matlock, of Mr Wickham’s obvious kindness. Elizabeth found herself genuinely moved by the old man’s warmth, though it created an uncomfortable dissonance in her mind.
“It is difficult to reconcile him with his son’s character,” she observed, settling onto the edge of the bed whilst Darcy arranged his makeshift sleeping quarters.
“It has always been Mr Wickham’s greatest burden,” Darcy said quietly, his movements stilling for a moment. “That his son turned out as he did. He often blames himself, though I have always maintained the fault lies elsewhere.”
He hesitated then, as though on the verge of saying more, but seemed to think better of it. Elizabeth watched the play of emotions across his face in the firelight—guilt, sorrow, and something that looked almost like fear.
“Good night, Elizabeth.”
“Good night.”
As she settled beneath the cottage’s simple quilts, Elizabeth’s mind churned with the day’s impressions. The genuine affection between Darcy and his guardian was evident in every glance, every gesture. Mr Wickham’s joy at their arrival had been unmistakable, as had his obvious pride in Darcy’s accomplishments. Yet beneath this warmth, she sensed currents of unspoken tension.
The way Darcy’s jaw had tightened when George Wickham’s name arose. The shadow that crossed his features whenever the subject of his guardian’s son emerged. The careful manner in which he had requested her silence about their circumstances.
Elizabeth turned onto her side, studying Darcy’s silhouette where he lay before the fire. Even in sleep, his posture remained tense, as though some invisible burden pressed upon his shoulders. What secrets did he carry about George Wickham? What knowledge weighed so heavily that he could not bear to share it even with the man who had raised him?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Elizabeth
Morning mist clung to the grounds of Matlock as Elizabeth walked the gravel paths, her breath forming small clouds in the crisp air. Darcy had departed early with Mr Wickham for fishing, leaving her to explore the estate’s gardens and reflect on their first full day at Matlock. The peace of the countryside provided welcome respite from the questions that had kept her awake much of the night.
“Lady Elizabeth!”
She turned to see Georgiana approaching from the direction of the main house, a basket of freshly cut flowers adorning her arm. Despite the early hour, the girl’s face glowed with contentment, her step light as she navigated the frost-touched grass.
“Good morning, Georgiana. You are awake early.”
“Lady Matlock requested flowers for her morning room,” Georgiana replied, adjusting the basket’s weight. “She says the last blooms of autumn brighten even the greyest days.”
They fell into step together, following a path that wound through the estate’s formal gardens. Elizabeth noted how at ease Georgiana appeared here, her familiarity with Matlock evident in every movement.
“Are you quite contented with your position here?” Elizabeth asked. “It must be agreeable to have such comfortable circumstances.”
“Very much so. Lady Matlock is exceedingly kind, and I have opportunities for learning that many in my station could never dream of.” Georgiana paused, studying Elizabeth’s expression. “This must be different for you—staying in Mr Wickham’s cottage rather than in the main house with your family.”
“The cottage is very comfortable,” Elizabeth replied, though she could not suppress her observation. “I confess, I cannot help but notice the distinctions. Had I come under different circumstances, I suppose I would have stayed in the main house. It seems rather odd that you should be in the servants’ quarters whilst we occupy the cottage.”
“I do not think it strange at all,” Georgiana said with gentle certainty. “I never grappled with my station the way George did.”
