WICKHAM'S INTERFERENCE
Elizabeth stoodat the broken window of her chamber at the Red Lion. The shutters had been destroyed by the storm, and she didn’t want to spend another night exposed to the weather. The morning light had brightened to full day, yet the road remained empty of the one traveler she sought. He had promised to return by mid-morning. The church bells had already tolled eleven, and still no sign of him.
Her rational mind supplied countless innocent explanations. Securing suitable transportation in Barnet might have proven more difficult than anticipated after the storm. Perhaps the roads, though passable, were slower going than expected. He might have needed to visit local tradesmen to arrange matters for their journey. Perfectly reasonable delays, all of them.
“Where are you?” she whispered, her finger tracing the Darcy crest, an engraved falcon sporting a “D” on its chest, on the ring he’d given her.
A knock on her door startled her. Elizabeth rushed to open it, expecting—hoping—to see her husband’s tall figure. Instead, the innkeeper’swife stood there.
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but there’s a gentleman below asking for you. Says he’s come from Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s heart leapt. “A message? Has there been an accident?”
The woman shrugged. “Didn’t say, ma’am. Just that he needs to speak with you immediate-like. He’s waiting in the private parlor.”
Elizabeth’s heart was unsettled as she followed the woman downstairs. Had Darcy sent word explaining his delay? Or had something gone terribly wrong?
The innkeeper’s wife opened the parlor door, and Elizabeth stepped inside. The man who turned to face her was not a stranger.
“Mr. Wickham,” she said, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.
George Wickham bowed with a flourish. “Miss Bennet. How fortunate to find you here.”
“Mrs. Darcy,” she corrected automatically, her fingers tightening around the signet ring in her palm.
A peculiar expression flickered across Wickham’s face—amusement, perhaps, or something more calculating. “Of course. My apologies.”
“You said you’ve come from my husband?” Elizabeth prompted, choosing her words carefully. Her acquaintance with George Wickham had been brief, but she recalled Darcy’s evident dislike for the man, although she was unaware of the cause. That he should be the one sent with a message struck her as highly improbable.
“In a manner of speaking.” Wickham gestured to a chair. “Perhaps you should sit, Mrs. Darcy. I’m afraid the news I bring is not entirely pleasant.”
Elizabeth remained standing. “I prefer to hear it directly, sir.”
Wickham sighed, a picture of reluctance. “Very well. Mr. Darcy has asked me to convey you to London. He himself has been called away on urgent business to the north—family matters at Pemberley requiring his immediate attention.”
The coldness in Elizabeth’s stomach spread outward. This made no sense. Darcy would never send Wickham, of all people, as hisemissary. And he certainly would not depart for Pemberley without informing her directly.
“He sent you a carriage, I presume?” she asked, gesturing toward the window. “I confess I didn’t see it arrive.”
Wickham’s smile never wavered, though something flickered behind his eyes. “Ah, no. I’m afraid Mr. Darcy required his own conveyance for his journey. But not to worry—I’ve arranged alternative transportation. Most suitable for a lady of your… circumstances.”
“How curious,” she said, keeping her voice level, “that he should entrust this task to you, Mr. Wickham. Didn’t you inform me that the two of you were not on friendly terms, and that he has ill-used you?”
“Ah, but you once told me you found him disagreeable, and here you are, calling yourself Mrs. Darcy.” Here, Wickham’s eyebrows took on the look of a mourner at a sickbed. “Perhaps I should mention that Mr. Darcy expressed some concern about your current state of mind.”
“My state of mind?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, the gesture masking her growing alarm.
“He mentioned you might be… confused. About certain matters.” Wickham’s gaze was steady, assessing. “That you had experienced some unfortunate circumstances that might have affected your understanding of reality.”
“How interesting,” Elizabeth said, her mind racing behind the mask of polite attention. “And did my husband explain the nature of my… confusion?”
“I will try to be delicate.” Wickham sighed and attempted to take Elizabeth’s hands, which she withdrew, hiding Darcy’s signet ring in her fist.
“Do not be concerned,” Elizabeth said. “I am certain there is nothing my husband can say that would distress me.”
“In that case, you will understand his hesitation in conveying his concerns.” Wickham’s tone was smooth. “He mentioned you might believe certain events had occurred which had not, in fact, taken place. A marriage, for instance.”
He was suggesting—implying—that her marriage to Darcy existed only in her imagination. That she was, in essence, mad. She almost whipped out the signet ring to prove her marriage, but the twitch in his eye stopped her. Something was very wrong.
