Elizabeth tensed. Mr. Collins had arrived, then—yet another complication in an already overwhelming day. “My father values his privacy,” she said carefully. “He occasionally finds social obligations tiresome.”
“Your father seems a most interesting man,” Wickham observed. “Quite different from his cousin, by Mr. Collins’s account.”
“They are as different as two men could possibly be,” Elizabeth agreed.
“I couldn’t help but notice your distress.” His gaze alighted on the envelope she tucked into the fold of her spencer. “Has someone upset you? If any gentleman has offered you insult, I assure you I stand ready to defend your honor.”
The writer of the letter, a friend of her parents, told her to trust no one. And yet, how was she to proceed? She didn’t have the documents, didn’t know her mother—Rose Bennet—Mr. Bennet’s sister. Her father would be the only one she would trust. He’d hidden her for twenty years, brought her up as his own.
But Wickham was waiting for an answer. Distractedly, she said, “You are very kind. But I fear it is nothing that can be remedied by gallantry or righteous anger.”
“Then sympathy and consolation are in order?” Wickham smiled disarmingly. “The letter contained distressing news? Such tears as these suggest something of considerable significance.”
“No. It was merely correspondence from an old acquaintance,” she replied evasively. “Nothing of interest to anyone but myself.”
“I see.” His smile remained fixed, but his eyes narrowed. “Not from Mr. Darcy, then? I noticed him watching you most intently last night.”
The name sent a jolt through Elizabeth. Darcy. Her own name, if the letter spoke truth. The thought was too bizarre to fully comprehend.
“Mr. Darcy,” she repeated, testing the name on her tongue.According to the letter, she was Elizabeth Rose Darcy. They shared a name, a heritage, a family history she had never suspected. The man she had dismissed as insufferably proud was apparently her nearest male relative.
“Indeed,” Wickham said, his tone sharpening at her expression. “Has he approached you again? His attention seemed rather… particular.”
Elizabeth forced herself to focus on the present conversation. “His attention was no more particular than anyone else’s, I assure you. If he watched me, it was likely in hopes of observing some breach of etiquette he might criticize.”
“Perhaps,” Wickham agreed. “If Mr. Darcy has presumed to lecture you by letter about your conduct or your connections, I consider such behavior beyond the pale of acceptable behavior.”
Elizabeth found it strange that Wickham, a mere stranger, would show such interest in her correspondence. She was reeling from the information she’d received, and she was wise enough not to share this information with a man she barely knew, regardless of his charm.
“I find your curiosity rather impertinent, Lieutenant Wickham,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “My correspondence is surely my own affair.”
“Of course,” he agreed quickly, though she caught the flash of frustration in his eyes. “I meant no offense. I am merely concerned for your welfare, particularly given the Darcy family’s history of… shall we say, questionable behavior toward those they consider beneath their notice.”
Despite her emotional turmoil, Elizabeth couldn’t let this comment pass. “Questionable behavior? What can you mean?”
Wickham’s expression grew grave, as if he were reluctantly sharing confidential information. “I hesitate to speak ill of any gentleman, but I fear the Darcy family has a long history of treating those dependent upon them with considerable cruelty. My fatherserved as steward at Pemberley for many years, and I myself was raised alongside Fitzwilliam Darcy as his father’s godson.”
“His father’s godson?” Elizabeth repeated, her mind racing. If she truly was Elizabeth Rose Darcy, then Wickham had been raised alongside her cousin, knew the family intimately, might even know something about her parents’ fate.
“Indeed. The late Mr. Darcy was most generous to my family, and he provided for my education alongside his son. He intended me for the church and settled a valuable living upon me.” Wickham’s voice grew bitter. “Unfortunately, his son did not feel bound by his father’s wishes after the old gentleman’s death.”
“What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked, though part of her mind was still reeling from the implications of Wickham’s connection to the Darcy family.
“Upon his father’s death, Fitzwilliam Darcy refused to honor the promised living. He claimed I was unsuited for the church and offered me a paltry sum in lieu of the position. When I refused his insulting offer, he washed his hands of me entirely.”
The story was delivered with such apparent pain and sincerity that Elizabeth felt her heart go out to him. Yet something nagged at her—a sense that there was more to this tale than he was revealing.
“That seems very harsh,” she said carefully.
“Harsh indeed, and entirely typical of the Darcy character,” Wickham replied with obvious bitterness. “They consider themselves so far above common humanity that they feel no obligation to honor commitments or treat dependents with basic decency. I have learned to my cost that trusting a Darcy is a fool’s game.”
“You speak as if you believe I might have reason to trust or distrust Mr. Darcy,” she observed.
“Do I?” Wickham’s smile was sharp. “Perhaps I am simply concerned that any young lady of your intelligence and spirit might be deceived by the Darcy reputation for honor and integrity. Appearances can be most deceiving, particularly where that family is concerned.”
“Then rest assured, I am in no danger where that family is concerned.” Elizabeth’s heart pounded at the deflection. “I have never met a Darcy until Mr. Bingley brought him to Meryton. I am, however, sorry for your treatment at his hands.”
Wickham tipped his hat. “I am gratified by your consideration, madam. I only warn you in case you have family ties to Pemberley or relations of the Darcys.”
