“None whatsoever,” she said firmly, perhaps too firmly. “My family has been settled in Hertfordshire for generations.”
Wickham seemed to assess her response, weighing its sincerity. After a moment, he nodded slightly, as if accepting her denial. “Then you are fortunate indeed to have avoided entanglement with that family until now. I would caution you against placing any trust in Fitzwilliam Darcy, Miss Elizabeth. His treatment of me is but one example of a character fundamentally flawed by pride, arrogance, and selfish disdain for the feelings of others.”
The warning might have seemed genuine concern a day earlier. Now, with the letter’s revelations fresh in her mind, it took on a more sinister aspect. If she truly was Elizabeth Rose Darcy, rightful heir to Pemberley, then any attempt to dissuade her from claiming her inheritance would serve the interests of those who had stolen it.
“I thank you for your concern,” she said, rising from her seat. “But I assure you, I have no intention of placing any trust in Mr. Darcy. Our circles barely intersect, and I expect they shall continue not to do so.”
Wickham rose as well, his smile returning. “I am relieved to hear it. A woman of your intelligence and spirit deserves better company than Darcy’s. Speaking of which, might I hope to see you at the officers’ dinner next week? Sir William has kindly extended an invitation to the local families.”
“I cannot say,” she replied. “My father’s prohibition against social engagements may extend to the officers’ dinner.”
“A pity,” Wickham said. “I had hoped for the pleasure of your company again.”
His charm remained intact, his manner as agreeable as it had appeared the previous evening. Yet Elizabeth had more pressing concerns than a gallant officer’s attentions.
“I should return home,” she said. “My family will be concerned if I am absent too long.”
“Allow me to accompany you,” Wickham offered, stepping toward her. “A lady should not walk unescorted.”
“Thank you, but I prefer to be alone with my thoughts,” Elizabeth replied more sharply than she had intended. At his startled expression, she softened her tone. “I have much to consider regarding… your concerns. Good day, sir.”
She walked past him with her head held high, though she could feel his gaze boring into her back. Only when she was certain she was out of his sight did she allow her composure to crumble, tears flowing freely as the morning’s revelations crashed over her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A FATHER’S REFUSAL
Elizabeth’s stepsfaltered as she approached Longbourn. The weight of the letter pressed against her chest, shortening her breath. The house she’d called home all her life was not hers. Her family, the sisters she loved… would they accept her if they knew?
The ordinary sounds of Longbourn—Mary’s mechanical scales on the pianoforte, Kitty and Lydia’s whispered gossip—felt impossibly distant, as if she were observing life through thick glass. How could they continue their mundane routines when her entire world had shattered with the breaking of a wax seal?
“Lizzy!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice carried sharp curiosity. “Come back at once. You cannot simply disappear without telling us about your mysterious correspondence.”
Elizabeth forced her trembling legs to carry her back to the morning room, where five pairs of eyes immediately fixed upon her with varying degrees of interest and speculation.
“Well?” Lydia demanded. “Who was it from? Was it terribly romantic? Did Lieutenant Wickham write you a love letter?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mary said primly. “Gentlemen do not sendlove letters to ladies of proper breeding after such brief acquaintance.”
“Then perhaps it was from Mr. Darcy,” Kitty suggested with a giggle. “To apologize for his rudeness at the assembly.”
Elizabeth’s stomach clenched at the name. According to the letter, Darcy was not merely the proud man who had slighted her, but her cousin—and quite possibly the heir to an inheritance stolen through murder.
“Perhaps it’s from Charlotte,” Jane said with gentle deflection. “And Elizabeth would like to enjoy her friend’s correspondence in private.”
“No, not Charlotte,” Elizabeth managed, forcing steadiness into her voice. “It was nothing of importance.”
“Nothing of importance? A letter delivered by a special messenger who insisted on placing it directly in your hands?” Mrs. Bennet appeared behind Jane, her eyes sharp with curiosity. “Come now, Lizzy, you must tell us who it was from.”
“I would rather not discuss it,” Elizabeth replied. “Is Papa in his library?”
“He is, but I fail to see why that should matter when we are all dying to know?—”
“Excuse me, Mama.” Elizabeth slipped past her. “I believe Papa should be consulted before I discuss it further.”
She knocked firmly on the library door.
“Enter,” came Mr. Bennet’s voice, sounding tired.
