Darcy slowed his mount as the cottage came into view. He tethered Maximus to a tree where the horse could graze comfortably. Moving stealthily, he approached on foot. The windows were uncovered, and he could see Elizabeth inside. She examined the crevices and corners, testing loose stones on the hearth. She then moved to the bookshelves, removing volumes to check the space behind the books. She even probed the floorboards, tapping for loose ones.
The sound of horses and a wagon moving up the lane alerted him, and he immediately ducked behind a large oak. A pair of greys and a large cart came into view, and two men clambered down from the driver’s seat. The first was George Wickham, lookingpolished and self-satisfied in his red militia uniform. The other man was older, but nonetheless appeared fit and hearty.
“Mother expects us,” Wickham said, his voice carrying clearly in the still morning air. “She’ll need help with the larger pieces, particularly that oak dresser. Rumsey, you’ll manage the crates of dinnerware?”
Rumsey. Darcy recoiled at the name. He barely remembered the man, the butler dismissed by his uncle John. Hadn’t Hodge mentioned him as one of the men who disappeared after the fire? What was he doing here, twenty years later, helping Martha?
The pair moved toward the cottage where Elizabeth was trapped inside. Darcy stepped forward and intercepted them.
“Wickham,” he called, his voice neutral despite the ice in his veins. “What brings you to Pemberley?”
Wickham spun around, his momentary startle quickly masked by his habitual easy smile. “Darcy! What an unexpected pleasure. I’m merely helping my dear mother with her removal. May I present Mr. Thomas Rumsey, a family friend who has kindly offered his assistance?”
Rumsey gave a slight bow that managed to convey both politeness and contempt. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Rumsey.” Darcy inclined his head, measuring the man who had once served his family and now allied himself with their enemies. “I was not aware that Mrs. Wickham’s eviction required military escort.”
“Filial duty knows no uniform,” Wickham replied with affected lightness. “What brings you here, Darcy? Surely the master of Pemberley has more pressing matters than supervising the departure of a humble widow?”
Darcy did not wish to reveal Elizabeth’s presence, but the cottage door opened, and Elizabeth stepped out.
Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms as she noticed Darcy and the other two men.
“Darcy, Wickham? What an unexpected encounter.”
Darcy was taken aback at being addressed along with Wickham, but Wickham recovered quicker. His smile broadened, taking on the predatory edge that had always set Darcy’s teeth on edge.
“Miss Bennet! Or should I say, Miss Darcy? How delightful to find you here. I’d heard rumors of your early rising habits, but I scarcely expected to find you visiting my mother at such an hour.”
“Mrs. Wickham kindly granted me permission to examine some books she thought might interest me before her departure,” Elizabeth replied smoothly, though Darcy noted the slight tension in her shoulders. “Mr. Darcy, I did not expect to see you here either.”
“Miss Bennet,” he said courteously, as if encountering her here were the most natural thing in the world. “I trust you are well this morning?”
She curtsied. “Mr. Darcy. Quite well, thank you. What brings you here?”
“I came to ensure Mrs. Wickham’s departure proceeds without difficulty,” Darcy said, moving to stand beside Elizabeth. “The cottage must be prepared for its next occupants.”
“How considerate,” Wickham drawled. “Though I wonder if your solicitude extends to all your tenants, or merely those connected to Miss Bennet’s extraordinary claims.”
Mrs. Wickham, herself, stepped out and surveyed the scene.
“Well, well,” she said. “Quite the assembly for so early an hour. Mr. Darcy, I had not expected you to oversee my eviction personally. And Miss Bennet—or Miss Darcy, I should say—have you found what you were seeking?”
“Unfortunately not,” Elizabeth answered. “Though I appreciate your allowing me to look.”
“Such a pity.” Martha’s smile was more of a grimace. “Perhaps if you’d accepted my son’s offer, your search might have proven more fruitful.”
“Mother,” Wickham chided with affected gentility. “This is hardly the time or place for such discussions. We’ve come to assist with your removal, not to revisit settled matters.”
“Nothing is settled,” Martha retorted. “Not while those who profit from murder continue to occupy Pemberley.”
“Mrs. Wickham,” Darcy said sharply. “Your accusations lack both evidence and witness. If you possess proof of any wrongdoing, present it formally rather than engaging in slander.”
“Proof?” Martha laughed, a bitter sound devoid of humor. “The proof burned with Rose Cottage twenty years ago—quite convenient for your father, wasn’t it? But not everything was lost. Memories endure, Mr. Darcy, and secrets cannot remain buried forever.”
Elizabeth turned toward Mrs. Wickham. “If you know something about my parents’ deaths, why not speak plainly? Why demand I marry your son as the price of truth?”
“A mother secures her son’s future,” Martha replied, unrepentant. “And truth is a commodity like any other, more valuable to some than to others.”
