“You would do better the farther away from London you go. Perhaps the Outer Hebrides.”
“There is not much work to be found there,” Wickham said.
“Youdointend to find work, then?”
He cocked his head. “Or Lydia may.”
Lydia thought this a fine joke and snorted her appreciation of it. Then she stopped laughing and sprang to her feet. “Look! Pen and her mother are coming along the drive. They must have heard my news.” She squealed with delight and rang the bell, declaring that they would have tea and cake to make it more of a celebration.
Elizabeth stole quietly out of the parlour. She would apologise to Jane later for abandoning her, but she could not partake in another spectacle such as those that had been occurring all week. Every day, at least one of the neighbouring families would call. Lydia would strut about, brandishing her ring and gloating of her good fortune. Her mother invariably joined in. Their visitors would nod, smile, and feign interest, all the while casting amused glances at each other and smirking behind their hands. Their whole family was the object of ridicule—an only marginally better fate than being shunned altogether from society.
She changed her shoes and exited the house via the kitchen. As she walked around the corner of the house, she saw Wickham coming towards her on the path. She turned and walked away across the lawn, but he caught up with her in two strides.
“There is little point in being vexed with me, Lizzy. We are brother and sister now, and there is nothing you can do about it. You or Mr Darcy.”
She inhaled deeply, comprehending why he had sought her out. He wished to know how much danger he was in from that quarter. While it was true that Darcy neither could nor likely would wish to intervene, Wickham did not deserve the relief of having it confirmed. “Why did you marry her?” she asked. “You clearly do not love her.”
“What a quaint notion, that one should marry for love.”
“Do you love Mrs Younge, then?”
He laughed unpleasantly. “I have a very great affection for Mrs Younge’s talents and connexions. It would not do to lose her good will.”
Elizabeth fought to conceal her revulsion. She recalled with abhorrence her attempt to defend this man’s character to Darcy—and at such a moment, as he laid bare his most intimate feelings. How he had found the heart to forgive her for it, she would never know.
“I have shocked you,” Wickham said. “I confess, I thought you rather more practical. When I directed my attentions towards Miss King earlier this year, you declared it a wise and desirable measure for both.”
“I assumed you feltsomeaffection for her. I know better now. I know you felt none for Miss Darcy, either. You certainly cannot feel any for Lydia, since you have set her up next door to your mistress. And what ofher? I have no reason to think well of Mrs Younge, but neither can I approve of your refusing to marry her whilst taking full advantage of her ‘talents’. Do you feel no shame in treating people so coldly?”
“Why should I? Will Darcy feel shame for marrying a rich heiress?”
“Who says he will?” she replied, struggling to repress a surge of feeling.
“How else will he replenish the Pemberley coffers when his precious sister does, eventually, marry? You are aware, I take it, that her fortune is thirty thousand pounds? Darcy must pay that from the estate. It is a vast amount to find, but find it he must, and since he will never condescend to selling off land, you can be assured he will marry a lady whose fortune matches his sister’s. You see, he is really no better than I am.”
Elizabeth stopped walking and glared at him. “You have said many things with which I disagree, sir, but none that I have objected to as much asthat.”
“Oh yes, I forgot that your opinion of him had improved. I would advise you not to like him too well. You are not rich enough for him.”
“I was not rich enough foryoua few months ago, and I am no richer than Lydia, so I ask again, sir, why did you marry her?”
“Would you believe me if I said I liked her better than you?”
“Yes, quite easily, but it does not answer my question.”
“I think it does.”
It did not—it made no sense at all! “How will you provide for her—for your children, when they come along?”
He smirked grotesquely. “Perhaps I shall join in your mother’s prayers for the rest of her daughters to marry well.”
Elizabeth strove to emulate Darcy’s calm demeanour, though every part of her wished to rail at her new brother. “Regrettably, your actions have made that considerably less likely.”
She walked away. Her legs itched with the urge to run, and she was beyond relieved when it became clear Wickham meant to let her go. He watched her, though, and she directed her steps towards the hermitage at the other side of the garden, desperate to be out of sight before her equanimity shattered.
Darcy would not come for her now. The more she saw of Wickham’s true character, the more certain she was that no sane person would voluntarily allow such a man into a sister’s life, even as a brother. It was why she had refused her aunt’s offer, made again the day she departed for London, for her uncle to write to him. Elizabeth could scarcely tolerate her new relationship to Wickham; the thought of what Darcy’s feelings on the matter would be left her cold. She would much rather he remembered her as she was in Derbyshire.
This was not a new source of sorrow, however; Elizabeth had understood that all hope was in vain the moment Lydia stepped down from her carriage, wafting her wedding ring under their noses. But Wickham’s mentions of Miss Darcy’s fortune had compounded this grief with yet another cause of regret. How ignorant, how childish she had been to blame Darcy’s reservations about marrying her on pride alone. He certainly had been proud, there was no denying that—but in offering for her, he had overcome far greater concerns than a trifling dislike of what society might say. He had effectively forfeited his sister’s fortune.
