But her thoughts strayed—inevitably—to Mr. Darcy.
Chapter Fifteen
December 30, 1811
Longbourn
Darcy
TheparloratLongbournwas abuzz with conversation when Darcy and his friend were announced. Bingley, ever amiable, began a lively discourse with Miss Bennet, while Darcy’s eyes sought only one lady. Elizabeth sat near the window, her profile touched by the pale winter sun streaming through the glass. Her curls were gathered with unstudied elegance, and as he drew near, a familiar fragrance teased his senses—rose water, delicate and elusive.
He wondered whether she liked it. The perfumer on Jermyn Street had prepared the selection at his express request. The box was fashioned to suit, the sort rarely offered save by special order. Though Elizabeth did not yet suspect him as the author ofthe gifts, he thought she might include him in her speculations as she puzzled over her secret admirer’s identity. Breathing the fragrance that lingered between them, a profound satisfaction stirred within him.
Their eyes met, and she smiled. “You are very welcome this morning, Mr. Darcy. Was the journey from Netherfield pleasant?” She touched the empty place beside her on the settee, and he joined her, angling his body so he could face her.
“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth.” He inclined his head, his voice lower than usual, his eyes steady upon hers, as though daring her to suspect what he alone knew. “You look remarkably well today. The ride was cold yet bracing. I dare say Bingley was eager to see your sister.” He glanced toward Miss Bennet, who conversed with her betrothed while Mrs. Bennet fussed around them. The ease between the pair amidst the bustle of the drawing room struck Darcy afresh; they were plainly made for one another.
He turned back to Elizabeth. She tilted her head, a glimmer of mischief alight in her eyes. “Jane was scarcely less eager. She is very well this morning. Good health and a warm hearth are all one can wish for in winter.” She hesitated, biting her lip as she often did.
“I have a confession. I told my friend, Charlotte Lucas, of Mr. Wickham—without revealing particulars concerning your sister. In turn, Charlotte told her father just enough to prompt inquiries. She came to call upon us yesterday with news. It appears he has run up debts with every tradesman and engaged in…dissolute practices.”
Darcy’s surprise was evident. “Indeed?” It was more than he himself had done, and he had long known the scoundrel for what he was.
Elizabeth nodded. “His manner and borrowed charm misled several shopkeepers, it seems. The more I learn of Mr. Wickham,the more I see how greatly I erred in judgment. I once thought myself an excellent judge of character.” She shook her head with a weary breath. “Sir William has cautioned the merchants. It rests with them now to heed or disregard his counsel.”
Darcy’s gaze hardened, and he turned aside before answering. “I sometimes wonder whether I failed him by not acting sooner. Perhaps it was guilt—or misplaced loyalty. My father cherished hopes for him. Perhaps I would not admit Wickham was beyond redemption.”
“Would your father be content with what he has become?” Her question, so rational, cut him at once.
“No,” he said at last, the word heavy with conviction. “He would be grieved.” For had his father foreseen the lies, deceit, and debauchery Wickham would embrace, he would have exerted every power to prevent such ruin. Darcy had done little beyond settling debts and issuing threats.
The others were engaged elsewhere, leaving them to their privacy. Their conversation was of a delicate nature and not one meant for curious ears. Darcy fell silent, brooding for a moment before he chose to speak.
“I shall do something,” he added with resolve. It was long past time for him to act; long past time to bring Wickham’s mischief to an end. How many lives had he despoiled? How many daughters had he left with broken hearts and tarnished prospects? How many tradesmen had gone unpaid, their households burdened for Wickham’s selfish indulgence? Darcy knew there were likely many of his debts he had not been able to trace.
Elizabeth regarded him, eyes steady. “As I said, Sir William has already warned the shopkeepers, but I am certain there is more you could do. He must not be allowed to injure anyone further.”
“I shall see it done,” Darcy replied. He meant it with his whole heart. Wickham’s days of deceit were numbered. Only one question remained—how was he to accomplish it?
The conversation soon shifted, Elizabeth apparently satisfied with his vow. She asked after Georgiana, and Darcy’s lips quirked.
“She has written to say she is disappointed I cannot visit until February. My uncle and aunt Matlock will be in town then and have requested my presence. She has lately taken up painting in oils.” Georgiana had enclosed a small canvas with her last letter.
“Oils?” Elizabeth leaned forward, intrigued. “That is ambitious. Has she a good hand for it?”
“She does. Though she still prefers watercolors, she has begun to experiment with landscapes. She sent me a small view of Pemberley painted from memory. It was remarkably accurate.” Even now, it rested on the table beside his bed, where he might look upon it often.
Elizabeth’s smile deepened. “She must have a very thoughtful brother who encourages her talents.” Her eyes shone with good humor. There was no hint of teasing, and Darcy believed her in earnest.
His heart leapt at the compliment, though he betrayed no outward sign. “She is a sensitive soul, and I am proud of her.” The undertones of Georgiana’s letter reassured him that she was healing. Once Wickham was checked, she might mend still further. He found himself speaking without calculation—an uncommon state for him, but one he welcomed in Elizabeth’s presence.
“When I was nine,” he began, casting her a sidelong glance, “I attempted to impress my cousins by leaping from one mossy stone to another across the pond at Pemberley.”
Elizabeth looked at him keenly, clearly intrigued. “Did you succeed?”
“I made it halfway. Then I misjudged and fell straight in. It was early spring. The water was…bracing.”
She laughed, a rich and unguarded sound. “You? Mr. Darcy, the paragon of composure, drenched to the bone?”
