CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Elizabeth awoke the next morning with a sense of lightness she had not felt since her arrival at Pemberley. The memory of the previous evening replayed itself in her mind, a warm counterpoint to the weeks of strain. She dressed with a care she had not felt inclined to for some time, choosing a morning dress of soft, pale green, a hopeful anticipation bubbling in her chest.
She descended the stairs earlier than her usual habit, an eagerness in her step, hoping for a few moments alone with him. Upon entering the breakfast parlour, however, she found only Colonel Fitzwilliam, who greeted her with his customary warmth. Soon they fell into their usual easy banter. She was laughing at one of his ridiculous stories when the door opened, and Darcy entered.
Her pulse gave a silly skip as he smiled at them both and made his greeting. Throughout the meal, he was unfailingly gracious, his conversation thoughtful and amiable. However, the crackling intensity from the previous night was entirely gone. His gaze, when it met hers, held no special meaning, no shy consideration, no raw emotion. It disappointed her more thanshe cared to admit, though she could find no fault in his manners.
After the gentlemen had departed for the stables (Darcy to check on wards, and the colonel for his customary morning ride), Elizabeth found herself in the main sitting room, a book open in her lap. Her thoughts were not on the printed page, but on Darcy. She could not stop wondering how he was faring, what he was thinking, when he would return and she might have an opportunity to converse with him again in private. Was the fervent man she had glimpsed last night a reality, or a falsehood created by the brandy and her own hopeful heart?
A discreet knock at the door interrupted her reverie. Brooks entered, his usually solemn countenance etched with an unusual degree of agitation. His gaze flickered almost nervously towards the door before settling on Elizabeth.
“Ma’am,” he announced, “there are callers at the main entrance. They have asked to see the master, but upon being informed that Mr Darcy is currently occupied about the estate, they have requested an audience with the lady of the house.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Callers? Pemberley had received no social callers since her arrival. “Who are they, Brooks?”
Brooks hesitated, a deep unease in his aged eyes. “They gave the name of a Captain Dennis of His Majesty’s ----shire Regiment. And his wife. The lady appears to be unwell, ma’am. Quite unwell, if I may be so bold. She seems in sore need of rest and refreshment.” He did not offer a card, an uncharacteristic omission for the usually meticulous butler.
An army captain and his ailing wife? Elizabeth frowned. Perhaps it was an acquaintance of the colonel. The mention of the lady’s illness, and Brooks’s subtle but clear distress, tugged at her compassion. “Very well, Brooks,” she said, a sense of herresponsibilities as Mistress of Pemberley asserting itself. “Show Captain Dennis and his wife in. I will see them here.”
She smoothed her gown, nervousness mingling with her curiosity, as she awaited her unknown guests. The door opened again, and Brooks, his expression impassive, ushered in the pair.
The man who entered possessed an undeniable, if somewhat travel-worn, charm. But it was the woman on his arm who drew Elizabeth’s concerned gaze. She was young, desperately pale, and swayed slightly as she crossed the threshold, her breath coming in shallow rasps. A tremor ran through her slender frame, and her blue eyes were shadowed with a hunted, fearful desperation. Brooks had not exaggerated; the lady was clearly very ill indeed.
Before Elizabeth could offer a greeting, or enquire after their journey, the man stepped forward, his earlier, easy confidence dissolving into an expression of earnest appeal.
“Mrs Darcy,” he began, his voice urgent, “we must beg your forgiveness for the deception, and for the nature of our introduction. My name is not Captain Dennis. I am George Wickham. And this,” he gestured to the young woman beside him, “is my wife, Mrs Georgiana Wickham, formerly known as Miss Georgiana Darcy. Your husband’s sister.”
Elizabeth stared, speechless, her mind reeling from the shock of the names, the sheer audacity of their arrival, and the cunning of their entry.
Wickham. And Georgiana. Here. In her sitting room.
“We would not have deceived you but for our desperation, Mrs Darcy,” Georgiana whispered, her eyes fixed on Elizabeth with a mixture of terror and pleading, “We had to speak with you. We knew my brother…” and here she trailed off, her face crumpling.
Wickham added, “I confess we waited until we were certain Darcy had ridden out. We would not have dared approachotherwise. But Georgiana…she is gravely ill. And we are in considerable peril. We have nowhere else to turn.”
Her immediate reaction was anger. Anger at their deceit, at Wickham’s manipulative tactics, at their deliberate exploitation of her husband’s absence to gain admittance. A sense of loyalty to Darcy, a fierce instinct that surprised her with its intensity, screamed at her to remove them and to honour his known wishes.
Yet, as she looked at Georgiana, at the blue veins stark against her temples, the shallow, laboured breaths, another, stronger emotion rose to the surface: compassion. This was Darcy’s sister. And she was clearly suffering, perhaps even gravely.
“Mr Wickham, Mrs Wickham,” she said at last, her voice more composed than she felt, “Please be seated. Tell me why you have come to Pemberley. And I,” she paused, steeling herself, “I will then consider what must be done.”
She would hear them out. For Georgiana’s sake.
And then, she thought grimly, she would have to face Darcy.
Elizabeth motioned them towards the settee, though Georgiana looked as if she might collapse before reaching it. Wickham guided her gently, his touch surprisingly solicitous.
“We have come from Newcastle, Mrs Darcy,” Georgiana began, her voice thin and reedy, punctuated by a rattling cough that shook her frame. “The Blight is everywhere; it has taken the city. The crops failed entirely this autumn, and there is widespread famine. People are desperate. They loot and fight for scraps. And sickness is spreading through the crowdedtenements like a wildfire, but it is not a natural illness. It feels of the Blight itself…a wasting of the spirit. People simply fade.”
Dread settled in Elizabeth’s stomach. The description was chillingly familiar, echoing the tales she had heard of the soul-crushing despair that accompanied the land’s magical death. She looked at Georgiana’s fragility, and a terrible suspicion took root.
“Your account is most distressing, Mrs Wickham, and your own condition gives me great cause for concern. However, to deceive your way into this house, Mr Wickham, is deplorable. It has placed me in a difficult position,” Elizabeth said.
Wickham, who had been watching her with a keen gaze, now offered a smile that held a shadow of his infamous charm. “Mrs Darcy, for the deception, I offer my profoundest apologies. It was a desperate measure, born of even more desperate circumstances. We feared, as Georgiana said, that our true names would be a bar to any hearing at all.”
He paused, then added, with a touch of confidence added, “Though, in the matter of my rank, there was no falsehood. I am indeed a Captain in His Majesty’s --shire Regiment. Even in the north, we have heard rumours of yourself and Mr Darcy, and your Concordance. My superiors granted me leave to seek you out. They hoped, as do we, that your unique abilities might offer some glimmer of salvation, for the Arcane Office has abandoned us and all other hope is lost. That is why we risked so much to come.”
Elizabeth froze, Wickham’s words about his commission striking her with an unexpected force.
