Acaptain? Despite his known profligacy, his history of debt and dishonour? Such a position was not easily obtained without means and significant patronage. How, then, could he have achieved it?
A sudden, startling thought blazed in her mind, so vivid it almost took her breath away.
Darcy.
Darcy must have purchased this commission for him. For Georgiana’s sake. He had not, then, entirely abandoned his sister to her fate. He had, in his own proud, secretive, and entirely unacknowledged way, acted to secure for them a respectable means of survival.
The realisation sent a rush of conflicting emotions coursing through her: a renewed pang of guilt for her own harsh judgements of him, an admiration for this hidden act of duty, and a dizzying sense of the intricate, unseen currents that ran beneath the surface of Darcy’s outward reserve.
Knowing this, her resolve solidified. “Captain Wickham, Mrs Wickham,” she said, her voice gaining a new firmness. “Your situation is clearly dire. I will fetch Mr Darcy before we speak further. He must hear this for himself.”
Just as she rose, intending to seek out her husband, the door to the sitting room opened, and Colonel Fitzwilliam strolled in, his usual cheerful demeanour in place. “Mrs Darcy! Brooks mentioned you had visitors. I thought I might — ”
His voice died in his throat as his gaze landed on George Wickham. The amiable smile vanished from the colonel’s face, replaced by incredulous fury. One hand, as if by instinct long-trained, dropped to his side, clenching for a weapon that was not there.
“Wickham!” he roared, the name a curse torn from his lips. “What in God’s name are you doing in this house?” He took a menacing step forward, his entire body radiating with rage, intent on laying hands upon him with all the fury he could muster.
“Colonel, no!” Elizabeth cried, her own voice ringing with alarm, stepping swiftly to place herself partially between the twomen. “They are here at my…my sufferance, until Mr Darcy can be apprised of the situation.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam halted, his face flushed a deep, apoplectic red. His furious gaze remained locked on Wickham, who, though visibly paling, managed to hold his ground with a spark of defiance. Georgiana let out a small, terrified whimper and shrank further into the settee, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Mrs Darcy, you cannot possibly understand!” the colonel thundered, his voice shaking with suppressed violence. “This man, thisviper, has no right to breathe the same air as decent folk, let alone set foot within Pemberley! If Darcy — ”
“I am aware of Mr Wickham’s past, Colonel,” Elizabeth cut in, her voice surprisingly steady. “And Mr Darcy will be informed of their presence and their purpose very shortly. Until then,” she fixed him with a stern look, an authority she hadn’t known she possessed rising to meet his fury, “I must insist that you remain here. With our guests. And you will maintain the peace. Am I absolutely clear?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam stared at her, his anger clearly warring with his astonishment at her resolute tone, and perhaps, with his engrained respect for the lady of the house. “As if you could trust this scoundrel to remain here alone!” he spat out, “But I make no promises regarding my civility. Or his continued well-being, should he offer the slightest provocation.”
“Your forbearance will be all that is required. I will return with Mr Darcy as soon as I am able.”
And with a final, pointed glance at the colonel, a glance that silently conveyed the absolute necessity of his restraint, Elizabeth swept from the room, her heart pounding with a sense of impending confrontation. She had to find Darcy. And she had to make him listen.
Elizabeth hurried through the echoing corridors of Pemberley.
The audacity of Wickham and Georgiana’s duplicitous arrival, Darcy’s inevitable anger, and now, her own part in permitting them an audience – it was a maelstrom threatening to engulf the delicate peace she and Darcy had so recently begun to forge.
She was uncertain its fragility would weather the storm.
But she had no time to fret about that.
She made for the stables first, a logical starting point if he had ridden out. A young stable lad, methodically working saddle soap into a fine piece of leather, looked up in surprise at her hurried approach.
“Has Mr Darcy ridden out this morning?” Elizabeth enquired, her voice a little more out of breath than she intended.
“Yes, ma’am. He took Apollo out towards the north woods, not an hour past.”
The north woods. That was a considerable distance. Elizabeth’s heart sank. Should she send riders after him? The thought of the delay, of leaving Wickham and Georgiana under the colonel’s volatile supervision for any longer than was strictly necessary, was intolerable.
Just as she was contemplating possible actions, a figure appeared at the far end of the stable yard. It was Darcy, leading Apollo by the reins, walking at a careful pace. He was returning far earlier than she could have dared to hope.
Relief almost buckled her knees, and with it, an undeniable thrill at the sight of his solid, capable form. Unthinking, driven by the urgency of her news and the sudden abatement of herimmediate anxiety about finding him, she gathered her skirts and hurried towards him, almost running across the cobbled yard.
He looked up as she approached, his brow furrowing slightly in surprise as he tipped his hat. Apollo, she noted, favoured one foreleg, and Darcy’s grip on the reins was gentle.
“Elizabeth?” he enquired. “Apollo threw a shoe — ”
His explanation abruptly stopped as he studied her face. He was seeing her distress, she realised, the pallor of her skin, the frantic look she knew must be in her eyes, the way her breath came in short gasps.
With a swift, almost impatient gesture, he thrust Apollo’s reins into the hands of the stable lad who had hurried forward at the master’s approach. “See to him,” Darcy commanded, his attention already wholly diverted.
