Wickham found his voice first, a note of wounded disbelief in it. “Depart? Now? But Georgiana…she is unwell! The journeyto arrive hereexhausted her. To be on the road again…and Newcastle…you cannot simply — ”
Elizabeth continued as if he had not spoken. “Mrs Wickham, I invite you to remain here at Pemberley as our guest. We will send for the healers and medications that you need. The household will see to your every need until you are recovered or until you wish to depart to rejoin your husband.”
She paused, then, her gaze sweeping from Georgiana’s stunned face, to Wickham’s now wary, almost hostile one. She did not dare look at Darcy.
“In the interim, Mr Darcy and I will consider what aid, if any, we can offer to Newcastle. Once we have made our decision, we will act upon it if necessary.”
Wickham started to speak, his handsome face contorting. “Mrs Darcy, you cannot possibly — “
“I wish to hear from Mrs Wickham,” Elizabeth interrupted. Her gaze rested on Georgiana, kind, yet firm. “The choice to accept or decline my invitation must be yours.”
All eyes turned to Georgiana, but she only looked to her husband. She looked at Wickham with heartbreaking resolve in her eyes. “I will stay, George,” she said, and she reached for his hand. “It is what you would wish, is it not?” Her gaze pleaded with him, not for permission, Elizabeth realised, but for understanding. For his blessing.
Wickham looked down at their joined hands, then back at her pale face. The fight seemed to go out of him, his earlier defiance replaced by sadness. He squeezed her hand. “Yes, Ana,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion, “I think that would be best for your health.” He managed a slanted smile. “Pemberley will take good care of you. Better than I ever could, it seems.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had been observing this exchange with a barely suppressed, almost gleeful anticipation, sprang to his feet with alacrity.
“Well, well, then,CaptainWickham,” he declared, “since your duty has been discharged and you have been asked to leave by the lady of the house, I shall have the distinct pleasure of personally escorting you to the gates. One would not want you to lose your way on such a vast estate, or inadvertently stumble upon anytemptations.” He gestured towards the door with an exaggerated, mocking flourish.
Wickham’s face hardened, a flash of resentful pride flaring in his eyes, but he offered no verbal retort. He merely looked once more at Georgiana, a long, unreadable gaze, then rose slowly to his feet. With a curt, almost dismissive nod towards Elizabeth, and an even curter one, filled with a lifetime of unspoken antagonism, towards Darcy, he turned and allowed himself to be ushered from the room by the colonel. The sound of their departing footsteps, the colonel’s firm and decisive, Wickham’s perhaps a fraction less confident, echoed briefly in the suddenly quieter room.
The moment they were gone, Georgiana seemed to crumple. Elizabeth moved quickly to her side, taking her trembling hand. “Come, Mrs Wickham,” she said gently, “you are exhausted. We must get you to a comfortable room where you can rest. Mrs Reynolds will see to everything.”
She considered, for a fleeting moment, taking Georgiana to her old childhood chambers, but an intuitive understanding stayed her hand. Those rooms, however familiar, would be too laden with ghosts. A fresh start was what Georgiana needed.
“I have in mind a chamber that would be most suitable,” Elizabeth decided aloud, already making mental notes of what would be required. “It is quiet there, and receives the afternoon sun.” She pulled the bell once more, and when a footman appeared, she gave swift instructions for the room to be prepared, for Mrs Reynolds to be summoned, and for a light, nourishing broth to be sent up.
Once Georgiana was settled in the guest chamber, with a warm tisane at her bedside, a healer sent for, and a gentle fire in the grate, she whispered a childlike thanks and let her heavy eyelids flutter closed as she succumbed to illness and exhaustion.
Yet, as Elizabeth closed the door to Georgiana’s room, the brief sense of accomplishment, of having performed a necessary act of charity, quickly evaporated.
She knew she had to speak with Darcy.
The image of his cold fury when she had informed him of their visitors rose unbidden in her mind. And that had been before she had invited his sister, his sister who had so deeply betrayed him, into his home.
An unpleasant trepidation crept in Elizabeth’s stomach. To face him now, to deliberately engage with his displeasure, felt like a dangerous step backward. But she must see it through.
She found him, not in his private study as she might have expected, but in the lesser library, a room that held for Elizabeth few positive memories. He was standing by one of the tall windows, staring out at the estate, his back partially to the room.
“Mr Darcy?” she said, pausing in the doorway.
“Elizabeth,” he acknowledged softly. He did not turn fully to face her, merely inclined his head a fraction, offering her only his side profile. It was an austere landscape of rigid planes and sharp angles – the stern line of his jaw, the uncompromising set of his lips – all thrown into harsh relief by the grey light filtering through the window.
She offered a small smile, attempting to inject a sliver of lightness into the atmosphere. “Might we have a word? Though I do not suppose we could remove to another room for this particular discussion. The lesser library has, on occasion, proven a volatile setting for our conversations,” she said.
“We may remove to any room you wish. But if your purpose is as I suspect, then I find myself rather partial to remaining.” A faint smile touched his lips. “I have become, through no small amount of unfortunate experience, rather well practiced in restoring this particular room to order.”
Elizabeth huffed a wary laugh, a brief release of the tension inside her. His attempt at humour, however dry, however weary, was unexpected. And perhaps, just perhaps, a sign that the storm she had anticipated might not be as violent as she had feared.
They took seats in the winged chairs, facing one another across the small table.
Elizabeth gathered her resolve, and asked, “Are you angry with me? With my decision to allow Georgiana to stay?”
“Angry?” he said, his voice thoughtful, “No.” He paused, as if weighing his words with a care that was new between them. “You are the Mistress of Pemberley. It is your right, your prerogative, to extend hospitality within these walls as you see fit. Even to those whose past actions might render them less than welcome in my own estimation.”
She released a shaky breath.
Darcy continued, “I must confess I was not prepared to see them. To make such a decision in that moment. I thank you for taking the immediate burden of that choice. You have given me the time I needed, though I did not realise it.”
