“That is somewhat alarming,” Elizabeth admitted. “But I have received no threatening letters of any kind.”
“It is what I was determined to ask you,” the earl said. He glanced at his nephew. “It is why, Darcy, when I did not find you at home, I came immediately here. It is a relief that she is not following the outline of her novel in every respect.”
“We cannot know that. She may yet do so.” Darcy glowered, beginning to pace. “This ought not to be. I have made it clear to you, to my aunt, that she was to be actively discouraged from thinking that marriage to me was a possibility.”
The earl looked pained. “And so I have, when it was in my power to raise the subject. But Anne has refused invitations to come to us at Matlock or town for some time now.”
“In the meanwhile, as I have been so very careful not to ruffle her feathers, since the years have passed without any sign that my interests have fallen elsewhere, it has encouraged,nay practically taught her to maintain a hope that my mind might be changed. This is my fault.” He looked at Elizabeth, his eyes bleak.
“Nonsense,” she said immediately, taking his hand. “You are not responsible for any poor decisions she might, in her distraught state, choose to pursue. And we must remember, she has done nothing as yetexceptexpress her distress. Perhaps that is all she ever meant to do, and the death she speaks of is the same as her original premise: simply, the death of a dream, her dream of becoming Mrs Darcy.”
“Mrs Ashwood is correct, Darcy. Let us not borrow trouble.”
Darcy did not argue, but neither did he seem reassured. “Nevertheless, Elizabeth, you must come to Netherfield. I cannot, in good conscience, leave you here alone. There is no more reason for any secrecy to our engagement.”
“But I am not alone—my family surrounds me. Believe me, Longbourn is never, ever tranquil, and it would be very difficult for a stranger to come anywhere near it, unnoticed. Explaining to them why I suddenly am carried off to Netherfield, regardless of a betrothal, would be difficult, and I do not wish to expose them or your cousin to a plot which might not even exist.”
“You are protecting Anne’s reputation at the expense of your safety. I cannot allow it.”
“Darcy, she is behaving very sensibly.” Matlock gave her an approving smile.
“We must still say nothing about our engagement,” she continued, ignoring the earl. “If the threats that you fear do come, and you wish me to return to Netherfield, I shall go. In that case, no one must suspect our engagement—it might lead to gossip about my staying in such close proximity withyou. Please remember, that any actions of Miss de Bourgh that become known will reflect upon us all, including our children. I would prefer that any consequence you decide upon be most private.”
“Anne surely cannot overpower an entire family,” the earl protested. “We need not speak about consequences, public or private.”
“I do not like it,” Darcy argued. “I do not trust Anne, even if it is not murder she plans. She is the least sensible person I know; if she can cause trouble or embarrassment for Elizabeth, she will.”
“Your cousin Fitzwilliam is leading the search for her,” the earl reassured. “He has a number of men—very good men, circumspect and canny—in pursuit.”
At this, she noticed Darcy’s expression ease a little. This cousin must be a trustworthy investigator. “Very well, I shall not insist,” Darcy said, finally. “But I ask you to bring Lady Matlock and my sister to Netherfield. No one would ever accuse your wife of being an inadequate chaperon, and regardless, I should like to introduce Elizabeth to them both.”
The earl nodded. “That is probably wise, and I shall leave it to you to make arrangements with the Bingleys for their arrival in a couple of days. I shall return to town now—I wish to confer with Fitzwilliam again, and see what he has discovered. He will be sending men here to make enquiries—discreet ones—and to keep watch. Anne will not be able to arrive without notice. The place is too small.”
Elizabeth was not quite certain it would be so impossible as that—Meryton had a few posting inns that caused, at certain times, quite an influx of traffic and persons—although if the lady were to remain in the area, she would probably be sighted quickly.
The earl took his leave of them, but Darcy remained behind. They walked the paths, arm in arm. His silence—which she had once thought of as a permanent aspect of his character—now seemed unusual. He was troubled, she knew, and incapable of pretending he was not.
“Tell me about your sister,” she said, hoping to distract him, and even though she knew the siblings were currently at odds, feeling that it would be better for him to speak of her than to think of Miss de Bourgh. “I am hoping she will allow me to come to know her better.”
He looked down at her shrewdly, guessing, she supposed, her efforts to divert, but at last he sighed and gave in. “Georgiana is…imaginative. Romantic. She adores music, poetry, literature—she plays beautifully. I bought her a new instrument recently, that I am hoping will cheer her when she comes home. If she will come home,” he said glumly.
“Is she indulged at her aunt’s? Why would she think it so much better to remain there?”
“More indulged than by her brother, who just purchased a new pianoforte for a young lady who has not answered a single letter of his in months? That is unlikely.” He smiled wryly, but she saw the pain in his eyes.
“Do you think she will come to Netherfield? Or will we go to her?”
He gave her a slight smile. “She is not of a rebellious nature; she will go where Lady Matlock directs.”
“Is she of a persuadable one, then?”
“I understand why you might think so—she was persuaded, certainly, to elope. But no, I think someone likeWickham had the ability to see into her girlish, romantic heart, and create a scene she could admire, even long for. In it, she would be a heroine, saving him; he knew enough of our family to have intimate details that would be believable, as well as an ability to twist them.” He paused a moment before soldiering on with his story, his expression grim. “My father had planned on a career in the church for him, but shortly before his death, I learnt of a grievous action Wickham had committed—forcing himself upon a girl in Lambton, the village nearest Pemberley. He denied it, of course, said she had thrown herself at him. But he chose the wrong victim. The girl was a relation of my long-time coachman, a young lady newly brought from town, for whom he had found work at Lambton’s inn. I am sure the rogue would never have touched her, had he realised she was Frost’s niece. Frost came to me, told me what had happened, and said that if I could do nothing, he would do something, even should he hang for it.”
Elizabeth held tightly to his arm and fought not to express her horror. She somehow knew that he thought her strong enough to hear what he would never have revealed to her, had she not lived through her own adversities.
“I told my father the whole of it—that incident, plus a dozen other monstrous deeds he had committed. He cut Wickham from his will, from his life, forced him to leave the area. My father’s best friend, our steward, Wickham’s father, was told as well. It broke two men’s hearts, I think. Neither lived a full year past hearing the truth of Wickham’s viciousness.”
“How horrible,” she said softly. “So, your sister’s false courtship was revenge upon you for a despicable man’s sins. How did he gain access to her?”
