“With the help of her companion, in whose character wewere much deceived. Together, they painted a very convincing picture, of Wickham as the grieving victim who left Pemberley because he could not bear to reveal to my father the horror of my lies and jealousy—and even, I suppose, blaming me for my father’s death. Georgiana has always been of a shy, retiring nature and…and she has a stammer that afflicts her tongue. It has never been easy for her to speak to others outside of our family circle.”
“He played upon her every sympathy, her sorrow, and her lack of confidence,” Elizabeth suggested. “Ugh. He was a horrible man. I recall you saying he is dead now. I cannot believe she will long grieve him.”
“She might not have, had it not been I who…settled the matter.”
There was a finality to his tone that she could not misunderstand. She stopped in the middle of the rose walk, turning to face him, saw the heaviness he carried, and took his hands in hers. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.
“The challenge was his idea in the first place—given in a way I felt I could not ignore. At the meeting, he fired before the word. He missed. I saw his face, his hatred, the resolve in his fury; he was already extracting another pistol he had secreted in his coat. My cousin, Fitzwilliam, my second, drew his own weapon. I had not understood, I finally saw then—Wickham hadmeantto die. He only hoped to take me with him. I fired upon him—not fatally, I thought. But he died of his injuries a few days later. It is for this that Georgiana cannot forgive me.”
“You had little choice.”
“I could have refused to meet him at all. My own outrage guided that decision.”
“Better that it did, else he could pounce upon youunawares. Or Miss Darcy, or even our future children, should we be so blessed? He had no honour to prevent it.” She released his hands, to wrap her arms around him. “I am grateful. Life is difficult enough, without that worry.”
They had only the inadequate privacy of the trellises to hide them, but the need she felt to comfort, to soothe his burdened heart, was mightier than their need for concealment. His lips, when they found hers, were hungry, demanding, but she met him need for need, want for want. By the time they broke apart, they were both breathless; his eyes were full of heat and life instead of the darkness of moments before.
“You are right about that,” he said, placing one calloused hand upon her cheek. “I suppose that all will be well, eventually.”
She smiled up at him, putting a hand over his. “I beg to differ. All is well now. I am in love with an honourable, astonishingly wonderful man. By some happy accident, he is in love with me. Shall we wait for everything to be perfect before rejoicing in this astounding good fortune? Or today, this very minute, shall we revel in it?”
“I am for revelling,” he agreed.
35
READING BETWEEN THE LINES
Darcy did not join her in returning to Longbourn House—anxious, he said, to prepare the inhabitants of Netherfield for the arrival of his sister with Lord and Lady Matlock. Elizabeth was convinced that rather, he was eager to begin his own search for Miss de Bourgh and determine for himself that she was nowhere near their neighbourhood. Not for a minute did she believe he meant to leave the hunt entirely in the hands of his uncle and cousin.
“Good gracious,” Mrs Bennet said from the drawing room as she spotted Elizabeth removing her coat in the entry hall. “You were outside ever so long! But where is the earl? Did that disagreeable Mr Darcy chase him away? What can he mean by being so tiresome as to always be coming here, requiring us to entertain him?”
Thankfully, Elizabeth noticed, their visitors had departed, and were not there to hear, and remark upon, the frequencyof Elizabeth’s ‘entertaining’. Still, her mother’s epithets truly vexed her.
“Obviously, Mr Darcy heard his uncle was searching for him and came to find him. They have gone to Netherfield together. By the way, he was very complimentary in his opinions of your rose walk, Mr Collins,” she said, not hesitating to perjure herself in pursuit of deflecting from their true conversation. “He believes that when they begin to bloom, it will be the talk of the neighbourhood.”
“So kind! Such a great man!” Mr Collins, at least, did not find Mr Darcy annoying in the slightest.
Jane was holding a stack of mail, thumbing through it. “Oh, Lizzy—you have a letter. It is marked as missent elsewhere, but I am not surprised. The direction is written remarkably ill.” She handed the envelope over, and Elizabeth saw that Jane was correct. Her name was legible enough, but the sender had crossed out the original direction and sloppily scribbled ‘Longbourn’ beneath it. Everything within Elizabeth stilled.
Beneath the scores and crosses, she could easily see the word ‘Stoke’. The sender not only knew of her former home, but had identified her current one. It had been posted from London, doubtless to make it as difficult as possible to be traced.
She was certain she had never seen this writing before in her life. Who else could it be from, except Anne de Bourgh?
The earl and Darcy need not keep watch for her at the posting inns for new arrivals; plainly, she had already been here—quite recently, in fact—and performed her reconnaissance.
Meryton was too small for a stranger to hide for long. However, it was a popular stop along the Great North Road,giving travellers a choice of three different inns. Several times per day, carriages disgorged their passengers for meals, fresh cattle, and respite; it would have been easy for Miss de Bourgh or even her companion to stay for an hour or two and make enquiries. Since Elizabeth was currently the talk of the neighbourhood, obtaining the information would not have been at all difficult. She might, even, have visited more than once, since the sender had discovered that Elizabeth was no longer at Stoke shortly before mailing her letter.
“Who is it from?” Jane asked with mild curiosity, but at that moment Lydia entered, wailing to Mr Collins about her urgent need for a new ballgown, and with all attention upon her youngest sister, Elizabeth was able to slip from the room unnoticed.
Once in the privacy of her own chamber, she carefully unfolded the envelope. She did not know exactly what to expect, but supposed it to be recriminations or perhaps even threats of violence.
It was not.
It read, instead, as an excerpt from a story. She brought the pages nearer the window, that she might better see in the fading light of afternoon, and began to read:
“Histrionics do not become you,” Manfred warned, his beloved voice harsh and bitter. “You know that I shall always love you, Theodosia. But you cannot give me what I require most. My properties, my wealth, my family name—it is for naught without an heir.”
“A son,” Theodosia spat angrily. “All this, eternal damnation even, for earthly reward. You believe you can murder me without consequence, but be warned, Manfred. I do not go easily to my grave. I swear to you upon my mother’s soul, I shall never leave you. My spectre shall remain here, watching, watching. When you close your eyes at night, know that I shall be here, a wraith in the chilled whisperof the castle’s draughts, a phantom in the whistling wind, a finger’s touch to the tingling of your spine, a crawling shadow raising hair on the back of your neck. I shall poison your seed, so that nothing lives long that grows of it, so that it slays those who bear it. Your lands and gold shall avail you nothing, and you shall die alone, forgotten, without even a tombstone to mark your passing.”
