∞∞∞
Darcy spent an hour each morning in the library with Mr Bennet, and no matter how much Elizabeth attempted to uncover the nature of their conversations, she was unsuccessful. Yet, the truth was something else entirely—her curiosity was nothing but a game, a feigned frustration at their secrecy, for in reality, she was content. She sensed that her father was offering Darcy something beyond measure that no one in the house could—that hour was when he allowed himself to grieve, to betroubled, to acknowledge his regrets for the life he had lost, even though he still lived.
“I am so grateful to you, Papa,” she told him when it became evident that Mr Bennet intended to remain with them for some time.
“Nonsense, Lizzy. I have discovered the pleasure of being useful. I dare say I have also evolved through this tragic affair, and you and Darcy have guided me along a path I have seldom walked.”
“I know you dislike being away from Longbourn.”
But Mr Bennet dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. “The library here more than compensates for any regret or inconvenience.” He smiled at her, his tone as wry as ever, poised between jest and sincerity. Then, drawing her into an embrace, he whispered in her ear, “It is an immense pleasure to be of service to you both, the bravest people I know.”
Richard, too, visited daily. He had grown accustomed to having breakfast with them, as his home was but a few streets away. In this way, whatever Darcy desired, Richard ensured it was done. Occasionally, Elizabeth, feigning being too busy with daily problems, would say, “Ask Richard,” merely to see the satisfaction with which the two conspired over some scheme.
She also had secrets with Richard, spoken in hushed tones, far from the rest of the family.
“It was him. It was Wickham,” Richard whispered one evening. They were in the library; the colonel had called at that late hour expressly to secure a moment of privacy.
“That criminal who shot Darcy was held in Marshalsea Prison, in Southwark, just south of the Thames. But the conditions there are appalling, so I promised to move him to Fleet Prison, which is somewhat more tolerable, provided he told me the truth of what happened.”
“And?” Elizabeth asked. A chill ran through her, a thread of fear and revulsion. She wanted desperately for the colonel’s suspicions to be unfounded. It would be too dreadful if Darcy’s predicament had been caused by a man whom she—and all of Hertfordshire—had once regarded as a gentleman, a man welcomed into their homes, whom she had, for a time, even admired.
“He, as I have already told you, along with a few companions, all deserters, hid in London for a time, but when some of them were captured, the rest sought refuge in the woods of Hertfordshire. The militia stationed in Meryton were called on to aid in their capture. The authorities in London wished to send them back to the front lines. They would be no use rotting in prison.”
“Wickham was involved in this…action as well?”
“Yes. The scoundrel admitted that someone within the militia paid him one hundred pounds—”
“One hundred!” Elizabeth gasped in horror. It was a significant sum, one that suggested the man who sought Darcy’s death had a grave and pressing reason.
“It was him,” the colonel said grimly. “But proving it is difficult. According to the description, he was a tall, dark-haired officer with a light complexion—such a man could be any among those stationed there.”
“But how many knew Darcy? And more than that, how many despised him enough to wish him dead? Sometimes I wish we could forget everything,” Elizabeth murmured, but Richard shook his head firmly.
“I do not believe that would be wise. Wickham is a criminal, and I doubt anything will change him for the better.”
“You are right,” she conceded, and then a chilling thought struck her—that man, the one who had perhaps wished for her husband’s death, was still in Hertfordshire, welcomed into thehomes of their friends. There was only one thing Elizabeth had managed to achieve through her father: after revealing to Mr Bennet the villainy Wickham had inflicted upon Miss Darcy, he had immediately written a letter, forbidding that man from ever being received into their houses—either Longbourn or the Phillipses’ home.
Mr Bennet, already greatly annoyed by the militia officers, had sent a strongly worded letter to his brother-in-law, urging him to speak to the two sisters, Mrs Bennet and Mrs Phillips, and make them understand that a man who had harmed the Darcys could no longer be admitted into their homes. After all, the two families were now bound together through Elizabeth.
“It is dangerous to let matters lie, but for the moment, I do not know what more can be done. One thing is certain—he must have learnt that Darcy did not die, that his plan failed, and I cannot help but wonder what else he may be plotting.”
That Wickham had found out was beyond a doubt, for the news Elizabeth had written to her mother and sisters must have become a topic of discussion. He had likely heard of her marriage as well, though he could not have known the true extent of Darcy’s condition, for beyond their closest family, no one did. They had all agreed to maintain that illusion—that Darcy was still convalescing but gravely affected by the incident.
The wheelchair now allowed him to receive visitors, and a few close friends had already expressed their wish to see him.
“This is not the way he would have lived his life. I know it well,” Richard said, watching with quiet satisfaction as everything around them gradually returned to its usual course, “but I am so grateful that you are in his life.”
“He is pressing me to leave for Pemberley,” Elizabeth said, not striving to conceal the deep unease the plan stirred in her. Not only would she have to leave him alone for a longerperiod, but she would also be tasked with overseeing an estate she knew little about.
Richard sighed, for he, too, dreaded the thought of her leaving Darcy alone. Still, he understood why Darcy wanted Elizabeth to take charge of the estate’s affairs while he was still alive. He was granting her authority through his role as master of the house and estate.
“I married him to take all burdens from his shoulders…but it is so difficult to leave,” Elizabeth said.
“We shall look after him, I promise. And besides, you heard the man—he wants some of his friends to visit him. That is a marvellous plan that will keep him busy.”
Elizabeth nodded absently. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide her love, and the thought of leaving him—of perhaps never seeing him again—terrified her. But in the end, this had been their agreement, and when she had made it, her foolish heart had remained silent, unaware of the love buried so deeply within her that she had not even felt it.
“I shall go,” she said at last.
