A fleeting shadow crossed Mr. Wickham’s face, to be quickly replaced by his easy smile. “Yes, I knew him well. He, Darcy, and I were playmates when we were younger—better times.”
“Perhaps, Miss Darcy, we could persuade the colonel to visit,” said Elizabeth, who truly had enjoyed the colonel’s company. “He seemed to find much pleasure with your being at Matlock House during his convalescence.”
“Oh, what a wonderful idea!” exclaimed Georgiana. “I shall write to him tomorrow. I’m sure he and Mr. Wickham will enjoy many good memories—I would be delighted to hear such stories, particularly those of when both my parents were still with us. I never knew my mother, though I feel I know her through her portrait which hangs in the gallery. Dear Papa would sit me on his knee and tell of his courtship—oh, so romantic. That any man would love me as he did her!”
She glanced at Mr. Wickham and blushed. A transitory smile crossed his face, so quickly was it gone that Elizabeth could scarce recall it. Georgiana was a young, impressionable woman, just coming out of childhood—looking for the love and affection that would rightly have been bestowed by a mother and father. Both had passed, her mother when she was but a child, and her father five years ago. Now grown into her womanhood, she still sought love, but not the kind that a brother could give her, even more so now that he was gone to Ireland.
Elizabeth suddenly felt the responsibility, not just for Pemberley, that was thrust upon her, but also for Mr. Darcy’s sister, Miss Darcy. She was concerned that Mrs. Younge, uponwhose shoulders the responsibility should have fallen, was neglecting her ward; Mrs. Reynolds, though a mother figure to Miss Darcy throughout her life, held no authority over her or her companions.
The meal ended, and the party retreated to the drawing room for tea and coffee. Elizabeth was offered a sweet liqueur but declined; Mr. Wickham had secured himself a Madeira, seemingly very much at home with Mr. Darcy’s fortified wines. Outside, the shadows had lengthened significantly, with the sun soon to set at a half over six o’clock.
“Mr. Wickham, the sun will soon be setting; mayhap you should be returning home,” said Elizabeth. “Have you taken lodgings or a house in Lambton, which I’m told is the nearest town? Or is Kympton closer?—I really do not know.”
There was an awkward silence. The countenances of both Mrs. Younge and Mr. Wickham flushed.
“I was invited to stay the night,” said Wickham finally, looking towards Georgiana for affirmation. “I fear it is too late to make the journey to Lambton, for my horse is stabled there, and I took the pleasure of a morning walk to Pemberley, which is three miles by the old packhorse trail. Of course, longer by the lanes.”
“Mr. Wickham, it is not my position to contradict an invitation by Miss Darcy, which was made before she knew of my arrival at Pemberley. But to have an unmarried man stay in a house where two unmarried, young women reside is highly improper. My apologies, sir, but I must insist that you return to your own home this evening. I cannot countenance being in a house where the master is absent and a gentleman, of no relation to Miss Darcy, is the sole male occupant.”
“B-but Mr. Wickham is also a guest!” cried Georgiana, fidgeting with a handkerchief, scarcely able to look at Elizabeth. “Surely, being a friend of the family, he is able to stay?”
How was she to explain to Miss Darcy that having Mr. Wickham in the house, without Mr. Darcy present, would constitute a serious breach of propriety—that, were Mr. Wickham’s presence to become known, it could ruin both her and Elizabeth in the eyes of society? And where was Mrs. Younge in this? Did she condone Mr. Wickham staying in the house, for he surely had visited overnight on previous occasions; indeed, his talk of walking from Lambton was likely a fabrication. He wore indoor slippers—no man carried slippers when on a mere excursion; a packhorse trail would require, at the very least, sturdy boots. She saw Miss Darcy’s eyes moisten, and wished she could take the poor girl in her arms, for it was certain she had, somehow, been persuaded to let Mr. Wickham stay overlong in the house, that etiquette required her to extend the invitation to an old family friend, even though decorum forbade it.
She addressed Mr. Wickham directly. “Sir, if you would be so kind as to return to Lambton, you would spare us any potential unpleasantness. You have long been a welcome guest here—the godson of the late Mr. Darcy—and surely you understand that courtesy and regard for the reputation of the ladies present require your departure at this late hour.”
“Mr. Wickham,” said the butler Winthrop, who had just that moment entered the room. “A gig has been called for—a groom from the stable will take you to Lambton, if that is your preferred destination. The night is very fair, and the moon is bright—it should be an easy journey.”
Winthrop was the picture of composure—unreadable. Yet, a brief glance at Elizabeth, accompanied by the faintest suggestion of a smile, revealed his approbation. Mr. Wickham seemed ready to object, but it was clear the entire household opposed him. He shot Elizabeth a look of disquiet, offered a quiet goodbye to Georgiana, and, as he passed Mrs. Younge, murmured something barely audible. Then he was gone out the door.
Elizabeth felt no triumph, for she had driven a wedge between herself and Georgiana. It was certain the young woman was under Mr. Wickham’s spell—indeed, he was handsome, and had been a childhood companion. Yet he was of little consequence, of uncertain profession, and likely—the more so, as Elizabeth thought on it—motivated not by real affection for Georgiana, but by her fortune: thirty thousand pounds was more than enough inducement for a man to make love to an impressionable young woman.
Tension lingered in the air, even after Mr. Wickham’s departure. Georgiana, visibly subdued, sat in silence, her teacup trembling slightly in her hands. Elizabeth longed to offer comfort, to reach across the space between them and assure her that all was well, but the words would not come. She remembered Jane’s gentle wisdom—that kindness could do more than the sharpest admonition. Yet here, among strangers, with the heavy weight of responsibility pressing upon her, Elizabeth felt herself at a loss. She had acted out of concern for her and Georgiana’s reputations; yet, she had felt some satisfaction in seeing Mr. Wickham sent away—there was something about him she had found unsettling.
Mrs. Younge was the first to break the silence. “It is always so very difficult when old friends must part so suddenly, is it not? Mr. Wickham is a man of such sensibility—perhaps too much so.”
Georgiana nodded, forcing a small smile. “He is very kind. It is just—so much has changed at Pemberley. I feel sometimes as if I am forever saying goodbye.”
Elizabeth, her heart softening, replied gently, “You do remarkably well, Miss Darcy. Unfortunately, the world can be rather unkind to young ladies, and reputations are fragile things. While I agree that Mr. Wickham is everything amiable, others may question his presence in the house.”
A faint blush coloured Georgiana’s cheeks. “I know, Miss Elizabeth. I am grateful—truly. It is only that when one has so few friends, it is hard to see their motives questioned. Though, I do believe Mr. Wickham is all that is honourable.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then ventured, “I hope you will not think me severe. My concern is only that you should be safe and respected at all times, especially in your brother’s absence. You are mistress of this house, Miss Darcy, and its honour rests with you.”
A long pause followed. Outside, the sky had faded to burnished gold, the last rays of sun glinting off the windows. Mrs. Younge excused herself, her departure offering a welcome reprieve from the undercurrent of unease.
Georgiana, left alone with Elizabeth, at last allowed her composure to slip. “I did not mean to displease you,” she said softly. “I only wished to be kind to an old friend. Mr. Wickham was always so—encouraging. He said my playing the piano-forte was better than any he had heard.”
Elizabeth reached out, taking the young woman’s hand in hers. “You are sweetness itself. But affection, even kindly meant, must be tempered by prudence. You are not alone, Georgiana. If you ever wish to speak—of anything—I will listen, and I will not judge you.”
A single tear slid down Georgiana’s cheek. “Thank you, Miss Elizabeth. I miss my brother so very much. It is difficult—being mistress of Pemberley, when I feel so little mistress of myself. I had not thought of George—Mr. Wickham—as anything other than a childhood friend. But you are correct, he is a single gentleman—to stay in the same house as two unmarried women… Oh, why is the world so cruel, to deprive us of such amiable company? Is society always so unjust?”
* * *
Elizabeth retired to her bedchamber and began undressing for the night, only half-listening to Tilly’s animated descriptions of the grand house they now found themselves in. According to Tilly, her own room—shared with another upstairs maid—was likely larger than the one Elizabeth and Jane had occupied at Longbourn. Elizabeth glanced around at her elegant surroundings. Was all this refinement enough to make up for the loneliness she felt? She had wanted so much to enjoy her stay at Pemberley. Georgiana was so kind, so gentle—almost like Jane herself: tall, fair-haired, and blessed with a naturally warm disposition.
Once Tilly had left, Elizabeth caught sight of herself in the gilded mirror and scolded her own reflection.
“Foolish girl,” she whispered fiercely. “You promised not to overstep, not to take Georgiana’s place as mistress here—and yet you’ve already driven out a guest she invited. Mrs. Reynolds, Winthrop, Baxter—they give deference to you, when it is to Georgiana they should defer.”
