“Yes, please.” Elizabeth opened the ledger to the cordial section. She was peering at the labeled bottles and making notes when a voice from the doorway startled her, and her skin prickled at the throat-clearing that preceded George Wickham’s ingratiating smile.
“Good morning, Mrs. Darcy.” Wickham slouched in that overly familiar way, standing against the doorframe. He had dressed well as he always did, above his station with a cravat tied in the manner favored by London salons. “Imagine finding the Mistress of Pemberley in a humble still room. Although I am not surprised.”
“Mr. Wickham, did you lose your way to the breakfast room?”
“Not at all. The layout has not altered since I was a boy.” He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the shelves. “Lady Anne used to bring me here. She would let me taste the elderflower cordial if I promised not to tell my father, as it was meant for company. Said it would be our secret.”
“Our supply of elderflower cordial does not allow you the liberty of tasting,” Elizabeth said curtly, hoping Hannah would appear. “If you will excuse me, I have to finish the inventory.”
“You are looking well, Mrs. Darcy.” His gaze traversed her silks.
She did not thank him. She was no longer the girl who had looked for love, believing in a world of romance and affection. That was before her father’s illness—thankfully, he was recovering—and the marriage of convenience that had made it possible.
“Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy,” he spoke her name as if it were a marvel. “Imagine my surprise when I heard my brother had married. He was always so reticent regarding such matters. Butthen I learned the name of his bride, and suddenly it all made a delightful sort of sense.”
“I cannot imagine what you mean.” She turned back to the shelves, counting bottles of lavender water she had already counted twice. If she kept her hands busy, perhaps they would not tremble.
“Can you not?” His reflection appeared in the glass of a cabinet door. “We are old friends, you and I. Surely we are past such formalities.”
“I beg your pardon.” She walked past him to count the rose water.
“How cold you are.” He wandered closer, examining bottles with apparent interest. “I remember a warmer Miss Bennet. Livelier. Quicker to bestow her smiles.”
“People change, Mr. Wickham.”
“Do they? I wonder.” He picked up a bottle of elderflower cordial, turned it in his hands, set it down. “Marriage agrees with you, it seems. Or perhaps it is merely the clothes—you are dressed far more elegantly than I remember. Silk suits you.”
“Pemberley provides adequately for its mistress.”
“More than adequately, I should imagine.” His smile widened, revealing knowing eyes. “You have done very well for yourself, Miss Bennet. Very well indeed.”
“Mrs. Darcy.”
“Yes. Of course. Mrs. Darcy.” He let the name hang in the air between them, weighted with implication. “I owe you an apology, I think, for disappearing so abruptly. You must have wondered.”
Elizabeth’s hand stilled on a bottle of something viscous and dark—blackberry cordial, perhaps, or sloe gin. She had wondered; in fact, waited rather painfully on that day when he had not shown. But she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
“I confess I had nearly forgotten,” she said. “So much has happened since.”
“Has it? I suppose it has.” He was closer now, close enough that she could smell his cologne. “An untimely death, and complications. Family matters. I am sure you understand how these things go. One intends to write, to call, to explain—and then somehow the weeks slip past and the moment is lost.”
“The moment was lost some time ago, Mr. Wickham. I see no purpose in revisiting it.”
“No? A pity.” He propped himself against the worktable, arms crossed. “I had hoped we might be friends. Old friends, renewing an acquaintance. After all, we have so much in common.”
“I cannot imagine what.”
“Can you not?” That smile again, knowing and sly. “We are both outsiders here, Mrs. Darcy. We arrived at Pemberley through… unconventional means. Neither of us was born to this.” He gestured broadly, encompassing the stillroom, the house, the whole vast machinery of wealth and privilege that surrounded them. “You understand what it is to come from nothing and find yourself surrounded by everything. To perform a role you were never trained to play. To smile and nod and pretend you belong when everyone around you knows perfectly well that you do not.”
“I belong here.” The words came out sharp. “Mr. Darcy married me. That is belonging enough.”
“Is it?” Wickham tilted his head, studying her with an expression that was almost sympathetic. “Forgive me, as I do not mean to cause offense. I merely observe that marriages of convenience are… complicated. One wears a mask for so long that one begins to forget there is a face beneath it.”
Elizabeth set down the bottle she had been holding before she dropped it. “My marriage is not your concern, Mr. Wickham.”
“No, indeed. I speak only from fellow feeling.” He spread his hands, the picture of innocence. “Be honest with yourself, Mrs. Darcy—you married my brother for his fortune. There is no shame in it. We must all navigate the world as best we can, and you have done so with remarkable success. I truly admire you for it. Your secret is perfectly safe with me.”
“I have no secrets.”
