“No,” she said. “That will be all.”
Clarice curtsied and departed, leaving Elizabeth with the troublesome notion that her maid had just called her a fool. Well then, Elizabeth Bennet might have been humiliated by her folly in love and wretchedly blinded by the pride in her discernment, but she would not succumb to the common malaise of troubled women.
If Mr. Darcy had entrusted her with the keys, she would employ them. If he scorned her affections, she would demonstrate her worth so thoroughly that he might one day regret the loss of her esteem.
Thus armed, Elizabeth dropped the heavy keyring into her pocket and marched, almost regally, down the staircase to the morning room. No more shrinking inside her bedchamber and asking for trays. No more Gothic uselessness, bemoaning her fate, and pining for a man who had lost the only woman he had ever loved.
Elizabeth found Georgiana seated at the long table with a cup of tea without steam.
“You look dreadful,” she said, settling into the chair opposite.
Georgiana’s lips twitched. “So do you. Your eyes are swollen.”
“Not for the usual reasons, I assure you.” Elizabeth reached for the toast and began spreading butter with more attention than the task required. “I see your brother has fled to London rather than face me over kippers.”
“He has important business.” Georgiana’s voice held a note of defense, though it wavered.
“I am certain he does.”
They ate in silence for a moment—or rather, Elizabeth ate while Georgiana pushed ham around her plate. The morning light slanted through the windows, catching the red rims of Georgiana’s eyes, and Elizabeth felt a pang. She reached across the table and patted her hand.
“Your brother will fix everything, at least to his satisfaction.”
“Yes, I believe he will,” Georgiana agreed. “He has gone to London to find George and bring him back so he can correct the registry entry.”
Elizabeth’s hand stilled on her teacup. “Find him? I thought Mr. Wickham was on his way to India. Did he talk about living like a rajah?”
“Fitzwilliam believes…” Georgiana hesitated, her gaze dropping to her untouched eggs. “He believes George may not have gone to India at all. Viscount Drake let something slip during their meeting. That his parents have been in contact.”
“Then he has not gone to India, for it is quite impossible for a man on board a ship to be in contact with the Earl and Countess of Drake.”
“But I have his letters,” Georgiana said, brightening slightly. “Would you like to see them? He writes so vividly—elephants and bazaars and the most extraordinary heat. He promised tobring me a Kashmiri shawl, red and gold. Quite bold, I know, but George always said I was too timid in my dress.”
She rose before Elizabeth could respond and crossed to the sideboard, where a small stack of correspondence sat tucked beneath a vase of wilting daffodils. She returned with three letters, their pages soft from repeated reading, and pressed them into Elizabeth’s hands.
“This one is my favorite. He describes a temple with carvings so intricate that?—”
But Elizabeth was not listening. She was staring at the letter’s direction, at the date penned in George Wickham’s confident hand: April 3rd, from Bombay.
She had read enough sea adventure novels—and endured enough of her father’s geography lectures—to know the distances involved. A ship from Portsmouth to India took months. Lady Amelia had died in March, before Easter, and if Wickham had sailed at the end of March, he would scarcely have cleared the Bay of Biscay. He would not reach Bombay until August at the earliest.
“Georgiana.” Her voice came out strange. “When did this letter arrive?”
“Last week. The ship letter stamp is from Plymouth—see?” Georgiana pointed to the faded marking. “George said the East India Company packets are wonderfully efficient.”
“Oh, I see.” Elizabeth scanned the hurried scribbles. Wonderfully efficient indeed to deliver a letter from a man who had not yet arrived at his destination. Elizabeth handed the letters back, her fingers numb. “They are very vivid. Your brother has quite a gift for description.”
Georgiana beamed, oblivious to the icy dread settling in Elizabeth’s stomach. “Oh, he will have such a healthy tan when I next see him.”
“Yes, he will.” Her voice emerged level, which was a minor miracle. “And when your brother locates Mr. Wickham? What then?”
“George must sign papers. Give up any claim to Thomas. Swear that he signed the registry fraudulently.” Georgiana’s chin lifted with sudden defiance—a gesture so like her brother’s that Elizabeth’s heart flinched. “But George is not wicked, whatever Fitzwilliam believes. He is simply lost. Mother always said he had too much charm and not enough anchor. She loved him, you know. As much as she loved Fitzwilliam.”
“Did she?”
“Mrs. Reynolds told me, on those nights when I was too young to know she would never return. She told me to think about my mother sitting by my bedside, the way she sat with George—for three days, refusing to sleep, until the fever broke.” Georgiana’s voice softened. “She called him her second son.”
Elizabeth thought of the registry she had examined—the christening entry for George Thomas Wickham, with Martha Wickham listed as his mother. Not Lady Anne. Martha. The woman who had married the steward for legitimacy’s sake, then apparently left her infant son at the great house and vanished from the family history entirely.
