Page 27 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

They spoke of books and poetry, even of religion and politics. Her observations were sound, the result of considerable thought and her own experience—which was considerably more than the average squire’s daughter of her age. Too many times, Darcy had to bite his tongue lest he reveal too much of his views and his own experience. He told her of some of the places he had been, the people and the customs he had learned. She soaked up his descriptions hungrily. Her desire to understand more of the world, her curiosity about other cultures, made it difficult to remember his caution.

After a week, they had found seven letters from Imperial Spirits & Fine Goods written in a mixture of Italian, French, and English. None of them stated anything incriminating, nor did they contain a blatant forgery, but they would serve to establish that the business relationship had continued when the contract had not been renewed.

At first, Darcy considered it probable that Mr. Bennet had signed a document extending the business arrangement, thus making himself liable for the company’s debts. After one week of working in his house, he no longer considered that a possibility. Mr. Bennet had to be the most indolent, selfish man he had encountered—a stark contrast to his industrious, selfless daughter.

Several times, Darcy saw drawings and letters with Miss Elizabeth’s name signed at the bottom which granted glimpses into her childhood. Some she commented on and explained; at others, she groaned and rolled her eyes, lamenting her lack of skill. When she joined her mother and sisters to prevent arousing their suspicions, he would linger behind to study her artwork more closely. She did not draw as much as the other Bennet girls did, and her subjects were always the same: Longbourn and her sisters. Darcy imagined her sketching hurriedly, trying to finish early so that she might do one of the many tasks her father ought to have done.

She hid it well, but it was to Miss Elizabeth that the servants approached with their needs and inquiries. It was she who penned the letters Darcy saw waiting for Mr. Bennet’s signature on top of the cushion of his chair, his desk surface still too cluttered for them to be placed there. Once he had caught her holding the accounts ledger on her way down the stairs in the early morning. Darcy could only suppose she had balanced them the evening prior in the privacy of her bedchamber.

He reached for another stack, pausing when he saw what was on top. A letter, folded into an envelope, addressed to Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire. It was written in the over-sized, unsteady pen of a child’s hand. The temptation to slip it inside his pocket to read later was unbearable.

He resisted, of course. When he set the pile in front of Miss Elizabeth, she snatched it from the top with a sharp intake of breath. He noticed that it was not in the pile when it was time to replace the items on the shelf and noticed an outline in its shape in her apron pocket. Try as he might to control his thoughts, they always came back to the letter.

A tap at the door that usually signaled the arrival of a fresh pot of tea preceded the arrival, not of the maid, but of Hill. Darcy stretched his back, grateful for a brief reprieve, no matter the source.

“A Mr. George Wickham is here to see you, sir.” Every muscle in Darcy’s body clenched. Miss Elizabeth cast him a concerned glance.

“Ah, yes! The gentleman I met in Meryton just the other day. I told you about him, did I not, Lizzy?”

Only then did Miss Elizabeth turn to her father. “If you did, I do not remember, Papa.”

“It must have slipped my mind with all this work.” He gestured at the ordered shelves to which he had contributed the least amount of labor. “Your mother and sisters will be pleased to make his acquaintance, and I daresay it is past time for us to join them.”

Darcy felt ill. No matter that he had known this moment would come; he was not able to prepare for it without knowing precisely what to expect.

“Mr. Robinson, are you well?” Miss Elizabeth whispered.

“A pain in the neck.” Darcy rubbed his nape.

She smiled at him. Her eyes sparkled like twinkling stars, vibrant and full of cheer. He had noticed how clearly her face displayed her emotions, and he observed how easily she turned her frowns into reasons for merriment. Miss Elizabeth was not one to be overtaken by a turn in circumstances, and he wondered if she had always been this way or if she had been forced into it by their fathers’ arrangement.

“It is no wonder! You have worked away the morning without pause.”

“As have you.”

Her smile widened. “Then I thank this Mr. Wickham for his timely arrival. A bit of conversation and a spot of tea is a perfect reward for our hard work.”

Darcy forced his raised hackles down. No doubt, Wickham had refined his wiles over the years, but Darcy had learned a great deal about people himself. He would not be an easy target this time. Unclenching his fist, he swept his hand toward the door. “After you.”

Bobbing a pert curtsy, she spun around and followed her father from the study. Darcy trailed behind, falling into his role fully. He was Robinson, a perceptive secretary who protected the interests of his employer. He would protect Miss Elizabeth from the likes of George Wickham. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and crossed the threshold of the drawing room.

Standing in the center, adorned in the finest London fashion and surrounded by Bennet females, was Wickham. He bowed and smiled, the crinkle that reached his eyes lending him an air of sincerity. The angle of his bowed head suggested humility to an untrained eye.

To Darcy, the coat, the smile, and the bow confirmed that Wickham had indeed mastered the art of the favorable first impression. His wariness increased. The timing of Wickham’s presence at Longbourn was no coincidence. He would do well not to underestimate his opponent.

Wickham stood erect, his gaze lingering a second too long on Miss Elizabeth as Mr. Bennet introduced his family to the young man he had met at Mr. Philips’s office days before. “And this is my secretary, Mr. Daniel Robinson.”

Wickham’s gaze glazed over him. For a moment, Darcy held out the hope that he might go unrecognized. But something caught Wickham’s attention, his focus sharpening the longer he stared at Darcy.

“Robinson, you say?” Wickham tilted his head. “I do not believe I know any Robinsons, though I dare say you look remarkably familiar to me.” Darcy measured his breath, his expression under firm regulation. Let the man draw his own conclusions.

Wickham’s lips stretched into a thin smile, his eyes as cold as a cobra’s. “Do you have family in the north?” Not waiting for a reply, he turned to Mrs. Bennet. “That is where I grew up, in Derbyshire, on a fine estate. I have yet to see its equal. Perhaps you have heard of Pemberley?” He stretched out the last word, his gaze returning to Darcy, expectant of a reply.

“I have,” Darcy stated apathetically, heart hammering, mind whirring. Wickham could expose him. Worse, he could use this knowledge against him.

Mrs. Bennet drowned out any further reply with an excited outburst. “You know Pemberley! What a coincidence as we⁠—”

“Mama, have you sent for tea for our guest?” Miss Elizabeth interrupted.