Page 36 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

“No,” she replied defiantly, untruthfully. What was she doing? Robinson knew too much about her and her family’s circumstances. Yet he had proven that he would not abuse her confidence. She sighed. “Yes. I am afraid. Terribly so.” She twisted her fingers around the bottom of the tablecloth. “My future happiness lies in the hands of a man who ran away rather than face his responsibilities, who chose to extract himself from his father rather than make peace. Yes, Mr. Robinson, I am afraid.”

He sat silently for some time, sharing her fear and sadness. Then he reached for the teapot, filled her cup to the brim, and scooped half of a teaspoon of grated sugar into the brew, just as she liked it. She accepted his kindness gladly, carefully stirring the sugar and breathing in the calming vapor. “Thank you.” Taking a sip and feeling the weight of her concerns melting off her shoulders, she relaxed in her chair.

Robinson regarded her kindly, making her smile return. “I have no doubt you will make the best of the situation, whatever you choose.”

She wished she could share his confidence. Taking another deep sip of her tea, she cradled it to her chest, its warmth soaking into her soul and softening the grip her fears had on her. Tea was a magical brew. It made everything better. “I do not know if I can trust Mr. Wickham’s opinion of Mr. Darcy, but I have nobody else to ask.” Her aunt Gardiner was the only other source of information, having spent her youth in Lambton, a village near Pemberley. Unfortunately, aside from assuring Elizabeth that Mr. Darcy was a handsome young man, she had not known him well enough to shed much light on his character.

Elizabeth peeked at Robinson through the steam of her tea. If only he had known the Darcys. He admitted to being from the north, but that was all she knew about his ties to England. Even so, she trusted his opinion.

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If you are to rely on Mr. Wickham’s judgment, then you would do well to understand what he stands to gain by influencing your opinion.”

She scoffed. “What could he possibly gain by swaying my opinion of Mr. Darcy?”

He held her look as though he fully expected her to come up with the correct answer, as if there was one! Then he carefully answered, “Mr. Wickham himself repeated several times that he was as close as a brother to Mr. Darcy.”

“Which makes him a credible source, does it not?”

“If he is speaking truthfully.”

Elizabeth frowned. She had not considered questioning Mr. Wickham’s veracity. He spoke so confidently, so certain of his place. But it was true that she had no proof other than his word.

Robinson continued, “It makes me wonder if he believes he stands to inherit much more than one would ordinarily expect a steward’s son would receive.”

“He would not be so presumptuous!” As soon as the exclamation passed her lips, though, doubt crept into her mind. Mr. Wickham had emphasized the connection more than once. Why? What was his purpose? Then again, she had directly asked his opinion, and he had given it. That was not manipulation; that was honesty. “No, he merely answered my question. That he did not hold a high opinion of Mr. Darcy is just that—an opinion, and an old one, as Mr. Wickham himself pointed out. Had he wished me to think poorly of Mr. Darcy, he would not have been so cautious in his phrasing. He might have been a great deal more liberal in sharing his views.”

“And yet you think less of Mr. Darcy after his conversation.”

She squirmed in her chair because he was right, and she did not like how easily he seemed to read her mind when she could not do the same to him. It was not fair. “I hope I am not so easily influenced by the opinions of others, especially recent acquaintances.” She leveled her gaze at him, including him in her comment.

“A wise way to live.” He tipped his head at her.

His reasonableness was vexing. “And what of you, Mr. Robinson? Am I to heed your warning and suspect everything Mr. Wickham says when I know so little about you?”

He did not look away or even blink. “Only a proud fool would tell a capable, insightful young woman what to do or how to think. I merely encourage you to question his motive.” He slid his chair back and stood. “If you will excuse me, I have some letters to write and a meeting with Mr. Philips.” He turned to her father. “Will you be joining us, sir?”

Papa lowered his paper just enough for his spectacles to be visible over the top. “Is my presence necessary?”

“It would be preferable, sir, though not explicitly necessary.”

That was clearly the answer Papa wanted to hear. “Then I will leave you to it, Mr. Robinson.” At that, he returned to his paper. Robinson bit his lips together and took a deep breath. With a bow, he dismissed himself, leaving Elizabeth every bit as dissatisfied as she had been when she first walked into the room, and much more frustrated.

She stabbed a sausage and bit it off the fork, chewing forcefully. He had called her insightful and capable, had encouraged her to think for herself and form her own opinion. He had acted just as a gentleman ought, so why was she so nettled?

Her father folded his newspaper and set it aside, then regarded her with a look that told her she had not been as careful in her selection of words as she had thought. “You are very interested in Mr. Robinson’s opinion. Allow me to remind you that he is in my employ. A secretary.”

Elizabeth bristled. Robinson’s manners were more cultured than most of the gentry she had met, certainly superior to anyone in Meryton or the villages surrounding them. “He is a capable gentleman. More than anyone! You must see that.”

“Yes, he is very good at his job, as any good secretary ought to be. I feel I must warn you against forming any attachment to such a man when you are promised to a gentleman who is far superior.”

Superior? Based on what merit? His family’s prominence? His wealth? Elizabeth bit her tongue, knowing her protests would only add credibility to her father’s reasoning. Mr. Darcy could be an ungrateful fool who shirked his responsibilities. That was how Mr. Wickham made him sound—an opinion which Elizabeth would challenge at their next meeting, in honor of fairness—as Robinson had pointed out to her.

Her father continued, “Mr. Wickham is a likable fellow. He grew up at Pemberley, Lizzy. Given his firsthand knowledge of the estate, he is a reliable source of information. He means to call today, and I encourage you to make inquiry of him directly.”

Mr. Wickham intended to call again? Why? His conversation had been pleasant, but his attention had mostly been directed at her—the one person at the table who was not free to receive it.

Elizabeth attempted to distract her mind with books, embroidery, paints, and pastels. In one particularly desperate moment, she pulled out Longbourn’s ledger to check the numbers and sums once more. The harvest had been better than she had expected, the income from its sale higher than in previous years. She had enough for everything they required to purchase seed, make repairs, and a little extra to add to her family’s comfort.

If she could convince her father to allow them all a trip to town, they could secure fine fabrics for new gowns that would last long enough to see Longbourn prosperous again. That would make her sisters happy, and it would do their mother good to visit her brother and his family. They had not seen the Gardiners in years due to Mama’s fear that the connection with a tradesman’s family might discourage Mr. Darcy. It was no longer a concern now that Mr. Darcy was not alive to make any changes to his will… more was the pity.