Page 61 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

His gaze flickered away and he took a deep breath. “I struggle to know how to proceed. Wrayburn advised me to keep the matter to myself, but to do so is a great injustice to you.” What was this? Elizabeth burned with curiosity. If Mr. Wickham was in Mr. Wrayburn’s confidence, she might learn something about her future before the journey to Pemberley. She held her breath and bit her lips. Much as she wished to press Mr. Wickham to tell her what he wished to say, she understood that would be to persuade him to break a confidence.

“You will not demand an explanation?” he asked. She shook her head, not trusting her tongue. “That settles it. I simply must tell you, but I will do so entirely from my perspective, thus preserving Wrayburn’s confidence.” That was enough for Elizabeth. She nodded, an eager audience.

“For you to understand what I am about to reveal, you must understand my history with Mr. George Darcy. From the moment I entered school and showed some promise, he took upon himself to provide me with a gentleman’s education. He had already taken on the role of my godfather, as he and my father—his own trusted confidant and steward at Pemberley—were trusted friends. Any topic I was interested in, he encouraged. We had many discussions in his study, and I cannot count the times he used his estate to teach me what he wished me to learn. As I got older and more experienced, he even consulted my opinion. This happened on more than one occasion.”

He twisted his hands together, his brow furrowed, visibly selecting his words. “While I treasured these conversations, they made me uneasy. Why did he take me under his wing in this manner when his son was away at boarding school? I asked him why he singled me out when his own son ought to have been present. While I refuse to say anything negative about Darcy—may he rest in peace—his father’s reply was not favorable. When Darcy left England, I did my best to console Mr. Darcy. We spent a great deal of time together, and I soon felt as close to him as I did to my own father. I believe he felt the same of me, as a son.”

He blinked heavily and looked away, visibly composing himself. “I had hoped to befriend Darcy when he returned, to support him at Pemberley so he might benefit from the guidance his father bestowed upon me. It would have appeased my conscience at having taken his place in Mr. Darcy’s affection. It grieves me to be deprived of the chance to mend the great breach between father and son. I might have helped them.”

The last thread of hope that Fitzwilliam Darcy might yet be alive frayed.

And yet, she had been summoned to Pemberley. Elizabeth turned that single fact over in her mind as one turns a coin, examining all sides. Mr. Darcy had been such an influence in her life and that of her family, perhaps he had something else in mind. A portrait of the son she would have wed. A painting of the estate of which she might have been the mistress. Perhaps, more suitably, a sapling from the orangery from which he had provided them with delicious fruit over the years. A token by which to remember him favorably after all his plans collapsed.

She had considered the possibility, pondered what to do if her betrothed was truly lost to her. She had no money to allow herself and Jane a London Season. Once Longbourn passed to the heir presumptive, she and her sisters would be scattered. With her family’s reduced expectations, perhaps she could re-ignite the friendship she remembered enjoying with their Gardiner relatives in town. They had children now. Elizabeth found that she looked forward to meeting her younger cousins.

So far had her thoughts carried her from the room that she startled when Mr. Wickham resumed speaking. “Only a few days remain until the reading of the will, then my expectation shall be confirmed.”

“Expectation?” Elizabeth asked, lost.

“Mr. Darcy trained me to care for Pemberley in his son’s stead.”

“You expect to inherit?”

“It is what he trained me for.”

Before Elizabeth could collect her scrambled thoughts to draw a cohesive conclusion, he took both of her hands in his, speaking rapidly. “With Darcy’s tragic end, your security and that of your family is in peril. The connections you have anticipated benefiting from for years are effectively severed. Since I first met you, you have impressed me with your intellect and loyalty. I am now in a position to offer you everything you lost if you will agree to be my wife. You will still be the mistress of Pemberley. You can live up to the promise your father made with Mr. Darcy for the benefit of both estates. I promise to be a friend to you, to allow you all the luxuries you could want as a lady in your station.” He caressed her hand gently, raising it to his face.

She tugged on her hand, and he loosened his grip with an apology. “Pray forgive my outburst. I assure you that my feelings are genuine. It is my hope that, in time, you might return my affection.”

Elizabeth looked at him—truly looked. His manner was gentle. His reasoning was sound. The evidence he had provided supported his account at every point. And yet something sat uneasily beneath all of it. Something she could not identify or describe.

She thought of the ring, warm and heavy in her palm. She thought of Robbie—the quiet steadiness of his attention, his soothing voice and comforting trustworthiness in sharp contrast to the past ten days of deliberate avoidance. She thought of Mr. Darcy, the man to whom she was promised and had never met. That man was very likely gone. Almost certainly dead.

Here before her was a solution to every problem threatening to undo her family, offered freely and warmly, by a man who claimed to want nothing more than a chance to earn her regard. It would solve everything.

He smiled at her, his eyes hopeful. “Dear Elizabeth, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” The room was quiet, the tick-tock of the mantel clock echoing off the walls.

Elizabeth looked at Mr. Wickham’s expectant face and experienced a sudden clarity of thought that bolstered her confidence. She stood at the edge of a precipice from which she could not step back.

CHAPTER 34

Had Mr. Wickham been more disagreeable, Elizabeth would not have had any difficulty refusing him directly and emphatically.

She had turned the situation over in her mind while the blustery breeze scratched Mama’s rose bush against the window. True, the will had not yet been read. Mr. Wrayburn had revealed nothing to her or her father regarding Mr. Darcy and her future. That he would confide in Mr. Wickham struck her as odd. Why had the solicitor not relayed this information to her directly?

On the other hand, Mr. Wickham’s manners were so pleasing, so considerate of her feelings and her family’s circumstances, that she felt ungrateful for the suspicion. Given his improved prospects, he might easily have sought out a diamond of the first water among the first circles of society—a lady who would smooth his entrance into a world not naturally disposed to welcome a steward’s son, however exalted by his godfather’s regard. Instead, he had chosen her. And she could offer him nothing. Not even her heart.

Her heart belonged to Mr. Robinson. If she could not marry him, and if she was no longer under obligation to marry Mr. Darcy, then she would rather not marry at all. The decision settled over her not as a resignation but as a resolve: quiet, certain, and entirely her own.

Past Mr. Wickham and beyond the oak door separating her from the rest of the household, she knew her mother waited with anticipation and her sisters sat, arranged around the drawing room in various attitudes of expectation. They would want her to accept. Mr. Wickham had been clever enough to ensure that.

And Robbie? Was he with them? Was he pacing the hall, indifferent to her reply, already packing his bag in anticipation of his departure two days hence? How could she please one party without breaking something she was not yet certain she possessed the right to protect?

It had already taken so long for Elizabeth to reply that Mr. Wickham’s smile had faded at the edges. To make him wait any longer would be unkind. What reservations she had about his character, Elizabeth had no wish to be cruel. She lifted her chin and spoke clearly. “I am honored by your proposal, Mr. Wickham. But I cannot accept it.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded, a single measured incline of his head, as though he had prepared himself for this outcome as thoroughly as he had for the other. “I had not thought my heart so captivated,” he said with a rueful turn to his mouth. “It clouded my judgment and prompted me to act foolishly.”

He loved her? The knowledge stirred her sympathy, if not her heart. “I see you as a friend, Mr. Wickham. Nothing more. I am sorry if I gave you reason to hope otherwise.”