Page 67 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

To Elizabeth’s mind, it was too early in the morning for diplomacy. “If Mr. Wickham’s affection is so fickle as that, I do not want him, either.” Her father’s expression darkened, and Elizabeth regretted her sharp retort. She did not wish for their journey to become a clash of wills.

Charlotte shot her a level look, not one of reproach but of warning. Clamping her teeth down on her tongue, Elizabeth peered out the window. The familiar Hertfordshire landscape rolled past—bare hedgerows dividing stubbled harvested fields, leafless trees dark against a pale November sky, cottages gathered around a distant parish church, smoke rising thin and gray from their chimneys. She had looked at this countryside her whole life, had dreamed of visiting other places, but never had she considered what it would feel like to leave her home.

Papa broke the silence. “We have nothing to offer Mr. Wickham, and he has already covered…” His eyes flickered to Charlotte, and he cleared his throat. “We owe him our gratitude.” Elizabeth stared at the glass and made herself breathe slowly. The thought flickered—briefly, ignobly—that she should not be the one to pay off a debt of gratitude she had not created. She let the thought pass. Robbie had warned her against resentment, and he had been right to do so.

“It is a powerful argument you make, Mr. Bennet. Both logical and practical,” Charlotte said with every appearance of sincere reflection. Elizabeth could not believe her ears. She froze, her eyes focused on the fogged glass. Her friend continued, “Mr. Wickham is truly an altruistic man, to be so concerned over your welfare with only the hope of securing Lizzy’s hand in return. Especially when he stands to inherit and might direct his attention to a lady with great fortune and powerful connections, as you pointed out yourself.” Elizabeth chanced a glance at her. Charlotte wore the same prim, no-nonsense expression of earlier.

“Genuine affection inspires altruism in most gentlemen,” Papa answered, albeit not as confident in his declaration as he had been earlier.

“Does it?” Charlotte’s brow furrowed. “I confess I have little experience in the matter. How fortunate for you both to have gained the notice of such a man!” She paused. “Has it been firmly established that Mr. Darcy is, indeed dead?”

Elizabeth replied cautiously, truthfully, “Aside from the article in the newspaper, we have heard nothing.”

“Not even from the family solicitor?” Elizabeth shook her head. Charlotte nodded slowly, absorbing this information with great seriousness. “Well. If it was printed in the paper, then it must be true.”

She smoothed her glove. “Or so says the gullible fool, as the saying goes.” Elizabeth turned to the window once again and coughed. Looking pointedly at Papa, Charlotte shrugged as though that had settled the matter. “If Mr. Wickham’s intentions are as honorable as you claim, he will not mind waiting until you possess all the facts with which to make a wise decision. One that benefits all involved.” Papa no longer looked so pleased to have Charlotte with them, but they had traveled too far to turn around and deposit her back at Lucas Lodge.

Closing her eyes, Elizabeth rested her head against the cushion as though the conversation had exhausted her rather than filling her with the first genuine warmth she had felt in days. Beneath the cover of her cloak, she found Charlotte’s hand and squeezed it. Her friend returned the pressure without comment, without expression, without anything except the steady, solid reassurance of her presence.

Two hours later, they made their first stop to change horses. Mr. Wickham had arranged a private room and a generous table. Elizabeth gave him credit for the efficiency of it, though she found every word she spoke to him observed by her father with hopeful attention. It made simple conversation feel like negotiation, and it was only when they returned to the carriage and Mr. Wickham to his horse that she felt relief. Within ten minutes, Papa’s chin dropped to his chest and his breathing deepened into a rhythmic rise and fall.

Charlotte watched him for a moment. Then, apparently satisfied that he was asleep, she leaned closer. “There is something you should know.” Elizabeth was all ears. “My presence on this journey was not our fathers’ idea.” This was not surprising. Papa had told Elizabeth as much. “Mr. Philips called at Lucas Lodge the day before yesterday.” Elizabeth smiled at the mention of her uncle. Nothing but good came from him. She nodded, encouraging Charlotte to continue. “I could not hear the conversation, but within a few hours, your father called, and the two spoke alone together. Afterward, he told me Mr. Bennet had invited me to travel with you to Pemberley.”

“Did he indicate what my uncle said to persuade your father to agree despite all the gossip about us?” Elizabeth snuggled into her cushion, comfortable and warm.

“My father gave me instructions to make a favorable impression on the Darcy relations. As your mother has made us all aware over the years, Mr. Darcy is—or perhaps was—the nephew of an earl.” The corner of her mouth lifted. “Father would have been persuaded with considerably less.”

Elizabeth returned her friend’s joy, her mind racing. Her thoughts had moved to the chain of events Charlotte described, the care of it. Her uncle’s approach to Sir William and Papa, and Papa arriving at the idea as though it were his own. Uncle had taken a difficult situation and managed it in a way that pleased all parties. This was the work of a master diplomat.

“That is not the best part,” Charlotte said, her eyes bright with the secret she possessed.

Elizabeth allowed her a moment to bask in her superior knowledge before rolling her eyes. “Are you going to tell me, or am I to spend the rest of the journey guessing?”

Looking once again at Elizabeth’s father to ensure he still slept, Charlotte continued, “I assumed that Mr. Philips’s call had something to do with you, so I approached him in the entrance hall as he waited for his horse. I asked if all was well, and he said that he was doing his part to make it so. Intrigued, I asked him more plainly how you fared and how I might be of help. He told me that he wished you to know that, while he would like to take credit for the idea he planted in my father’s mind, in fact, it had not originated with him.”

There was only one person Elizabeth could imagine was capable of such diplomacy, but she hardly dared to think his name, much less say it aloud. “Who, then?”

Charlotte’s eyebrow quirked upward. “A young man who seemed most concerned for your welfare.”

Elizabeth mouthed the name, too overcome to speak. Robbie had been dismissed from Longbourn—turned out within the hour, her father’s threat ringing in his ears. And still, he had thought of her. Of what she would need, of the person best suited to steady her when the journey grew difficult and the house at the end of it was either a trap door or a hangman’s noose. He had arranged it all, asked for nothing, and left no trace of himself in it except for the undeniable evidence of his care.

Charlotte squeezed her hand. “He cares for you a great deal, Lizzy. That much is certain.”

“For all the good it does,” Elizabeth whispered. “I am promised to another—if he even lives.”

“Until we know for certain what has become of Mr. Darcy, you are not free to accept Mr. Wickham or any other gentleman. Do not rush a decision you cannot unmake until you possess all the facts.”

Elizabeth nodded, blinking. Bless Charlotte’s practical, unsentimental mind!

Leaning her head back against the cushion, she let her eyes close and thought of him. She could not help it. His arms wrapped around her in the dim hallway, the warmth of him, the steadiness. The tickle of his beard and the soft press of his lips against hers that had undone weeks of careful composure in a single moment. She touched her fingertips to her lips now, lightly; the memory lived there still. She smiled as she remembered touching his beard. Expecting it to be coarse, she had been surprised to find it enticingly soft. There had barely been time for her to register the intimacy of this new knowledge before Jane's voice had shattered everything and sent Robbie away.

Elizabeth wanted more of him. More time, more conversations on the walking paths in the cold, more of the way he listened as though what she said mattered and the way he looked at her when he thought she was not paying attention. She wanted to know what he would say if she told him she did not care about his past or his prospects, that she only wanted to understand him. She wanted him to teach her to swim in a bright blue sea.

There were three days between her and Pemberley with Mr. Wickham riding ahead of her and her father sleeping across from her, and she did not know what she would find at the end of the road. But Robbie had sent Charlotte. He had thought of her when he had every reason to think only of himself, and that was not the act of a man who felt nothing. That was not the act of a man who had given up hope.

She was not alone. And she was not afraid. In fact, she felt her courage rise with every turn of the carriage wheels. Elizabeth held this realization close, like a flickering flame cupped in her hand.

CHAPTER 38