Page 157

Though I am not fully able to comprehend the feelings that inspired Elizabeth to write such a stark rebuke of my character based on Wickham’s testimony, no less, I am most certainly ashamed, beyond a shadow of a doubt, of what my own feelings have been.

CHAPTER 30

WHOLLY UNCONNECTED

During the next several months, Darcy spent his every waking hour attending his responsibilities as the new master of Pemberley. Any grief he suffered was largely in privacy, away from the empathetic eyes of some and the compassionate concern of others. He did not make time for anything that did not involve his new duties, save a weekly trip to Matlock to visit his sister, who remained with his aunt and uncle. His late father had made Darcy and his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam young Georgiana’s co-guardians. Between the two of them, it was decided that being with the earl and the countess was best for the time being, as Darcy weighed the prospect of forming an establishment for her in London.

He worked hard every day to the point of exhaustion with the hope of succumbing each night to dreamless sleep. Sleep so deep that he would not dream of her. It angered him still that she thought so little of him—that she would leave Pemberley without a proper goodbye when he had nearly given her everything the female heart desired.

Having welcomed his friend Bingley and his wife to his home with open arms, Darcy looked for some hint in the latter that might lend insight into her sister’s heart. Still, he never asked about Elizabeth, and her sister, perhaps following his lead, perhaps not, likewise provided no clues.

Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his hands about his face. Why is it that the more I try not to think of Elizabeth, the more I find myself thinking of her? Longing for her? Dreaming of her?

The one dream that would not fade crept into his mind. The touches, the looks, the sounds of making her his woman for the remainder of all time: each kiss more stirring and more passionate than the last, every whisper of what was yet to come more promising than that.

Opening his eyes, Darcy sighed. I must and I will conquer this. But until such time, I would rather spend my nights dreaming of her than spend my waking hours pretending she did not bewitch me, body and soul.

Moments later, his valet entered the room, effectively recalling Darcy to the estate ledgers begging his attention.

“What is this?” Darcy asked, accepting a proffered letter.

“It mysteriously found its way into my possession, Sir. I thought you might find it intriguing.”

Intriguing indeed, Darcy silently considered as he perused the missive. The handwriting was much the same as Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s.

How did a letter from Miss Bennet find its way into my valet’s possession?

Upon further scrutiny, he espied the last words on the page: Caroline Bingley.

Aiming to mask his growing intrigue, Darcy said, “Thank you, Waters. I shall hold on to this letter for now.”

Once the valet quit the room, Darcy went over to his desk, opened the drawer, and retrieved the letter he had received from Elizabeth.

He placed the two letters side by side. At length, he muttered, “The handwriting similarities are too close to be merely a coincidence.”

Moments later, the sound of someone entering his study drew Darcy’s eyes away from the letters. The fact that his guest had not waited to be announced before entering was sufficient to inform him who it was. “What are you doing here, Wickham? I rather supposed you were in London,” said Darcy. “Whittling away the fortune my excellent father bestowed upon you,” he added derisively.

Indeed, in addition to a legacy of one thousand pounds, Darcy’s father particularly recommended to his son to promote Wickham’s advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow, and if Wickham took orders, Darcy’s father desired that a valuable family living in Kympton might be his as soon as it became vacant.

Darcy recalled how he had stifled his dismay upon seeing his father’s last will and testament. As if someone with Wickham’s immoral character ought to be a clergyman.

Alas, my father’s attachment to Wickham remained steadfast to the end. Wickham with his engaging manners and his masterful ability to conceal his vicious propensities and want of principle from his best friend and benefactor. I suppose it is just as well that my father never realized the truth, for surely it would have broken his heart—he loved his godson that much.

Wickham held out his hand as though he expected Darcy to reciprocate the gesture. He did not.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend? Pemberley is my home after all, just as my beloved godfather intended.”

Darcy scoffed. “Please do not remind me.”

Wickham strolled casually to where Darcy stood huddled over the letters. The latter hurriedly attempted to cover them. Too late, it seemed, were he to judge by Wickham’s sly smile.

“I see Caroline Bingley’s letter found its way into your possession.”

“What do you know about a letter from Caroline Bingley?” Darcy asked, slipping both letters into the desk drawer and turning the key.

“A great deal, in fact. The details of which I will gladly share with you—for a price.”

Standing straight and tall, Darcy folded his arms, one over the other. “Have I not given you enough money already?”