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Elizabeth

A s Elizabeth led Colonel Fitzwilliam towards the conservatory, she sensed he had requested this private audience for a purpose beyond admiring exotic plants.

The Colonel had been nothing but charming throughout breakfast, yet beneath his easy manner lay a shrewdness that reminded her of his cousin.

“Mrs Darcy—or may I call you Elizabeth, as we are family now, after all?” he asked as they walked along the passage.

“Elizabeth would be preferable, Colonel,” she replied. “It seems rather formal to stand on ceremony with one who knows the peculiar circumstances of our marriage.”

“Then I insist you call me Richard in return,” he said with a smile. “Though perhaps not before the servants—appearances must be maintained, after all.”

They entered the conservatory, which was a magnificent glass structure filled with plants from across the globe.

Sunlight filtered through the foliage, creating patterns on the tiled floor.

The warmth and fragrance enveloped them immediately, a stark contrast to the cool stone passages of Pemberley.

“This was designed by my cousin’s father,” Richard explained, gesturing to the elegant iron framework. “The late Mr Darcy had a passion for botany. His wife—Darcy’s mother—found it soothing to walk here during the winter months when the grounds were covered in snow.”

Elizabeth trailed her fingers over the leaf of a large palm. “It is beautiful. I have visited it several times since arriving at Pemberley, but know shamefully little about the specimens.”

“Lady Anne would have taken great pleasure in teaching you,” Richard said. “She had the same joy in sharing knowledge that Darcy possesses, though she expressed it more readily.”

They wandered along the stone path between flowering shrubs and hanging vines before Richard spoke again, his tone more serious.

“I hope you will forgive my directness, Elizabeth, but I must ask—are you content with your situation here? With my cousin?”

Elizabeth paused beside a bench, considering her response carefully. “That is a rather personal question, Colonel—Richard.”

“It is,” he acknowledged. “One I would not presume to ask if Darcy had not written to me of your arrangement.” He motioned to the bench. “May we sit? I assure you my interest stems from concern for you both, not mere curiosity.”

Elizabeth seated herself, arranging her skirts with careful movements. “Darcy has been everything considerate since our hasty marriage. He has provided me with independence and security, precisely as promised.”

“That does not quite answer my question,” Richard observed shrewdly.

“Perhaps because I am not entirely certain of the answer myself,” Elizabeth admitted, surprising herself with her candour. “We are still learning about one another. But I find that I am growing increasingly content with my situation.”

“I believe you,” Richard said, studying her face. “And I am glad of it. My cousin deserves happiness, though he often seems determined to deny himself the possibility.”

“You are fond of him.”

“He is more brother than cousin to me,” Richard confirmed. “We grew up together, and I know him better than most. Which is why his letter describing your unorthodox marriage took me completely by surprise. Darcy does not typically act on impulse.”

“And yet he did,” Elizabeth murmured, thinking again of that strange moment in the park—the gentleman and the runaway bride, forming an alliance neither had anticipated.

“Yet he did,” the Colonel agreed thoughtfully. “Which suggests to me that he recognised something exceptional in you, Elizabeth—something worth breaking his own careful rules for.”

“Your cousin rescued me from a disastrous fate. I shall always be grateful for his intervention.”

“Gratitude is a worthy sentiment,” Richard replied, “but not one that sustains a marriage.” He leaned forward, his manner earnest. “I observe you together, and I see more than practicalities or friendship. Has it occurred to you that your temporary solution might be developing into something more enduring?”

Elizabeth looked away, flustered by his directness. “I have given very little thought to what happens beyond our agreed year.”

“Then perhaps you should,” Richard said gently. “For I believe my cousin has.”

This revelation startled her. “Has he spoken to you of… of changing our agreement?”

“Not in so many words. But I know him well. The way he looks at you, how he speaks of you—these are not the behaviours of a man merely fulfilling a convenient bargain.”

Elizabeth was unable to meet his gaze, and she felt sweat breaking out at the nape of her neck. She had noticed changes in Darcy’s manner towards her—glances that lingered longer than necessary, a softening in his expression when he thought she was not observing.

“I do not wish to presume upon his sentiments,” she said finally. “Nor would I have him feel obligated beyond our original understanding.”

“Obligation is not what I observed at breakfast,” Richard said. “But I have said enough on the matter. It is not my place to interpret my cousin’s heart—or yours.”

Elizabeth was grateful for his discretion. She had much to consider regarding her own feelings, which had grown far more complicated than she had anticipated when accepting Darcy’s proposal.

Not eager to continue this line of conversation, she sought to change the subject. She contemplated if she ought to ask the one thing that weighed upon her the most. Could she trust this man she hardly knew to tell her the truth?

She decided to take the chance.

“May I ask you something in return?” she said.

“Of course.”

“Do you know a Mr George Wickham?”

The change in Richard’s expression was immediate and dramatic—his open expression hardening into something grim and forbidding. “I do,” he said shortly. “To my considerable regret. How do you come to know that name?”

“I discovered his portrait hanging in Pemberley’s gallery. Mrs Reynolds spoke of him with dislike, but would not elaborate on the reason. I have wondered about him ever since.”

Richard’s jaw tightened. “It is not my story to tell in full,” he said carefully. “But I would advise you to be wary should you ever encounter him.”

“Mrs Reynolds mentioned the late Mr Darcy was fond of him and intended him for the church,” she said, not wishing to reveal that she had met Wickham herself.

Richard seemed to debate with himself before answering.

“Wickham and Darcy grew up together—Wickham’s father was the old Mr Darcy’s steward.

They were educated together, treated almost as equals.

The late Mr Darcy had a particular fondness for Wickham, who could be immensely charming when it suited him. ”

He paused, seeming to measure his words carefully.

“When Darcy’s father died, he left Wickham a living in the church.

Wickham had no inclination for clerical life, however, and requested money in lieu of the position.

Darcy gave him three thousand pounds—a generous sum that Wickham promptly squandered. ”

“And then he returned for more,” Elizabeth guessed, recalling the details Mrs Reynolds had mentioned.

“Precisely. But by then, Darcy understood his true character and refused further assistance. Wickham disappeared for a time—then reappeared last summer at Ramsgate, where Georgiana was staying with her companion.”

She sucked in a gulp of air, recalling what Mrs Reynolds had said—that something else had occurred, something to do with Georgiana. She hadn’t wanted to go into detail but the matter had troubled her.

Richard’s expression grew graver still. “Georgiana was not yet sixteen. Wickham somehow gained her confidence, convinced her that he loved her, and nearly persuaded her to elope with him. His target, of course, was not Georgiana herself but her fortune of thirty thousand pounds.”

Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. “How dreadful! Poor Georgiana, she must have been devastated when his true purpose was revealed.”

“Darcy arrived unexpectedly and discovered the plot just before it could be executed. Georgiana, heartbroken and ashamed, confessed everything. Wickham disappeared immediately.”

The pieces fell into place for Elizabeth—Mrs Reynolds’s dislike, and the odd contradiction between the man she had come to know and the one Wickham had described to her.

“How mortifying,” she said and shook her head. “And no wonder Mrs Reynolds was so very opposed to his portrait hanging with the others.”

“She was never taken in by him,” Richard explained. “Many others, including my uncle Darcy, were. His greatest talent is identifying exactly what impression will most recommend him to each new acquaintance.”

Elizabeth understood this to be true. With her, he had presented himself as the wronged party, the one most unfairly disadvantaged by someone richer and of more consequence.

She was glad now not to have told Darcy at once that she knew Wickham, but it bothered her still that she had kept the secret.

Perhaps now she knew the full story she could explain and somehow lessen the impact?

Would it be acceptable, she pondered; to say she had met him in passing though that was not entirely true?

“I have witnessed his duplicity for years,” Richard added unprompted.

“And paid for it more than once in my efforts to extricate him from various scrapes before he involved Georgiana. Darcy was far more patient with him than I would have been, out of respect for his father’s memory. That is also why the portrait remains.”

Before Elizabeth could respond, they heard footsteps approaching. Darcy appeared at the conservatory entrance; his tall figure silhouetted against the light from the hallway.

“I see you have begun your tour,” he observed, joining them. “I hope my cousin has not been too tedious with his botanical knowledge, Elizabeth.”

“Not at all,” she replied, rising from the bench. “We have been having a most… informative conversation.”

Elizabeth watched Darcy’s face carefully, wondering if he would detect the change in her demeanour.

The knowledge of Wickham’s treachery had altered her understanding of Darcy’s character profoundly, revealing a depth of devotion to his sister and a restraint in the face of provocation that commanded her respect.

“Indeed,” Richard said, his manner shifting back to its earlier geniality with remarkable ease. “I was just telling your wife about Lady Anne’s passion for rare orchids. You might show her your mother’s journals someday—her descriptions of each new bloom are quite poetic.”

Darcy’s expression softened at the mention of his mother. “I had forgotten those notebooks. They must be in the library somewhere. I shall look for them.”

They continued their tour of the conservatory, with Darcy occasionally providing information about particular plants or renovations to the structure.

Elizabeth walked beside him, acutely aware of his presence in a way she had not been before.

She was grateful his cousin had not mentioned the actual topic of their conversation, as it would have robbed her of the chance to make up her mind about what to do.

As they paused before a magnificent flowering vine, Darcy turned to her with an expression of concern. “You are unusually quiet, Elizabeth. Has something troubled you?”

“I imagine the flowers have bored her to tears, Darcy,” Richard said with a chuckle.

“I see.” Darcy’s tone was measured, but Elizabeth detected an undercurrent of tension. “It is unusually warm today. It is a wonder you are not more uncomfortable,” he said and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“I agree.” Richard cleared his throat. “I believe I should see to my horse before dinner,” he said. “The groom mentioned he seemed a bit lame after our journey.”

“Of course,” Darcy replied, though his eyes remained on Elizabeth. “We shall see you at dinner.”

After Richard had gone, Elizabeth moved towards a bench set among flowering shrubs, and Darcy followed, sitting beside her with a careful distance between them.

“My cousin has taken to you,” he said then.

“I am glad at least some in your family are pleased to have my acquaintance. He has been rather entertaining.”

“I hope he has not told you more stories of me falling into assorted ponds,” he replied with a chuckle.

“Do you make a habit of falling into bodies of water, sir?” she said, feeling lighter than before.

“Only in my youth,” Darcy admitted, his expression relaxing. “Though Richard would have you believe I regularly sought out opportunities to soak my attire.” He wetted his lips and continued. “I must apologise,” Darcy said suddenly, his tone serious once more.

Elizabeth looked at him in surprise. “Whatever for?”

“Earlier, when we had breakfast with Richard, I spoke to defend you when you did not need it.”

The simple acknowledgment touched Elizabeth deeply. She thought of Jonathan Blackfriars, who had never once considered that her preferences might differ from his own, who would never have recognised such a fault in himself, let alone apologised for it.

“Thank you,” she said. “Your consideration means a great deal to me.”

Darcy’s eyes held hers, and Elizabeth felt a curious warmth spread through her chest. In that instant, her decision crystallised.

No, she would not mention her acquaintance with Wickham.

The knowledge could serve no purpose except to introduce strain into the growing understanding between them.

He was merely a trivial figure from her past, unworthy of disrupting the future she was beginning to envision at Pemberley.

As they rose to return to the house, Elizabeth felt a newfound clarity.

The truth about Wickham had revealed much about Darcy’s character—his loyalty, his protective nature, his capacity for restraint even when wronged.

These qualities, combined with the consideration he showed her daily, strengthened her growing regard for the man she had married under such extraordinary circumstances.

Perhaps, as Richard had suggested, their temporary situation might indeed be evolving into something more enduring than either of them had anticipated.