Page 34 of Tempted (Heart to Heart Collection #2)
Chapter 34
“G o back to Derbyshire?” Georgiana sputtered. “But tomorrow is Christmas Day! There will be no trains.”
“The day after, then,” Darcy conceded as he paced in agitation before her. “I am sorry, Georgiana, but I will brook no refusal. A matter has arisen that troubles me greatly, and it concerns you.”
Georgiana sat down and made it plain by her manner that she was staking her ground until he told her all. “What is it?”
Darcy sighed and reluctantly produced George Wickham’s missive. “Has he any letters in your hand he could use to threaten you?”
Georgiana read, her eyes growing dark and round with anger. “The scoundrel,” she hissed. “How dare he!”
“Does he have letters from you?”
Her teeth sank into her lower lip. “Yes.”
“And in these letters, did you confess anything scandalous?”
“I… suppose. Everything was all straightforward and friendly at first. He was merely offering to escort me to Paris. Then one day, while you were gone, I was very put out with… well, I was quite vexed over something, and he soothed me so gallantly that I fear I… I kissed him.”
A strangled scowl, almost a snarl arose from Darcy’s throat as he raked fingers through his hair. “And of course, you must have made mention of this in your letters?”
“William, you must believe me, it all seemed quite harmless fun at the time! I never thought he would—”
“Nor did I,” Darcy interrupted, taking the letter out of her hands. “No, I shall not chastise you, for I think we have had enough of that. I thought I was being patient and reserved in this matter, but it is apparent I have not done enough in your defence. I have sent inquiries after his activities, seeking what leverage I could find, but I should have personally confronted him a month ago, when you first told me of his behaviour towards you.”
Georgiana lifted her shoulders and ground her teeth. “But you had to tell everyone about Richard, and the family all wished to commiserate together, and that was all we did for a time. You had other matters, and it is not as if we did not manage on our own. Elizabeth and I sent him off in fine fashion.”
He paced round to her chair and set his hands on the arms of it, leaning close to her face. “ You are my sister .” He held her look for a long moment until she blinked and softly nodded, then he backed away.
“You should not have to manage this alone. Yes, I was already pursuing the reprobate, but quietly, so as not to create a scene that might further expose you. I have learned some about his personal habits, but it seems he was investigating our affairs even more closely.”
“How could he know about Elizabeth?” Georgiana demanded. “It was only the littlest of comments, and I did not even think he heard her say it!”
“Apparently, he did. You told me yourself it was enough to make you question her.”
“Yes, but how could he learn anything? It is not as if he knows anyone who could accuse her, and even if he did, the law in her state could hardly follow her here.”
“It would be enough to create a scandal. If he had a story of Elizabeth cuckolding and murdering a man—true or not—it would make it all the more difficult to refute any tales he would care to spread about you. The enormity of the potential disgrace does not bear considering.”
“I still think he is all bluster. He is using my letters to make you nervous and let you believe he has more than he truly does.”
“Nervous? He has not made me nervous but angry. Resentful. I shall not forgive him for trying to impose upon you, but previously I intended only to threaten him and prudently lock him away. Now… I shall see him crushed.”
Georgiana winced. “Crushed?” she repeated in an awed tone. “You sound rather serious.”
“I am serious. I will not tolerate threats to those dear to me.”
His sister’s eyebrows lifted, and she looked for a moment as if she meant to question him further, but she merely thinned her lips. “I take it, then, that you shall remain in London?”
“For now, yes. Carson and Blake will travel with you for your safety. I am sending a telegram to the earl at once. I think it best if you go to Matlock instead of Pemberley.”
Georgiana huffed an irritated sigh through the corner of her mouth. “You know I would protest at being ordered away, but it was I who started this mess. I ought to bear a bit of the mortification of it.”
He took her hands and put on a gentle smile. “Come, dearest sister, do not speak as if you are being sent to the gallows. I have other reasons for desiring you to go to Matlock, apart from merely protecting you.”
She looked up curiously. “Helping with wedding planning?”
“No.” He paced back around his desk, drew out Elizabeth’s letter and considered showing it to his sister. Then he read certain lines again—lines that spoke intimately of heartbreak and desperate friendship… and put the letter back in his drawer.
“Mrs Fitzwilliam and Miss Bennet could do with some comfort after the death of their father,” he said at last. “I believe it would be good for you to show them a bit of kindness during this time.”
“So, it is to be for my benefit, not theirs that I go to them?” she asked with a cryptic smile.
“Of course,” he replied evenly. “I think they would do anyone good.”
N o matter how he dressed, he was never inconspicuous enough. The moment Darcy stepped into the dimly lit gambling hell, hazy with smoke and littered with half-groggy players, he drew unwanted attention. He permitted his eyes to rove the room once, then moved to an open seat and called for a drink.
Wickham had marked him the moment of his arrival—this he knew by the way the other players shifted to make a path, and how a certain table in the back fell conspicuously quiet. It was a quarter of an hour, however, before anyone approached him, and the man who came near was a lowly sort, who only glanced at Darcy long enough to make it plain he desired a drink.
Darcy placed a coin on the counter, and a drink came. “He’s waitin’ for ye in the back room,” the man drawled into his mug.
The “back room” was little more than a table set into an alcove with a curtain drawn over it, reserved for guests who were willing to pay for a bit more privacy. Darcy pulled aside the curtain and seated himself without ceremony, all while Wickham put on a poorly contrived act of surprise.
“Darcy! I did not know you frequented this part of town, old boy.”
“When I am seeking riff-raff, I go where it can be found.”
Wickham raised a smouldering cigarette with a chortle. “How long did you lie awake last night to dream up that insult? Oh, did you and Miss Darcy enjoy your fattened goose yesterday? I hope my untimely letter did nothing to dampen her festive spirits.”
“Not at all, for she found it most amusing.”
Wickham smiled and lifted his cigarette to release a drowsy cloud of foulness. “I don’t doubt it. A fine girl, Darcy—and I mean that in every sense of the word.”
Darcy allowed the comment to pass. “I thought you meant to join the Indian Army after you ran out of funds last time. What came of that?”
“What came of it? A malicious disease, I fear. They call it love—have you ever heard of it?”
“Once or twice,” Darcy returned drily. “Though I doubt we share the same definition.”
“Oh, unquestionably not. For starters, I would never permit the woman who had captured my fancy to stray so long before getting the shackle round her pretty ankle. Unless, of course, her ankle is not so pretty, but that is a matter for your own tastes.”
Darcy drew out his pocket watch and examined the face. “Did you have a point? I have more important business than empty posturing.”
Wickham’s teeth showed, and he stabbed out his cigarette. “I thought you might enjoy a bit of old friendliness before getting to it, but very well. Twenty-five thousand.”
Darcy slowly put his watch away and pursed his lips. “What makes you think you are worth that much?”
“Oh, it is not my services I am selling, but your peace of mind. I ought to ask double. Perhaps I shall.”
“I never said I came to buy.”
“It won’t work, Darcy. I am not tipping my hand just because you feign disinterest. You came here for a purpose, so what is it to be?”
Darcy drew out his pocketbook. “How far are you in debt? A number, Wickham.”
His old friend leaned back and scoffed. “What fellow keeps track of such things? You are not carrying the sum in your pocketbook, I can say that.”
“I am not giving you money. A name—yes, here it is.” Darcy withdrew a slip of paper and laid it on the table. “Recognise it?”
Wickham leaned forward and squinted, as if he were having trouble making out the letters. Slowly, he sat back, some of the swagger drained from his features. “Walsh? I wonder what you think it means to me.”
“Five thousand, at least. You contracted to undertake a particular sort of work—a delivery of some sort—and never fulfilled the obligation. A man in that line of business? He would see you snuffed out rather than waiting on payment if only to make an example of you.”
Wickham’s features hardened. “Very well, Darcy, you must have your sources in the slums, after all. I never thought you would soil yourself so far.”
Darcy put away his pocketbook. “I have more to learn, I am certain, but I have been occupied of late. What happened to this money you owed Walsh?”
“Oh, that? Walsh is nobody—hired muscle.”
“Then you owe someone even more dangerous. Come, Wickham, I’ve no patience for your games. You needed to leave the country because of your many debts, and my sister was your ticket. Is that the sum of it?”
Wickham lifted a lazy shoulder. “I was only helping her, Darcy. Poor girl simply longs to escape your iron fist, and she had the perfect chance until she lost her nerve. What matters it if I stood to gain a little for my trouble?”
“You preyed on an innocent girl’s emotions and sought to use her and deceive me. You cannot suppose I would overlook that.”
Wickham leaned forward. “I don’t need you to overlook it. It is enough for you to mend this fix your sister got herself into. It would be a dirty shame if I lost one of her letters, and the wrong person found it.”
“It would,” Darcy answered casually. “It would be an even greater shame if I had a private conference with a certain general, or even worse if I happened to let slip to Walsh’s men where you might be found.”
Wickham stared for a hard second, the flesh around his eyes pinched, and then a slow grin curved his lip upwards. “Do you know, from another man, I might take that threat seriously, but not from you. It would be the next thing to murder, and I know you could never be a party to that. Speaking of which, you and Miss Darcy have been keeping rather questionable company of late. What would you say if I told you I had proof of your houseguest’s tarnished past?”
“I would call you a liar.”
“Then you do not know the lady so well as you believe. Ask her about a man named Bryson. Ask about her father—I believe his name is Bennet. And ask if she has been missing any letters from home—it seems that word of the lady’s change of address was slow to reach her family, though I do not know how that could have come to pass.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened and, most maddeningly, he felt his cheek beginning to twitch. Wickham was too experienced a gambler to miss this tell, and he pressed his advantage.
“What is this? I see my revelation is no surprise to you! Well, now, this is a curiosity. I wonder what would be said of you if this were learned about Town?”
“The letters, Wickham. All of them,” Darcy snapped.
Wickham raised his hands. “Hold there, I did not bring them with me! I am not such a fool.”
“And I am not so toothless and spineless as you presume. One breath of aspersion cast on my sister or Mrs Fitzwilliam, and you will not be so much as a bad memory.”
There was a long pause. Wickham leaned back fractionally in his seat—his expression still smug as ever, but his nostrils flared unevenly, and his pupils were dilated. At length, he ventured lowly, “You have changed, Darcy. The man I knew in my youth was noble. An honourable figure he was, cut much in the line of his father. He would count it disgraceful to lower himself to idle threats and churlish mannerisms. Beneath his dignity!”
Darcy crouched forward, levelling a brittle stare at his once and former friend. “What is beneath my dignity is to tolerate threats to my family. You have until this time tomorrow, Wickham. If the letters do not arrive at my door, Walsh will be at yours. Good day.”
Wyoming May 1900
“Miss Elizabeth?”
Richard leaned on the picket fence surrounding the Gardiners’ house, hesitating before opening the gate. He had wandered this way, the longer route back to his hotel—as if there were such a thing in so small a town—vowing that he only wanted to look at the door again, perhaps spy a shape in the window, to assure himself that she would be well. When he stumbled upon her sitting on the porch and staring blankly at a book, he could no longer pretend that he had not hoped to see her once more.
She flinched at her name but turned slowly from the book. A smile—he supposed it was a smile—formed a fearful grimace on her usually vibrant features, and she rose to meet him. “Colonel. I thought you would be out with your men this afternoon.”
“I am bound there after a last stop at my hotel. I, er, had some unexpected business in town. Are you well?”
Her bit of cheer was painful to witness. “Perfectly, sir. I am only a little weary from lack of sleep.”
“Miss Elizabeth…” He hesitated, searching her expression for all those shadows she attempted to conceal. “I hope you will forgive my bluntness, but you have the look of the victor’s curse about you.”
Her brows rounded softly. “What does that mean?”
“I see it often, particularly in young men just returned from the front. You did what was necessary, but it does not sit well with your conscience.”
Her lips twitched. “And you see this guilt only in the faces of the young?”
“Indeed, for by the time they are aged, that troubled countenance has hardened to a crusted, warty semblance of humanity, beneath which lurks the true man—known, in most cases, only to his fellows in arms.”
“My! You paint a flattering portrait of the future.”
His voice softened. “I only meant to tell you that your present troubles are not unique. The survivors often feel guilt, a sentiment that frequently does even greater harm than the original skirmish.”
A deep, shuddering sigh raised her shoulders as if she had finally permitted herself to take a breath that was not rigidly controlled. “Have you ever shed blood in the line of duty, Colonel?”
“No,” he confessed. “What I mean to say is, not personally. I have trained men and horses at active stations, I have sent them off to do their duty, but miraculously the sabre and the bayonet fell to others rather than myself. I expect that is about to change.”
“Oh?”
“Yes….” He fidgeted with the latch on the gate, avoiding those expressive eyes. “I received my orders just an hour ago. I am to depart tomorrow with the horses for New York, then board a ship for South Africa.” It was a moment before he dared to look at her.
She was blinking, a sudden pallor falling over her cheeks. “I… I see,” she whispered.
“Look here, it is not so bad. Why, you have Mr and Mrs Gardiner to look out for you, and… and your sisters—”
“I was not concerned for myself, but for you,” she interrupted.
Richard stopped, his hand still stretching over the fence and his mouth not yet closed.
“Will you write?”
He sighed. “I will try.”
She nodded, her gaze falling to his chest. “You will be careful?”
“As careful as a man on the battlefield may be.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I expect it is hardly a tea party, is it? You are very good to look in on me before you leave, Colonel. My troubles are paltry when compared to what you must face.”
He caught her hand and knotted their fingers together over the fence picket. “I hardly call them ‘paltry.’ What do you intend to do?”
Her shoulders lifted, and she wetted her lips. “I do not deceive myself into thinking it can all be forgotten. It is the sort of thing that a town like this will recall for generations. But I hope that in a year or two, I might find a way to settle quietly somewhere else. Perhaps I could take a teaching position in Nebraska—someplace where no one knows anything.”
He did not answer—only looked steadily down at her until she raised her eyes to his. Her mouth quivered, her fingers tightened around his, and she lifted his hand to her warm lips.
“Thank you for being my friend,” she whispered. Then she dropped his hand and ran into the house.
Matlock December 1900
“E lizabeth?” Georgiana Darcy stopped hesitantly at the door of the library at Matlock, where Elizabeth had been trying to mind her book. Poetry had lost all its lustre these days, and tragic novels rang somewhat too close to reality for comfort.
She smiled for Georgiana, whose arrival two days prior had been a greater pleasure than she could have expected. “Yes?”
The young lady entered the room, and almost bashfully held out a letter. “It is from my brother. He said some mail came for you recently. It had been accidentally delivered to your first rooming house in London, and it took all that while to be delivered properly. Can you imagine?”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes as she hesitantly accepted the envelope. Something was odd in Georgiana Darcy’s tone—a touch of irony rather poorly concealed, but any such letter would be a much-coveted gift, no matter the story. “Thank you.”
Georgiana left her, and Elizabeth considered waiting for Jane or Billy to open it. The first letter, however, was from William to her, and she could hardly read that in their presence.
Dear Elizabeth,
I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than my last surely did. I wish I could have delivered it personally, but I hope that my sister’s company has been some consolation during this time. Another moment, and I would have been on the train myself, despite your entreaties for calm rationality. I expect Georgiana informed you that an unfortunate matter arose directly on the heels of receiving news from you, but I still consider it a paltry excuse for not being there to comfort my friend in her time of trial and grief. Perhaps this letter will make up for some of my failings on that part.
In one respect, I must beg your forgiveness. The letter had been opened before it came to me, and its original envelope remains unaccounted for. Knowing, as I did, the sensitivity of certain matters, I took it upon myself to read the letter as well, to ensure that nothing of harm could have been perceived within its pages by a stranger. Fortunately, I do believe you will find its contents rather a comfort than a thing to be feared.
I would write more just now, but there is nothing I can possibly write that you will treasure more than the letter I send. I will only add my sincerest hopes for peace in your spirits.
William
Elizabeth sniffed and blinked the mist from her eyes as she carefully folded William’s letter. This, she tucked into the neckline of her gown, close to her heart, and it would later find its way into the treasure box of letters she kept in her room. She was impatient now to read what William had commended to her, so without lingering or seeking out anyone else, she unfolded the creased and wrinkled pages of the original letter. Tears choked her when she recognised her father’s handwriting.
My dearest Lizzy,
Perhaps by now you have moved on from your first lodgings and have already sent a change of address, but I trust you will have left forwarding information at your rooming house. A wiser person would have patiently waited for better information, but I have never been wise or patient.
My child, I hardly know what to write to you. I fear you should not expect many letters from me, for I do not doubt the trouble of putting these few words down on paper will be all the exertion my mind will permit for at least a month or more. You know, I hope, that it is not for any lack of affection for you that I will prove a miserable correspondent. The opposite is the case, for once I permit my thoughts to stray, I fear I am useless for anything but the ruminations of an old man. Jane, I know, will someday come back to me. I fear Billy will as well, but you, my dearest girl, are lost to me. Would that I could push back the sunrise, turn back the seasons and make the world right again.
Much as I grieve the loss of you, I am assured now that I have done the right thing in sending you away. Silas Bryson still has Jamison’s ear, and I fear you would not be safe until the father lies cold beside the son. Though it be a mortal sin to confess it, I should say such a loss would be my gain. I thank heaven that Colonel Fitzwilliam is a more honourable man than his rival, and I pray daily that you will be secure and happy the rest of your days with him.
Lizzy, if the events of the last months have taught me anything, it is that tomorrow is never promised. I thought I had all the time in the world to tell you that you have been my joy since the first time your baby fist squeezed my finger. I thought the day would never come when I would not see your flying petticoats coming to cheer me over a dusty horizon, or I would not have a bit of idle time to look forward to, reading a line or two of poetry over your shoulder. And I thought I would dandle my grandchildren on my knee—hearty, bright-eyed troublemakers who were forever toddling in my footsteps rather than minding their mother.
How my mind’s eye cherishes that image! I suppose now that you are a married woman, little Fitzwilliams may soon be in the offing. Do see about sending your father a photograph if the joyous event should become a reality. I probably ought to secret such a keepsake if it should ever come my way, but I am just obtuse enough to flaunt before Bryson that you are alive and out of his reach.
My dearest child, I do not know how much more I have in me. I was a fractured, bitter man before you were taken from me, but it was you who lifted my head and poured sweet encouragement into my soul. Do not grieve, my daughter. I do not say this to give you sorrow, but to thank you for the treasure you have been to your father. Other men hope for sons—many and strong, to ease their burden and to carry on their name into immortality. Few are they who think to wish for a daughter of fire and iron—one who charges into life with all the bluster and brilliance of an unbroken steed. No, not many men can boast of such a girl. You are my pride, my spirit, and all that I shall ever hope to leave behind me in this world.
I shall try to write more when I can think of you without my old head pounding and my old heart splitting. Mary will keep you updated about the others, I am sure. She is a good girl, Mary. Practical and steady, not like that harum-scarum I raised. Is it not just the irony of life? I love all my girls, but I believe it is the harum-scarum who stole her father’s fondest affections.
I hope you are safely in the arms of the colonel’s family and secure in the love of a good man. God bless you, my child.
Your own
Papa
She could not say how long she sat there afterwards, gazing at the winter’s frail light through the library window. Her father’s words were an unexpected benediction over her, and just as William had said, they brought more peace than sorrow. She started and drew a breath when a light knock sounded behind her.
“Are you well, Elizabeth?” Georgiana asked from the doorway.
She nodded. “Yes.”
Georgiana approached on silent feet; her expression cautious but growing bolder when Elizabeth did not object to her presence. “How did you find your letter?”
Elizabeth sniffed once more and managed a truthful smile. “It… it was wonderful.”
“But you are still crying. Are you sure?”
A sobbing laugh bubbled from somewhere and she wiped her eyes. “Yes. It may have broken my heart, but it also gave me a few pieces to put back together again.”
Georgiana’s brow creased, but eventually, she decided, “That is well. William will be fearfully put out if he discovers it upset you.”
“Oh? Has he tasked you with my happiness, then?”
“Very nearly. I have strict orders to comfort you, no matter the need or the hour.”
Elizabeth laughed more freely this time. “You may tell your brother that I appreciate the thought, but it is unnecessary.”
“Well, he thought it was, and I do not dare annoy him. He was on the edge of furious when he insisted upon it—not furious with me, you understand. Not this time, but then, he has not been right since he heard about Richard.”
“These things take time,” Elizabeth offered softly.
“I suppose.” Georgiana frowned and then fell silent, staring out the window as if even then, she thought herself to be carrying out her brother’s command of staying by Elizabeth’s side.
Elizabeth gently slipped her father’s letter beside William’s. “I have an idea. It ought to be good for a laugh, if nothing else. What do you say to a duet on the piano?”
Georgiana looked doubtful. “I noticed just recently that the countess’s piano needs to be tuned. Nothing we play will sound right.”
Elizabeth whispered into her ear. “Do you really think that will matter when I am the one playing?”
The girl pursed her lips. “No.”