Page 4 of The Rogue’s Widow (Sweet Escapes Collection #3)

February 1813

E lizabeth’s mother clutched her hand as their coach drew to the front of the house. “Lizzy, is it true? We are to live in a real house again? Oh, my dearest girl, pinch me if it is not true!”

Elizabeth grimaced, for the pinching was being inflicted upon her own hand. “It is true, Mama. Corbett is to be your home now. No more living as the poor relation, no more saving all month for bread or dividing us between our relatives or thinking of going out as a governess.” As if her mother could have passed for a governess.

Mrs Bennet’s eyes were moist, and she looked as if she might expire with her next breath. “My clever Lizzy! How it used to annoy me when your father called you the clever one, but it is true! How daring and wonderful of you to marry so prudently! Always thinking of your poor mother, you are.”

“It was not entirely my idea, Mama,” Elizabeth protested, but her mother was beyond hearing. She was tumbling down from Mr Darcy’s coach, which had brought Mrs Bennet and her remaining daughters from their most recent abode with Mr and Mrs Philips. Elizabeth waited for Lydia, Kitty and Mary to disembark in all their rowdy commotion before attempting the step herself.

“Oh, Lizzy!” Kitty cried. “You did not say the chicken coop was already full! We shall have fresh eggs every day. And look, Mama! There is a cow!”

Mrs Bennet was clutching Mary’s arm now, dabbing her eyes and sobbing incoherently. “If only Jane were here,” she blubbered, “we would have everything. Why would she not come when we wrote?”

“Mama,” Elizabeth soothed, “Jane is a woman of her word, and she gave it to the Robertson family. They are searching for a replacement for her, and she will come when she can.”

“But how silly!” insisted Mrs Bennet. “She is a lady of leisure! How dare they keep her?”

Elizabeth gave up and merely took her mother’s other arm to guide her into the stone house that now belonged to them. It was nearly the size of Longbourn but was not nearly so well kept. Mr Darcy had a horde of men working on it for weeks, and Elizabeth had spent every waking minute there that had not been devoted to Miss Darcy. The house was now rid of the stench of old filth, but the chimney piece was still crumbling, the kitchen yet showed evidence of a recent fire, and many of the floorboards in the upper rooms were liable to splinter into unsuspecting bare feet. But the roof was patched, and it was all hers.

In a manner of speaking.

She had not been without her moments of panic, self-loathing, and worry. Mr Darcy’s ludicrous plan had been carried off before she had quite known what to think, but now she had had time to reflect. Indeed, she had provided her mother with a home in which to pass her later years, and a place for her younger siblings to grow to maturity away from the questionable influence of officers.

But she had traded her father’s good name for that of a reprobate, and all for financial gain. That deed still dragged at her heart in her weary moments, causing her inner parts to bubble and twist in moral torment. And each time she would suffer, she could not help but think with a mixture of vexation and gratitude on the man responsible for her present state. It was all the fault of—

“Mr Darcy is so terribly kind to us!” exulted Mrs Bennet. “Why, the larder is full! And is that a smoked ham? Oh, Lizzy, we’ve not had one of those since… well, never mind.”

“Lizzy, what is Miss Darcy like?” Kitty wondered. “Did you not say that Pemberley manor is but three miles away? Why, we shall be the very jolliest of friends!”

“I would not pin your hopes on that, Kitty,” Elizabeth said diplomatically. “Miss Darcy is… well, she is a very sweet girl, but I do not think her brother would permit—”

“But she is my own age, is she not?” Kitty whined. “Why should we not be close friends? What other young ladies are in the neighbourhood but her?”

“Yes, Kitty, but you forget that Miss Darcy is of a different sphere,” Elizabeth explained. “It is not the same for her.”

“Oh, bother with Miss Darcy anyway,” Lydia interrupted. “I want to hear about Mr Darcy. Is it true he owns half of Derbyshire?”

“No, Lydia.”

“But he is vastly wealthy, is he not? Why, that carriage we rode in is probably his oldest and smallest one. And I heard he is fearfully handsome and had his heart broken by a woman!”

“Who said that?” Elizabeth asked.

“Oh, why, simply everyone I asked at the last coaching inn. Well, I suppose it was only one or two. Or was it just the kitchen maid? Anyway, she said he was betrothed once, and the lady left him for his best friend. Or was it a cousin? Anyway, it was all a great secret.”

“How mysterious!” Kitty squealed. “There is nothing quite so alluring as a man who needs his heart mended.”

“I am sure I am not interes—”

“Dear heavens!” Kitty whimpered as she swayed in place. “Is that him?”

Elizabeth turned and saw the tall caped rider approaching at a brisk canter. “It is,” she sighed.

M r Darcy’s face yielded no expression as he came near. Not that she expected much, for the man was harder to read than Herodotus. By the time he drew rein, Kitty and Lydia were gripping each other’s hands in giggling anticipation and eyeing him like he was a prize ram at the market.

Fortunately, Mary had seen their mother inside. Elizabeth tried to shush the others and send them in as well, but they had no intention of leaving. She turned and offered a curtsy.

“Mr Darcy?”

He nodded and swung to the ground. “Mrs Wickham.” He left the rein draped about the horse’s neck and began to walk towards the trees.

After two months of acquaintance, Elizabeth no longer lingered behind in confusion when he behaved thus. She did glance back to see whether his horse would wander away, but it never did. She jogged to keep up and see what he had to say.

“I bring papers from London. You may be interested to know that as of twenty-eight January, eighteen hundred and thirteen, you are officially the widow of the former Bernard Andrew Wickham, and all his property and effects are now legally your own.”

She stopped. “I am… sorry, I suppose.”

Mr Darcy turned to face her. “My condolences in your time of grief, madam.”

She shot him a sour look. “You know perfectly well I do not mourn a man I never knew.”

“But you must keep up the appearance. While at Pemberley, I am afraid I must insist on full mourning attire, for he was well known to everyone there. Unfortunately. When you are here in your own house, you may go about as you wish, but you must absolutely wait a full year before remarrying.”

“What of his debts? Surely, I must now satisfy those.”

“What do you have to settle them with?” Mr Darcy arched a brow. “You may spare your breath, for I had bought all of Bernard’s debts when I had him committed to prison. As I held them, there is nothing left to repay.”

“But I am now the beneficiary of his estate, not you. How does it not follow that I must pay them back?”

“Because,” he growled in near exasperation, “I cannot accept repayment. That is all you need know.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms. “You hated him.”

“So I did. So did most people. You would have as well.”

“But why are you doing all this?” She spread her arms. “Why bring me on? Why fill the larder and tile the roof and pack my mother in your fancy carriage to come all this way?”

He frowned. “Because I agreed to. It was not for Bernard, I can tell you.”

“Then it was the younger brother you wished to thwart?”

Mr Darcy sighed. “Mrs Wickham, I urge you to rethink your accusation. You have been here a few weeks. Others have depended on this estate for generations.”

Elizabeth subsided. He was right, after all, and rather than rising to the bait as she was always tempted to do in his company, she ought simply to be grateful. “I presume there is some formality I must undergo?”

“The will and testament are to be read in three weeks in London. We shall go, and Georgiana will remain here. We shall bring your maid for propriety’s sake—I am afraid it would not be fitting to bring your…”

Mr Darcy ceased speaking and merely gazed in astonished silence over her shoulder. Elizabeth turned, her stomach dropping in dread of what she might find.

“Lizzy! There is a tree swing!” Lydia’s voice was almost lost amid her squeals of terrified delight as Kitty pushed her ever higher. Lydia was kicking out her heels and giving Mr Darcy a most undignified view of her petticoats, all while waving and shrieking like a hoyden.

Mr Darcy squinted, and his jaw set. “Perhaps I ought to have interviewed a few more of your references, Mrs Wickham.”

She tilted a beatific smile back up at him. “It is too late now, Mr Darcy.”

He nodded, his eyes drifting disapprovingly back to Lydia before he answered. “So it is.”

“N o, Georgiana, I am afraid it would not be suitable to invite Mrs Wickham’s sisters to tea.” Darcy was speaking through a tight jaw and trying to keep his voice easy at the same time. It was not working.

“Oh, William, I wish you would not call her that. You know how I detest that name,” Georgiana said with a pout.

“I expect she likes it no more than you or I do, but it is her name. What shall I call her instead?”

“Well, I call her Elizabeth when we are together, and she seems to prefer it.”

Darcy scoffed. “It is hardly dignified or respectful for you to be addressing an older widowed woman by her Christian name.”

“What! Older widow? She is only four years older than I, and two months ago she had never even met Bernard. There, do you see? We both always called him by his Christian name.”

Darcy spared his sister a sideways smirk. “Because he preferred it himself.”

“Well,” she sniffed, tossing her head in a manner peculiarly reminiscent of her new companion, “I shall not listen to you regarding Elizabeth.”

“But you will listen where her sisters are concerned. The middle one might not be a disgrace, and there is still the eldest whom I have not met. She may be worth knowing, from what I hear, but inviting one of them to tea becomes an open invitation for all. The two youngest sisters are in every way disreputable and offensive.”

“Why?” Georgiana tipped her head and stared blankly at him in her most challenging manner. “Did one of them try to kiss you? Shout profanities at passing children? Spend the evening at the inn playing cards?”

“They simply do not comport themselves as they ought. That is the end of it.” Darcy turned away as if to quit the room until his sister’s voice stopped him.

“But Elizabeth does.”

His feet stilled. “Does what?”

“Comport herself as a lady. Why, she is everything polite and gracious.”

Darcy narrowed his eyes at the opposite wall, considering her words. “No. She does not comport herself as a ‘lady.’ Her manner is… something else altogether.”

“What do you mean? You cannot think her improper.”

He turned slowly back. “Far from it. But she is no lady. She is… something more than that.”