by Gail McEwen
“And why should she wish to?”
“You will understand completely once I tell you that carriage took us past Regent Street, past Leicester Square, and turned onto…” Her voice dropped to a whisper that Darcy in no way had to strain to hear. “…Castle Street!”
“Castle Street?” Darcy repeated in disbelief. “That cannot be!”
“On my honour it is the truth,” Caroline smirked. “Mr and Mrs Wickham have taken a—well, I suppose one would call it a house—in Castle Street.”
“Then when Bingley spoke of their being settled near Regent Street…?”
“Too kind, or too ashamed to own the truth.”
“I suppose,” Mrs Hurst giggled, “if one takes a broad view of things, there is a certain truth to it.”
“A very broad view.” Miss Bingley laughed.
“After all, near and far are relative terms, I suppose,” her sister generously observed. “They are both in London. But enough of that; you simply must tell Mr Darcy every delicious detail.”
Details he heard in abundance: the impossibly small size of the Wickham house, the sparse and shabby furnishings, and Mrs Wickham looking miserably unhappy and so ungracious as to offer no tea or refreshments of any kind.
“I declare, Louisa, she looked positively green, did she not? And visibly upset that we had come to call, as if we were overstepping our place!”
“Very true! But it is not as if my husband gambles away all our money, as they say hers does. Why, I hear they will not even let her in the shops anymore. How far the high and mighty have fallen—eh, Mr Darcy?”
Darcy smiled tightly, feeling a mixture of disgust at the sisters’ malicious glee over Elizabeth’s degradation as well as a familiar anger at Wickham’s callous selfishness. At the same time, he felt a glimmer of excitement. Castle Street! Not only did that explain why Bingley would never let on exactly where the Wickhams had taken residence, no matter how keenly he was questioned, it gave him an idea. Despite what he had told himself and his cousin, he could not forget the way she looked and spoke to him the night of the Wilkinson party. Nor could he let go of the urge to assist her in some way, however small. She had appeared so thin, so pale. He was certain something was very wrong at Castle Street, and he determined to go that very afternoon to find out whether the rumours the Bingley sisters so gleefully repeated were true.
* * *
“Oh, Jane, he is beautiful!” Elizabeth cooed, holding in her arms the tiny bundle that was Philip Charles Bingley.
“He is, is he not?” An equally beautiful and glowing Jane agreed with an angelic smile. “He is so tiny and so perfect. I can scarcely believe he is mine. Ours,” she quickly corrected. “Oh, Lizzy, I have been so blessed.”
“You have. Hello, little Philip,” She softly kissed the downy head. “Hello, my sweet boy.”
A pair of dark eyes gazed up at her before going crossed and closing again. Elizabeth laughed, but at the same time her throat closed painfully and tears welled in her eyes. Jane had a child, a son, a miracle born of love and mutual affection; she was indeed blessed. Elizabeth wondered whether she would ever feel the anticipation and excitement of a welcome and wanted pregnancy. Would there ever be a time in her life when she could consider the possibility without a sick feeling of dread? Would she ever hold her own child in her arms?
“Lizzy?” Jane looked at her with concern.
“Oh, do not mind me.” She sniffed and forced a smile. “I am just being a silly, sentimental auntie.”
“Is that all?”
“Of course.” She smiled, giving the little head another kiss before handing him back to his mother. “Of course it is.” She leaned over, gave Jane a kiss on the cheek, and then left the peaceful, beautiful picture behind her.
* * *
In no hurry to return to Castle Street, Elizabeth declined the carriage. Pulling her thin coat tightly around her against the late afternoon chill, she walked slowly and thoughtfully down the streets. Holding Jane’s baby had been a mistake, for it had awakened in her a hunger for what she could not have, and that reminded her of another hunger she could not resist.
The night of the Wilkinson party, Elizabeth swore it would be the first and last time she indulged herself so shamefully, but that was not the case. The next time she was unable to put off George, she did it again. Angry and resentful, she turned her thoughts to another man — to Mr Darcy. Partly out of anger at George and a desire to punish him, and partly for reasons she did not wish to explore more carefully, she closed her eyes and imagined. Rationalising that, if she were doing wrong, she was hurting no one, she lost herself in the fantasy.
The next time her husband came to her, she did not rebuff him. The more she submitted, the more often he approached her and the better she became at sublimating. He had grown lazy and could not be bothered to bring her to satisfaction, but she dealt with that once he lay snoring beside her. She was not proud of her actions, but guilt and frustration fed upon themselves; the pattern was established, and she could not bring herself to put an end to it. It was her little, shameful secret, lying perfectly still, waiting for George to fall asleep so she could—
A sudden clamour on the street startled her out of her guilty thoughts and stopped her dead in her tracks. A tall gentleman had just exited one of the local shops, igniting a chorus of whines and cries from the beggars huddled in the doorways and against the walls. Not just any gentleman. Even from the back, she could tell it was Mr Darcy!
He had not seen her, and she immediately pressed herself flat against the wall. What was he doing there in her neighbourhood of all places? And to come upon him just at the moment she was indulging in improper and untoward thoughts! Her face burned with embarrassment and humiliation, and tears stung her eyes. She stood against the frigid wall, her breath coming rapidly, waiting for the clamour to die away so she could continue on her way unnoticed.
“Mrs Wickham?” A rough voice interrupted her. She sighed, wondering how things could get any worse.
“Mr Peterfield. How do you do? Yes…well…I know it probably looks as if I have been avoiding you, but I truly do intend to take care of the bill just as soon as…” She stopped. There was nothing to promise.
“No, no.” The butcher waved his hand dismissively. Elizabeth was startled to see a friendly open smile on his face rather than the cold, hard suspicion he had shown the last time she was in his shop. “The bill is taken care of and yer credit is re-established. I were just on my way to see if ye ’ad an order for me when, to my surprise, I come across ye right ’ere in the street.”
A short back and forth of disbelieving questions and hearty reassurances convinced Elizabeth that the bill had indeed been paid.
“But I wonder that Mr Wickham would do so without telling me,” she thought aloud.
“Oh no, it weren’t Wickham what paid. It were that tall gentleman over there.” Mr Peterfield pointed to the end of the street and Mr Darcy’s retreating figure. “’E said I was to say nothin’ of it, but I don’t see that having a debt paid does ye any good if ye don’t know ’bout it. So what’ll ye ’ave? I’ve some nice fat chops that’ll do ye a world of good from the looks of it.”
Dazed, she nodded, thanked the man, and went on her way. On a whim, she stopped by the bakery. The story was the same: the Wickhams’ bill had been paid and a generous line of credit established. Every merchant and shopkeeper was made whole and was again willing, even eager, to do business with her—all thanks to Mr Darcy. Even as she vowed that some day she would find a way, Elizabeth knew that she could never repay such a generous and selfless gift. She was stunned, she was grateful, she was ashamed, she was greatly relieved, but most of all, she was confused.
The house was bright with candlelight and warm from a generous coal fire when she walked through the door. In his shirtsleeves, George sprawled on the sofa, halfway through a bottle of fine Scotch. Behind him, the table was piled high with foodstuffs.
“Do you see this?” he beame
d at her as he swept his arms around the room. “Things are turning around, just as I said they would. Are you not sorry now that you had so little faith in me?”
“Faith in you?” Elizabeth was stunned. “You are saying you did this?”
“Of course I did. I told you I would take care of you if you just believed in me. And look.” He gestured again. “Look at what I have done for you.”
She could not believe her ears. The man had no shame! Not only had he put them both in such dire need as to require intervention, he then had the nerve to look her in the face and claim credit for it! He was watching her expectantly, so she took a calming breath and repeated, “You did this? All this?”
“That is what I said. Who else would?”
“That is a very good question.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Of what are you accusing me?”
Elizabeth weighed her options carefully. She could confront him with the lie, tell him she knew who had paid their bills, and watch his arrogance crumble, but what would that get her other than temporary satisfaction? He would be furious, and she had no energy or desire for the long, drawn-out battle that would result.
She could storm out in disgust, leaving him there to wallow in his complacency alone, but it was already dark and freezing outside, and she had no place to go. Or she could swallow her pride and bile once again, pretend to believe him, and stay inside where it was warm and there was food.
She sat at the table, turned her back on the smug man on the sofa, cut thick slices of bread and meat and put them on a plate while blinking back tears of powerlessness.
She was now the object of charity. As such, it was not her place to insist that Mr Darcy be given credit for a deed he wished to keep anonymous. This was her place, and for reasons of his own, Mr Darcy had made it more bearable. She would simply have to live with it. As she sat there eating the fruits of a near stranger’s kindness, listening to the slosh of liquid as George took another drink from the bottle, she stared at the cutting board and indulged yet another forbidden fantasy: taking hold of the knife, turning around and plunging it into her husband’s chest up to the hilt.
Chapter 11
Welcome, Mrs ah…”
“Wickham,” Elizabeth supplied her name to her hostess in the receiving line. Mrs Greyson glanced at her disinterestedly, repeated the name and gave her a polite smile before turning to the next guest. She obviously had never heard of the Wickhams, nor did she care to pursue the acquaintance.
Honoria Greyson, the daughter whose presentation occasioned this great event, acted neither so distant nor so polite, eyeing Elizabeth up and down with a scrutiny bordering on disdain. With her sister still in confinement, Elizabeth had been left on her own with no Jane to help her prepare for the occasion. She had not been able to get her hair just right, and her gown, although new, fit oddly. She did not want to spend the money on it in the first place, but George was adamant that she wear something suitable for the occasion. However, the seamstress he insisted she use seemed incapable of sewing a straight seam, much less altering anything to her satisfaction without claiming every slight change would require extensive and expensive renovation. So Elizabeth stood in a crowded ballroom full of strangers with frightful hair, an ill-fitting gown, and worn slippers, keenly feeling every curious and appraising look sent her way and not knowing whether she wanted to run back out the door or melt into the walls.
George left her side quickly, and Elizabeth had not been there half an hour before she resolved that this would be the last event she would ever attend, whether her husband insisted or not. He might be able to play the part of fine gentleman without scruple, but she was a charity case, and fancy balls and finery no longer had any place in her life. Those sending sideways glances in her direction were not her friends, and any claim she may once have had to a life even remotely similar to theirs had died long ago. Her life, her fate, her just desserts were centred on Castle Street, and there they would remain. To pretend otherwise was not only futile, it was pathetic, and she would not be pathetic in front of these people.
“Mrs Wickham.” A friendly voice broke through her thoughts.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam!” She turned towards the speaker with a smile.
“Are you enjoying yourself this evening?”
“I have only just arrived, but I must confess the crowd is too much for my liking. I am hoping to find a quiet place where I might retreat if the press becomes too much. Are you familiar with the house at all?”
“I am. The Greysons have three daughters and are always overjoyed at the prospect of getting rid of one of them. In consequence, this is the third ball I have attended in their lovely home.”
“Colonel!” she said, feigning shock. “May I ask how you have managed to attend three balls in honour of three daughters, and yet you remain unattached?”
“Because”—he leaned in conspiratorially—“at the very first one, I had the good sense to seek out a quiet place to retreat. Might I suggest the conservatory”—he pointed — “through that great hallway and to the right.”
“So not even the exquisite Miss Honoria Greyson can meet your exacting requirements? A pity. Are you on your way to the conservatory now? I would be glad for the company if you are.”
“Regrettably, no. I am on my way to claim the exquisite Miss Honoria for the first dance. We are to open the ball.”
“Indeed? Am I to conclude that your life of self-denial and dependence has at last lost its charm?”
“You might.” He shrugged and smiled agreeably. “Though I would happily keep her waiting if you require an escort to the conservatory.”
Elizabeth declined as politeness demanded and happily wished him well. He bowed gallantly and left her alone once again. Thank heavens it had been the colonel and not his cousin she had unexpectedly come upon. She had not seen Mr Darcy in public since that evening at the Wilkinsons’—the night she had first indulged in forbidden thoughts and deeds. And then to know he was her secret benefactor… How could she face him without shame? The very real possibility that he might be present underscored her urgency to retreat, and she resolved to find the conservatory without delay. Edging her way through the crush of bodies, she moved towards the great hallway, but her progress stopped when a pinch-faced woman caught hold of her arm.
“Have we met?” the woman asked, studying her keenly.
“I think not.” Irritated at her rudeness, Elizabeth offered nothing more.
The woman nodded. “I thought not. I am great friends with Mrs Greyson, you know, and she and I worked together quite constantly for months on the guest list for this evening. I am intimately acquainted with every name contained in it. Might I ask your name, my dear?”
Stunned into near speechlessness at the effrontery, Elizabeth could only stare in disbelief for a full minute. Was this woman accusing her of interloping? She briefly considered walking away without providing any assurance, but the woman appeared ready to raise the alarm, and a confrontation with several burly footmen insisting that she either produce an invitation or depart would run counter to her plan to pass the evening in obscurity.
“Mrs George Wickham,” she succinctly informed her.
“Ah yes,” the woman seemed pleased, “the Wickhams. I remember that request — from the Smythe-Hamiltons, I believe?”
Elizabeth nodded, trying discreetly to free her arm from the woman’s iron grip.
“Well, well.” Her smile was a thinly disguised sneer. “I cannot say as I am very surprised. They are not quite the—” She broke off, and her smile grew even more derisive. “I must say, that is an intriguing gown you are wearing. I do not think I have ever seen one quite like it. It is so…different from what one normally sees at a ball.”
That was it. She was finished keeping up appearances and putting on a pleasant face for people who meant nothing to her and whose only thought was to look down on her.
“Yes, thank you.” Elizabeth smiled, jerking her arm free. “
Do you like it? I employed a new dressmaker. She is not much good, poor thing, but since I expect my husband is bedding her, I felt I owed her a little charity.”
She walked off, shocked at her daring but with a sense of euphoria, leaving the pinch-faced woman staring open-mouthed in her wake.
* * *
Upon his arrival and immediately after greeting his hosts, Darcy’s eyes scanned the room in search of just one person. He knew she would be there—he had taken pains to confirm the Wickhams’ plans to attend—but he could not find her. He wandered through the rooms, greeting friends and acknowledging a number of broad hints that he ought to ask one or another of their daughters to dance. Once or twice, he caught a glimpse of Wickham socialising, but no Elizabeth.
“You might try the conservatory,” Fitzwilliam managed to speak into his ear, even as Miss Greyson clung to his arm possessively. “You also might try not to make it quite so obvious that you are searching for her.” Darcy bowed to Miss Greyson, but Fitzwilliam received only a raised eyebrow in response before his cousin walked away.
It was no use, and there was no justification, he knew, but as he weaved his way through the crowd to the conservatory, he also knew there was no helping it. No matter what he did, no matter how he tried to push it aside or talk himself out of it, the fact remained that he was in love with her. He had tried to drive it away at Ce Lieu, but the taste of another woman only taunted him with the reminder of the one he could not have. Nor could anonymous acts of charity suffice. It was an impulse, a desire, a compulsion beyond his control. He loved another man’s wife, and although he could not act upon it, neither could he resist the chance to be in her presence.
As Fitzwilliam alleged, he found her in the conservatory, leaning over a table and leafing through an oversized folio of botanical prints. She looked up at the sound of footsteps in the silence of the empty room, and her face turned scarlet the moment she saw him.