by Iris Lim
"But you shouldn't have?" I confirm hesitantly, piecing together her broken bits of information. My corset feels particularly tight.
"Oh, Lizzy, of course I knew I must not have done so!"
Gotta hand it to the Brits — perfect grammar in the midst of sorrows. I squeeze her shoulder.
"He's — not good, huh?" I'm still scrambling and comforting all at the same time.
Georgiana shakes her head, a lot. "I am sorry, Lizzy — I have put the entire family's reputation at stake — again!"
Because she replied to an ex-boyfriend, apparently.
"What did, uhm — what did his letter say?" I try a different approach.
"He said, he claimed — oh, Lizzy, Wickham claimed to never have loved your sister."
She's holding my arms and squeezing me back. But I inhale and freeze, keeled over, like the recipient of a genuine gut-punch. Wickham isn't exactly a common name — it sounds too much like 'wicked.'
I look up and force myself to talk, "Wickham — wrote to you?"
Georgiana nods repeatedly, crying anew. "He begged me to remember him, calling himself my first love — first love, Lizzy! How could he!"
"Yeah, I know, how could he." My eyes mist a little at the recollection of how the other Wickham had hurt my beloved Gigi.
But, wait — what's this about my sister again?
"You said he mentioned my sister?" I feel a little guilty for pushing her, but she's my only source of information. I make sure to squeeze lightly.
"I am so very sorry, Lizzy! I should have — I scolded him, of course. I corrected him that he is married and ought not to flirt with other women so."
"Yes, that's good."
I mean — married?
"But I should not have sent the letter, Lizzy! He may treat your sister ill for my words!"
Georgiana's large, wet eyes don't register at all in my brain. My every thought is preoccupied with something else — with sisters, with marriage, with —
George Wickham is married to my sister over here?
Here's hoping their marriage isn't as permanent as mine and Darcy's seems to be.
"Please forgive me, Lizzy."
I shake a little, recovering. I nod at Georgiana. "Of course — you're — you haven't done anything wrong."
"I have risked us all once more!" She wails. I blink rapidly, mind processing her 'once more.'
"If he listens to you, it should be okay, right?" I'm a pretty lame counselor. "He may be a player, but maybe what you said would knock some sense into him."
"At the cost of your lives." Georgiana clings to me, still super dramatic. I fail to see the connection between her putting a villain in his place and affecting me. "He may use the letter as proof to ruin the entire Darcy name."
Because — women are not allowed to write to men here?
The situation sinks in a little more.
"Could you get it back?" I blurt. She looks at me like she's waiting for my great words of wisdom. I gulp. "I mean, uhm — if the letter is so, you know, damaging, could you — well, ask for it back?"
"I ought to write to him once more?"
Again, not really seeing the connection.
"Maybe?" I mean — I don't know!
I shrug, suddenly wondering if people did this back then.
"The risks of two letters, Lizzy —"
"Just to ask for the first one back." I try to smile. "I mean — you can tell him you want to keep it, or something."
"Should I?"
I really, really want to shrug again. "It is — a chance."
Georgiana nods, encouraged. I start to feel a little better about doing the right thing.
"I shall pen that letter posthaste," she declares.
I smile weakly.
Hey, at least I got to help.
• • •
The fire — hot and subtle on the mild wood — is just not cutting it with every additional turn of colder weather. These night shirts don't exactly cover much.
Ugh, turn of weather.
Am I seriously going to start talking like they do, now?
It's natural to roll my eyes.
"Are you well, my love?"
Of course — his favorite line. I smile.
"I'm fine. It's just —" I pause just for a little. The sweet snacks we have around here have been surprisingly sparing when it comes to toothaches; but sweet Darcy, on the other hand, is harder to ignore. "It's the weather."
"Ah," he says simply. Then he walks over to my side and wraps me close. It's remarkably like a modern snuggle. We're just missing the TV.
I smile, cheek against shoulder. "How was your day?"
"Sad and lonely without you." He kisses the top of my head, and I'm all the way back to melting again.
"I missed you too."
I can feel him smile against my hair.
It's funny, really, how fine the line is between awkward and companionable silence. They're both silence — no difference there — but somehow, it's just different, in a good way. I pull my arms around his particularly toned chest just a little tighter.
Seriously, didn't know people worked out back then.
"How was Georgiana?" he asks quietly, and I suddenly remember that he's not the only creature in this posh alternate universe.
"She's fine, been better." I sigh. He kisses my brow again. "I'm hoping the letter shuts him up."
He takes a second or two. "Him?"
"Yeah. I mean, Wickham's a jerk and all — but I hope he won't suspect anything and at least give the first letter back."
It takes me all of three seconds to notice that the warm, snuggly arms and comforting expanse of manly chest have frozen rock solid.
"Darcy?"
He lets me go, pulls back, looks at me three feet away. His eyes are a brewing storm of rage and confusion.
"Darcy, what's wrong?"
"Wickham," he growls, voice harsher than I've ever heard him — at least in this side of town.
"Yeah. I think he wrote Georgiana a letter and she replied, and that's why she's been sick — it's just guilt — and I —"
"He wrote to her — and she —" His chest is heaving now. He's angry — really angry. "— she wrote back?"
"Uhm — yes?"
He's off the chair in an instant and pacing the length of the room. "The blackguard! How dare he wed your sister and still write to mine. The man is evil — an utter miscreant."
The sinking feeling that one of my dear sisters — oh God forbid, Jane — is married to that player pulls me lower into the depths.
"To think he refuses to ever leave my family alone! Married to Lydia and yet still he wrote — he — what did he write?" Darcy spins around with growing fury. He marches back to me. "What did Wickham write? Did he mistreat her? Insult her?"
I'm torn in two between mourning Lydia's fate here and attending to the stormy man in front of me.
"What did he write!" My angry husband shouts, and I look helplessly back at him.
"I didn't read the letter," I stammer, scramble. "Georgiana wrote back before she even told me. I just told her to write again to ask for the first one back."
"You — you — what in the heavens did you do!" Darcy steps back as if burnt, hand to chest. The rich emotions that usually combine tenderness and passion are toasted black today — full rage and indignation. "Elizabeth, how could you?"
"I — I was just trying to help!" I sat up straight, upset. "I told her to get it back. She sent her letter today — both of them should be back —"
"How could you trust him?" Darcy cried, face red. The broken voice hints that a little sadness is mixed in with all the anger. "Her letters can ruin her, Lizzy."
My chest constricts for unknown reasons. I feel a little bit like crying. "She didn't start it. He did."
"But her reputation —" Darcy stops. I look up. His face is contorting — first angry then sad then helpless then angry again. His hands are planted firmly by his side now. "She could be easily mistaken for s
educing a married man, Elizabeth."
I mean — seducing is a very big word.
But again — what did Wickham call her in his letter?
I blink, angry at myself for once. Is that creature a villain in every universe?
To think I had thought him a first love once upon a time.
"Elizabeth," Darcy's voice is broken, pained. He's beyond worried. "What have we done?"
His choice of pronoun softens me a little, and I let myself sigh. "I'm sorry, I'm just — I didn't think it would be that big of a deal, you know?"
He stares at me, unmoving. His jaw is still clenched as tightly as an ultimate-security prison lock. As much as I had figured the whole no-writing-to-boys thing here — seriously, who'd have thought it'd be this big of a deal?
"Elizabeth." He walks over — close but not touching. "What shall we do?"
Considering he had just finished blaming me for the situation, this is a pretty surprising turnaround.
"How bad is it?" I ask honestly. I can't help unless I know.
His face darkens. "If Wickham chooses to publish the letters — Georgiana shall have little chance to marry. Every last sector of society shall wildly share news of her downfall. She will be shunned, labelled as something little more than a vixen. Her name, our name — shall be forever tainted with accusations. The mere hint that she might be her sister's brother's paramour would render her life forever disrespected."
Each sentence gets my mouth growing drier. Maybe I don't get it, maybe I think it's okay. But, obviously — the people here don't.
"Can't we — can't we do anything?" I throw the question back at him.
He looks at me helplessly, probably because he is. "I do not know, Lizzy."
I blink a lot and sniff a little. If this thing really can be that scandalous — it sounds as permanent as a sex tape in today's modern universe.
The internet is forever.
I blink even more.
"What if —" I swallow, try to think of something — anything. "— what if we go get them back?"
I don't look up, but I can hear him listening.
"What if," I go on, "we send someone to get the letters?"
I look up then. He looks like he's considering.
"We follow her letter and retrieve them ourselves," he recaps. I can see the cogs turning. "Richard and I — we can meet in London before he comes. We can trace him and accost him."
I nod feebly.
"We shall ensure that no harm comes to Georgiana because of him — ever again." He clenches his fists. I watch, fascinated. "I shall leave as soon as it is possible. We shall give Wickham his due if it is the very last thing we do."
He doesn't say anything else — not one kiss, not one bow.
And then he's off to his room in a rage. My nightshirt feels extra flimsy tonight.
• • •
"Hey."
He takes a second or two to look up. He's done with breakfast, all dressed and groomed, even before I left my room. If Lilith hadn't told me, I would have missed him completely.
He nods my way — curt, civil. I make sure I don't sniff too loudly.
"Have you had breakfast?" I ask, even though I know he knows. I take my time walking over; I test every step.
"Yes," he replies — and resumes working on his already-impeccable cravat. His eyes stay fixed on some unknown point outside the window.
"How will you go?" I try again.
He licks his lips, the first hint of nerves. "The coaches cannot be far."
I try a smile at his non-answer. "Georgiana —"
He looks at me then. His eyes are grey today — deep and frightened. He towers over me like he always does, but he feels unusually small.
"I'll take care of her," I say.
He blinks thrice. Then he nods.
I wonder for a split second if skipping most of my prepping routine has rendered me invisibly unattractive. I mean, seriously, this is the longest he's ever gone without a single lingering glance.
My second thought quickly buries any lingering selfish intent.
"Darcy." I touch his arm. He glances at my hand — before at me. I gulp. "Will you be okay?"
He frowns subtly — scrunching brow and shrinking eyes. It's the first time I see the pretty-boy eyes angry. The honest, instinctive wondering from his last night's surprise had gone to bed and come back as a man deeply steeped in genuine spite.
"If — I mean, when — when you find Wickham, what will you —" I don't know how to end my own sentence.
He looks at me then — square in the eye for the first time this morning. I flail, I drown under his gaze. Condemnation? Anger? Misplaced aggression? I mean, I have no idea what he's think—
"I wish you could come," he says all of sudden. I can sense my own eyes widening.
"Oh."
He licks his lips again. Then he places his hand over the one I have on his arm. My heart squeezes and soars and can't decide what to do.
"Darcy —"
"I love you," he says simply.
I feel like crying again. England makes me a basket case. It's, like, so embarrassing.
I don't care if the valet, and the maid, and the footman, and the groom and the everyone's around us. I step forward and fling my arms around him. His arm across my back crushes me securely against his torso. I sniff.
"I love you, Fitzwilliam," I say to his something-coat.
He kisses my head.
"If Richard or I do not return within a fortnight, remember —"
"No." I lean back, clutching his collars. "You have to come back. You can't let him — hurt you."
"I have no such intention." He smiles at me, brow still furrowed. "Yet we cannot neglect reality. Wickham has associates on either side of the law. If these actions have indeed been premeditated, it is entirely possible Richard and I trek directly into his clutches."
The chills down my neck, arms and legs have nothing to do with cold.
"Hey." I grab his face and kiss him. "Be careful — for me, for Georgiana — for everything we've shared and are going to share for the next hundred years."
His eyes grow bluer, his lashes thicker. He gulps. "Guard our home."
"I will."
Because whoever had suggested marriage was anti-feminist had gotten it all entirely wrong.
I've never felt more of a hero than as this man's wife.
"For Wickham to write from London, his schemes cannot be friendly."
"But my husband —" Yes, I said it. "— is stronger than his schemes."
He meets my eyes all of a sudden, with so much passion that it feels like we hadn't really looked at each other before.
"Come home to me," I say, in the cheesiest of cheesy lines. It's like the CW writes my script here. If we were actors, they'd already have gifs of this moment.
But then he says it — right on cue. "Always."
He steals another kiss, and then he's gone.
Nine
At the back of my mind somewhere, I know, somewhat, that traveling wasn't as easy as it is nowadays. Back now, people don't fly, cars don't exist, and GPS isn't even remotely a thing. So, supposedly, I shouldn't be surprised that Darcy takes a few days with Wickham. According to Georgiana, it takes a day-and-a-half to get to London — and maybe even more to settle score with that bastard.
So, technically, it makes sense.
By the time I'm sitting on the bay window, looking desperately at the giant green lawn, on what I'm pretty sure is the seventh day after he left — I don't really care for what makes sense anymore.
I sniff a little, still kinda surprised at how attached I'm getting.
"Mrs. Darcy."
I wipe away that single tear. I turn around and smile. "Yes, Lilieth?"
"Dr. Haddon, to see Miss Darcy."
"Right, of course — let him in."
"Yes, ma'am."
She bows and backs away. I'm surprised (and a little embarrassed) at how accustomed I've gotten to all the deference.<
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"Lilieth," I call before she turns the corner. She dutifully looks up. I take a deep, fortifying breath. "Have there been any letters for me?"
"No, Mrs. Darcy."
"Right. Thank you."
She nods, and stays in place — because, of course.
"You may go. I'll come by Georgiana's room in a bit."
She frowns a little before backing away for good. I turn back towards the window, heart ridiculously heavy.
If this were a dream, then it's okay — then Wickham can't really do any harm to Darcy, then I'm gonna wake up to a healthy Georgiana, then I don't owe Darcy any words unsaid or hopes unspoken. Sure, I've told him I loved him — and in my own dreamy-alternate-universy sort of way, I do — I really do.
But if this were all a dream, then all the little things I say and feel won't count.
And I'm not sure if I like that or not.
Behind the wooden door, there are sounds — familiar sounds by now — of Dr. Haddon coming, the servants greeting, and the footsteps dying away. I know I should go over soon. Georgiana's better, but I don't think either of us would rest well until her brother comes back.
I sigh, really loudly. I feel pathetic — and helpless and strong and needy and loved, all at the same time.
Darcy's written, of course. He's too much of a gentleman not to. He wrote to me as soon as he'd gotten to London. I replied right away — begging him to stay safe and to come home.
I gulp and sniff.
I haven't heard back from him since.
Today, even the cushions feel cold.
My hands trace the edge of the window. It's getting colder outside, day by day. I worry if it's even possible for him to come back healthy. I mean, how did they warm things before gas heating?
Carriages don't exactly have fireplaces.
"Mrs. Darcy!" Mrs. Reynolds appears. She's flushed, rushed.
I'm a tiny tad annoyed at her disturbing my emo-moment. "Yes?"
"Mr. Darcy! He's back, ma'am. Simon said so. He and the Colonel sent word."
I blink repeatedly, hoping so hard that the good news barely registers.
"Ma'am!" Mrs. Reynolds steps closer. "The carriage approaches! Master Darcy is fine!"