Fitzwilliam Darcy, Guardian

by Jennifer Joy

  If Mr. Wickham was an actor, he was an accomplished one worthy of the best stage. Pounding his fist against his chest, he said, “You cannot understand my agony. Not only did I lose my beloved wife, but I lost my brother.”

  Elizabeth’s pulse raced, but she kept her composure. “Brother?” she asked indifferently. As if she did not hang onto his every word.

  “Darcy and I were raised as close as brothers, as I am sure you are aware. Mr. Darcy, God rest his soul, loved me like a son — more even — for his kindness to me was borne of want and not obligation. I am not surprised Darcy has not told you of his father’s preference. He always was jealous of me.”

  Had Mr. Wickham’s manners been anything but heartbreaking, Elizabeth would have dismissed his crazy words immediately. But it was clear he believed them … and she herself had experienced how fickle the love of a father could be. She held her tongue, not wishing to encourage Mr. Wickham’s faulty reasoning.

  He stepped closer to her, his palms open. “Please, Mrs. Darcy, I never would have believed it possible for Darcy to marry while still in mourning. Yours must be an extraordinary love for him to act in a manner he would otherwise consider improper.”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes, and it was only when she noticed how intently Mr. Wickham watched her that she realized her mistake. The self-satisfied smirk lifting the corner of his mouth proved her reaction had told him something meaningful.

  “Not all is well at Darcy House, I take it?” he said. “I wonder, if not for love, why would Darcy marry an unknown maiden from the country? Do not look surprised, Mrs. Darcy. Anything can be found out if one knows the right people.” There was nothing in Mr. Wickham’s countenance to inspire pity now, and Elizabeth could have kicked herself for her error.

  Lifting her chin, Elizabeth said, “You misunderstand me completely, Mr. Wickham. I only found it humorous that you, of all people, should speak of propriety in relation to my husband. He is a gentleman to his bones, and I will not hear you disparage his character.” She did not know all of Mr. Wickham’s offenses, but she must have hit the mark. His cheeks blazed; his eyes were lumps of coal in beds of smoking ash.

  He stood to his full height, straightening his waistcoat and glaring at her.

  Elizabeth regretted not paying closer heed to William’s warning. She glanced over her shoulder, hoping to see the large footman approaching.

  Mr. Wickham was too smart to hang around any longer. “Darcy would never marry for anything less than the deepest love, and yet, I know your union was made in haste.”

  “You do not believe in love at first sight, Mr. Wickham?” she retorted.

  “No. And neither does Darcy. If you knew him at all, you would know that too.”

  “Perhaps you do not know him so well as you claim.” Elizabeth held her head high, having nothing but the strength of her bluff.

  Mr. Wickham narrowed his eyes. “You are helping Darcy hide something, and I mean to find out what it is.”

  With the agility of a serpent, he slipped away.

  It took a great deal of self-possession to carry on perusing the bookshelves as she had before, but Elizabeth felt it imperative for her to act unaffected. Mr. Wickham might be watching, and she did not want to add any more fuel to his fodder. She had added enough already.

  Try as she might to disregard Mr. Wickham’s comments, one question remained with her.

  What was William hiding? Even worse, what complication had she just thrown into their lives?

  Chapter 19

  Hatchards’ charm could not compete against the sense of foreboding Mr. Wickham had provoked in Elizabeth.

  To make matters worse, the footman was certain he would lose his place, insisting he did not deserve to continue in Darcy’s employ when he had failed so miserably.

  Elizabeth had to talk to William. She needed answers.

  Cutting short her outing, she returned to Darcy House only to find that William was still out.

  Oh bother. Elizabeth instructed the footman to continue as normal until she summoned him. She failed to see how the man could be held accountable for what had happened. Mr. Wickham would have sought opportunity to speak to her until he found it. If not at the bookshop, then perhaps, at a worse time.

  Left to her own devices and needing to busy herself in a task which would occupy her mind, Elizabeth wrote another lengthy letter to Aunt Gardiner. She owed her favorite aunt a more thorough explanation after the missive of gloom and doom she had sent the week before her wedding, as well as the desperate plea for her to reply as soon as she and William had arrived in town.

  Elizabeth penned several pages wherein she detailed every hope and every fear she held. Aunt Gardiner would understand. That she was away with Uncle, Elizabeth was certain. Otherwise, she and Uncle Gardiner would have traveled to Longbourn to talk some sense into Father before the wedding ceremony. Alas, they had not stormed the church before the service.

  Sealing the packet of papers, Elizabeth set it on the corner of William’s desk where he also had some correspondence waiting to be sent. She glanced over the names on the envelopes, but nothing stood out as out of place. Not one label saying: In which contains all of Fitzwilliam Darcy’s secrets.

  With nothing else to do but wait for William to return, Elizabeth set out to explore her new abode. Mrs. Fischer had given her a tour upon their arrival, but Elizabeth wished to take her time and get a feel for the house. Some residences held a foreboding gloom; others, a peaceful contentment. Longbourn had felt happy to Elizabeth for most of her life. It was how she chose to remember her childhood home.

  How would the halls of Darcy House feel? And Pemberley?

  Walking down the quiet corridors, she was saddened at the emptiness of it. It felt lonely. Or maybe that was just herself.

  A wall of portraits offered some insight. William favored his father, with his dark, wavy hair and strong chin. Mr. Darcy looked fierce, posed as he was with his leg propped up on the chimney and two hounds sitting in front of him. There was a glint in his eye, though, which suggested a sense of humor — whether it was his own or the artist’s interpretation, Elizabeth could not discern. He looked solid, decisive, responsible. Just like William. If the portrait was an accurate glimpse into Mr. Darcy’s character, Elizabeth could not see him preferring another young man over his own son as Mr. Wickham had suggested.

  Unless William told her, Elizabeth would never know if Mr. Wickham’s claims were true or a figment of a disillusioned man’s wild imagination.

  Lady Anne’s ethereal beauty would have drawn a crowd had her likeness been featured in an exhibition. She held young William in her arms, her pose relaxed as she caressed her son. William leaned into her, a small smile curling his lips and his eyes closed. He must have loved her dearly.

  They looked so happy. What had happened?

  Rubbing some warmth into her arms, Elizabeth turned her attention away from the portraits to the rooms.

  The next door was not locked, but it squeaked on its hinges so loudly, Elizabeth looked up and down the hall to make certain she had not disturbed anyone. She had the uneasy feeling that were she to be seen entering that particular room, Mrs. Fischer would sooner steer her away from it.

  The thrill of finding a forbidden room was too great to pass after days of frustrated, suppressed curiosity.

  Elizabeth stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

  Picking her way carefully across the floor, her eyes adjusting to the dim light peeking around the thick curtains, Elizabeth parted the velvet panels.

  They were William’s favorite color. Blue. Elizabeth looked down at the ring on her finger. It was the same light hue, like the sky on a cloudless summer day.

  Had this been Lady Anne’s bedchamber?

  The room was ready for use. Not one sheet was in sight to cover the polished rosewood desk or the mahogany bedposts holding up a gauzy blue canopy. No, this was not the resting place of a mature matron but of a whimsical girl.

  Evely
n had said that William had a sister. Could this be her room? Why did no one speak of her? Common sense told her Mr. Wickham had something to do with the mystery, but she could not imagine how William would permit a man like Mr. Wickham to marry his sister. He would sooner drive him away.

  Elizabeth turned to close the curtains lest the bedchamber’s occupant should find her there, but something gave her pause. She looked at the fireplace behind her.

  There had been no fire in the grate for some time. The bedchamber was cold. Cold and unused.

  A dressing table with a silver hairbrush and mirror lay ready for a maid to brush her lady’s hair. Several little bottles of perfume dotted the top.

  Elizabeth picked up a bottle. Not one speck of dust lingered on her fingertips. Strange.

  The room was ready for its mistress, but it was clear the mistress had not set foot in her bedchamber for a long time. Who else resided at Darcy House?

  Setting down the bottle, Elizabeth stopped when two bright blue eyes rimmed with dark eyelashes and wheat-gold hair beckoned to her from a round frame. She was a younger image of Lady Anne. She had to be William’s sister. Her eyes were wide and innocent, her smile genuine and soft. She looked like an angel.

  Why did William not speak of her?

  The sound of footsteps jolted Elizabeth into action. Running over to the curtains, she drew them before slipping out of Miss Darcy’s empty bedchamber — the feeling that she had stumbled across something she had not been meant to see chasing Elizabeth all the way back to her own rooms.

  Interviewing lady’s maids proved to be a much more complicated task than Elizabeth had supposed. Most of them were as proud as the ladies they hoped to attend, and Elizabeth could not see herself trusting such a maid (much less confiding in her.)

  Evelyn, on the other hand, made up for her clumsiness with her cheerful demeanor and knowledge of the Darcys.

  Few things calmed Elizabeth more than having her hair brushed, and Evelyn had a gentle hand despite her claims.

  “What can you tell me of Miss Darcy?” Elizabeth asked.

  Once again, Evelyn hesitated. Cautiously, she said, “Such a tragic story, hers is. Mr. Darcy has not told you much of his sister?”

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  “Well, I should not wonder,” Evelyn said through a sigh. “Not only was he Miss Darcy’s brother, but he was her guardian. If you ask me, he blames himself for her death, although there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.”

  “Death?” Elizabeth whispered, quite taken aback that she had not read the signs correctly. They were all there. William’s unexplainable melancholy, the readied bedchamber she had seen earlier that day, the way none of the servants spoke about Miss Darcy….

  Evelyn nodded gravely.

  “What happened?” Elizabeth asked.

  The brush paused, and Evelyn’s eyes met Elizabeth’s in the mirror. “He has not told you?”

  Elizabeth sighed. Lack of communication was becoming a common theme in her relationship with William. Fitzwilliam. No, William. She could not be angry with him when he mourned his sister. She said, “I know so little. Ours was a brief courtship.” Nonexistent, in fact, but Elizabeth would not reveal as much.

  Smiling, Evelyn resumed brushing. “Love at first sight! It is romantic. I always thought that if Mr. Darcy did marry, it would only be for the truest, deepest love.”

  Elizabeth held her peace. She had sworn not to marry for anything less. And yet, here she was.

  “I suppose it would not hurt for me to tell you what I know,” Evelyn said softly, as if she feared being overheard.

  Elizabeth sat up straighter, fighting the bone-melting sensation of the brush in her hair.

  Evelyn began, “Miss Darcy married a young man, the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward and his own godson. Mr. Wickham.”

  Elizabeth bit her lips. Wickham. No wonder she had felt William’s muscles flinch under her fingers in the carriage. He must have been livid to see his sister’s widower with another woman. It made Elizabeth sick to her stomach.

  Evelyn continued, her strokes with the brush slowing, “He is the type of man who is never content, if you ask me. The more he is given, the more he craves. Mr. Darcy’s father was generous to him, and instead of being grateful for his kindness, Mr. Wickham gave himself airs. He believed himself deserving of everything he was given and more. Oh, but he is charming! And handsome. Such a waste, if you ask me. Mrs. Fischer says he is as scheming as the original serpent.”

  William’s warning came to mind. It made more sense now. Would he had told her sooner! She would have refused any conversation with Mr. Wickham at all!

  Elizabeth imagined Miss Darcy’s large, blue eyes smiling in innocent curiosity at the gentleman. “Miss Darcy fell in love with him,” she said under her breath, the heartbreaking outcome to such a maiden falling under the spell of a scheming, greedy man who would have used her for his own gain making her nauseated stomach churn. What an awful man!

  “Eloped to Gretna Green, they did,” Evelyn said so sadly, Elizabeth looked up at the maid’s reflection in the mirror in time to see her wipe away a tear before she added, “Broke Mr. Darcy’s heart. He did what he could, but the damage was done. Miss Darcy — that is how all of us remember her … from happier times — showed up at Pemberley months later, alone and horribly ill. She died of consumption about six months after.”

  Consumption. Elizabeth’s eyes prickled. Of all things, consumption. She hated the illness. She hated how it tore families apart. Why had William said nothing of this to her? She could have helped him. They might have brought each other comfort.

  Evelyn continued, and Elizabeth breathed slower so she could hear. “Mr. Wickham never called at Pemberley to see her. Not that he would have been admitted, but, if you ask me, any wife would wish for her husband to exert himself on her behalf. She would have liked for him to try, I think.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and groaned. It all made sense now. “The black opal William wears is for his sister,” she mumbled.

  “Most likely. His father died six years ago, and his dear mother died at childbirth. Lady Anne’s last gift to the world was Miss Darcy … and now, she is gone, too.”

  Elizabeth clutched her stomach. So much death. So much heartbreak. She tried to imagine how William felt as he watched his family disappear one by one, leaving him alone. The last Darcy.

  Had loneliness driven William to marry? Was his guilt for his inability to protect his sister from the harsh consequences of her own choices so great, he had jumped at the first opportunity to assist a lady in distress? (Well, not quite distress. Elizabeth would never call her situation desperate until she had exhausted every alternative. But William would have a different view, influenced by his sister’s tragic end.)

  Most ladies dreamed of a knight in shining armor to sweep her off her feet and ride into the sunset on his white steed. But unlike Lady Gwendolyn with Sir Knightly, Elizabeth wanted her own horse. She did not want her husband to believe her helpless, completely dependent on him for her happiness.

  She chewed on her lip while Evelyn continued brushing, chattering about the latest gossip circulating downstairs. It had nothing to do with William or his family, and so Elizabeth was free to ponder her new theories. While it was tempting to think of William as the hero for all that the explanation credited him with a noble motive, it still seemed lacking.

  Something was not quite right.

  Elizabeth could not justify where she fitted in, and it troubled her.

  Evelyn pinned her hair up in a simple bun, it being the extent of her present knowledge of hair arranging, but one she assured Elizabeth she was striving to improve.

  A quarter of an hour later, not one hair had escaped from its pin despite Elizabeth’s increasingly agitated pacing in her bedchamber.

  Chapter 20

  Darcy’s meeting with Mr. Rochester had been as brief as he could make it. And still, it took all day. He did not want to miss joining Elizabe
th at the bookshop, but he had promised to provide for her, and there were certain details Darcy had to arrange with his solicitor before continuing to Pemberley.

  He checked the time. It was late, but perhaps Elizabeth had lost track of the hour as he so often did when he was surrounded by books. Hatchards was not far. It was worth a try. They could go for ices at Gunter’s, then in the carriage on the way home, he would tell her about Anne. He burned to tell her. He had waited too long already.

  A girl selling flowers on the street outside the shop convinced him to buy a sprig of violets. It was silly, really, but when Darcy saw how the girl had wrapped the stems in a green satin ribbon, he had to buy them for Elizabeth.

  With flowers in hand, Darcy entered the bookshop … to find she had already gone. He was too late.

  He looked at the violets and prayed they would not get crushed before he reached Darcy House. Already, the delicate blooms wilted around the edges, though he took care to hold the bunch by the ribbon.

  The usual excess of carriages crowding the streets delayed Darcy’s return to his residence, and while he did his best to be gentle, the blooms fared poorly. They drooped so badly by the time he reached his house, Darcy did not have the heart to give them to his wife. He handed them to Mrs. Fischer, who appeared red-faced in the entrance hall.

  The housekeeper hardly noticed, so marked was her upset. She dropped the flowers into her apron pocket, saying breathlessly, “Something happened. Mrs. Darcy came home early. She spent some time in her rooms before interviewing the maids, then she called Evelyn, the housemaid I have put at her disposal, to her room. Mrs. Darcy has been asking her questions about your family.”

  Darcy tensed. While few of the servants knew about Anne, all of them knew more about Georgiana and Wickham than he had told Elizabeth. “What did she tell Elizabeth?”

  Mrs. Fischer wrung her hands in her apron. The poor flowers were done. “She told her that Miss Darcy died of consumption after a brief marriage to Mr. Wickham. Not much more than that, I can assure you. Evelyn assumes, like everyone else, that your wife is privy to everything that has happened in your household — an assumption I allowed her to continue to believe. Her loyalty to your family is firm, so when I inquired on your behalf, she related the conversation to me in its entirety. I did not think the conversation harming in any way, but I had to change my opinion when I saw Mrs. Darcy in the hall an hour ago. She was out of sorts.”