“Mr. Wickham is here, ma’am.”
Aunt Gardiner nodded to the maid to escort their visitor into the drawing room. Elizabeth’s stomach fluttered with excitement. This would be her first opportunity to see the handsome officer since resolving that she would accept his proposal—if he made one.
“Ladies.” Mr. Wickham gave a courtly bow upon entering the room. He was wearing his regimentals. Elizabeth had laughed when Lydia and Kitty sighed over officers in red coats, but they did flatter the male figure and render the wearer more distinguished. And, of course, Mr. Wickham’s features were very regular, and his entire air was so pleasing.
Still, he was not quite as handsome as Mr. Darcy. He lacked…something she saw in the other man’s eyes when he looked upon her, although she knew not what to call it. There was no doubt of the prodigious intelligence behind Mr. Darcy’s dark eyes; he constantly observed and evaluated everything around him, much as Elizabeth did herself. And when he turned that knowing gaze on her…
A little flushed, Elizabeth inched her chair away from the fireplace.
“Miss Bennet?” Mr. Wickham was trying to catch her attention. How long had she been staring into space?
How stupid to think of Mr. Darcy when he was not here and was unlikely to ever be here. He was indeed handsome and intelligent, but it was irrelevant. Mr. Wickham was here, and Mr. Darcy was not.
Focusing her attention on their visitor, she noticed a red mark on his chin. “Are you all right, Mr. Wickham?” she inquired, pointing to her own chin.
The man touched the red spot gingerly. “Just a trifle. I fell this morning and hit my chin on a table in the barracks. I am fortunate it was not worse.”
Aunt Gardiner rang for tea. The conversation was convivial and interesting—everything that good company should be. Mr. Wickham’s bon mots wrung laughter from Elizabeth and her aunt more than once. He inquired after her aunt’s oldest child, who had been sick with a cold, and asked Elizabeth of news from Longbourn.
When the teacups were empty, and the biscuits were reduced to crumbs, Elizabeth became aware of a peculiar intensity in the man’s eyes. “It is an especially mild day for December,” he addressed Elizabeth with a grin. “Would you accompany me for a walk about the Gardiners’ fine garden? I have often noticed parts of that handsome oak tree from the window, but I never had an opportunity to see the whole thing.”
Elizabeth glanced at her aunt, not at all sure it would be proper to be alone with Mr. Wickham, but Aunt Gardiner smiled benevolently. “Indeed, it is too nice a day to pass it all indoors. Go and enjoy the garden. I shall check on Harry.”
Soon Elizabeth found herself behind the Gardiners’ house with only a light shawl around her shoulders; however, the bright sunshine warmed her and the air around her. The snow that had fallen the night of the ball had melted long ago, and the only clouds were white and fluffy. Mr. Wickham offered Elizabeth his arm, and they strolled along a meandering path through the garden.
The house’s garden was much larger than was usual for the neighborhood. Both Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had spent their childhoods in the countryside, and they had purchased a house with an unusually large parcel of land.
It was beautifully maintained. Mrs. Gardiner did much of the work herself with some help from their manservant. Of course, many of the plants were dormant for the winter, but there was a pleasant walk lined with shrubberies, vibrantly green against the dull brown of the winter grass, and several holly trees with variegated leaves. A large, double-trunked oak tree dominated the center of the garden, spreading its limbs majestically over everything below it.
“This is lovely,” Mr. Wickham said after they had wandered for a minute.
“Yes. I miss Hertfordshire when I am in London, but the garden is my consolation.”
“Do you believe you would always wish to live near Longbourn?”
Elizabeth’s heart sped up. Why is he suddenly curious about my future? “I enjoy traveling and seeing different parts of the country. I suppose I could settle anywhere given the right inducement.”
“And what would be the right inducement?” His voice was low, making the words sound almost seductive.
Why was her mouth so dry? “Well, of course, if I were to marry someone from another part of the country.”
Mr. Wickham stopped walking, gently pulling on her gloved hand so she would face him. The unexpected contact made her blush.
“What if you were to marry a soldier who had no fixed home but moved from place to place?”
“A s-soldier?” Elizabeth echoed. “I d-do not suppose you mean Mr. Denny.”
He laughed gently. “Your wit is one of many things I love about you.”
Her breath caught.
Mr. Wickham smiled. “Yes, I use that word deliberately. I cannot possibly express how greatly I love and esteem you. And you would make me the happiest man on earth if you would consent to be my wife.”
Elizabeth had imagined this moment. She had believed herself prepared for the possibility. But she realized in a rush that she was not ready; it would have been far better if he had not asked the question. It had been easier to decide the question hypothetically than to be faced with the actuality.
She did not love Mr. Wickham, but she admired him. Perhaps she could love him in time. She had vowed to marry for love, but such a vow would not help her family if they were left penniless and alone. She could do far worse than a charming and attentive husband like Mr. Wickham. He was not wealthy, of course, but he was sure to do well enough. Elizabeth had never fostered any grand hopes of marrying an earl’s son or a viscount. And she could not imagine informing her mother that she had declined yet another eligible offer of marriage.
She gazed into his warm brown eyes, so caring and full of love for her. Mr. Collins’s words echoed in her ears: “It is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made to you.” In the privacy of her mind, she had acknowledged the truth in his words; but now, miraculously, she had received another proposal. It would be foolish to think a third offer would come her way. Mr. Darcy would certainly never propose.
Mr. Darcy? Why am I thinking of him at this moment? But she could not completely suppress the pang of something—regret, perhaps—when she thought of him. No, he looks at me only to criticize. He does not even like me. He is irrelevant.
Noticing Mr. Wickham’s stricken countenance, Elizabeth realized she had long been silent. “Do you perhaps require some time to think about it?” he asked hesitantly.
“No.”
Now he looked even more stricken.
She took a deep breath. “No—I mean…I do not require more time. My answer is yes.”
***
Far too impatient to wait while his own carriage was made ready, Darcy took a cab to Gracechurch Street. During the ride he considered how to introduce such a delicate subject to a well-bred lady—likely two well-bred ladies since Mrs. Gardiner would almost certainly insist on being a chaperone.
Darcy was confident his plan was good, but doubt gnawed in the back of his mind. What if Wickham had immediately left Darcy House to propose to Elizabeth? Darcy’s mind shied away from the very thought, but he forced himself to consider the possibility. What if Elizabeth had accepted Wickham’s offer? The mere thought plunged Darcy into icy water.
Elizabeth would not break such a promise lightly; she would not end an engagement simply upon Darcy’s word. Darcy could not help spinning out a future for Elizabeth as Wickham’s betrothed. Wickham was unlikely to follow through on a promise of marriage, which would cause a scandal. It was the way of the world to blame the woman in such circumstances, and many women never recovered their social standing after a broken engagement. Elizabeth might lose all opportunities to make a respectable match after that. Most likely her parents would ship her away to live with some distant relative or find an obliging clerk in her Uncle Gardiner’s business to marry her quickly and quietly. She deserved so much more….
And if Wickham did marry her…such a future was not worth contemplating.
Darcy’s chest felt tight as his heart ached for this imaginary future Elizabeth. I must prevent it. I must.
He stared out of the window; why could the cab not go any faster? The carriage rattled and stuttered over cobblestones. What could he do if she had already accepted Wickham? Darcy dropped his head in his hands, trying to ward off a sense of dread. Perhaps there would be nothing he could do in such a situation.
Darcy clutched the door handle as the carriage lurched around a sharp corner. What if she loved Wickham? Darcy’s stomach churned sickeningly, and he closed his eyes, praying fervently that such was not the case.
The carriage swayed up to the front of the Gardiners’ house, and Darcy leapt from it the moment it stopped. He handed the driver some coins and was striding to the door before the carriage even rattled away.
The maid who answered the door looked at him wide-eyed.
“Mr. Darcy to see Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
The maid curtsied and admitted him to the front hallway as she scurried away to find her mistress. Darcy shifted his weight, barely noticing anything in the elegant but narrow room. Although he was unsure where this sense of urgency sprang from, he wanted to see Elizabeth immediately and ensure she was safe from Wickham.
“Mrs. Gardiner will see you in the drawing room,” the maid said and beckoned for him to follow her down the hallway. Mrs. Gardiner but not Miss Bennet? Is Elizabeth ill? Has she been summoned home for a family emergency? Is she refusing to see me?
The older woman was standing and facing the door when Darcy entered the room. “Mr. Darcy,” she said with a tight smile, “to what do we owe this honor?”
Darcy was too impatient for common social niceties. “I must see Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth—immediately.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s eyebrow rose. She was definitely suspicious of Darcy’s intentions. “She is not available now. Perhaps you could return tomorrow.”
Not available? That was not the same thing as not at home. “Thank you, no. The matter is most urgent. I will remain until she is available.” He eyed the sofa as if preparing for a long wait.
Mrs. Gardiner pursed her mouth, evidently displeased at the prospect of Darcy occupying her drawing room for hours on end. “Mr. Darcy—” she began in a quelling tone.
A flash of something caught Darcy’s attention from the corner of his eye, and he shot a glance toward the window. There had been movement. Elizabeth’s white dress stood out vividly against the browns and greens of the garden, but she was not alone.
It was a scene from Darcy’s worst nightmare. Wickham was talking to her earnestly, and she was smiling at him. But that was not the worst.
The worst was that he was holding her hand.
And she was smiling.
Darcy was racing for the door before he had consciously decided to do so. I must get to Elizabeth. Now.
“Mr. Darcy! Where are you going?” Mrs. Gardiner followed him out of the room.
Naturally, Darcy was unfamiliar with the house, but he guessed there would be a back door to the garden. He rushed along the only corridor that led to the back of the house and…yes, there was a back door.
“Mr. Darcy!” The maid had joined her mistress, and they both called his name as they gave chase. But panic had given him wings, and they were far too slow to catch him.
He twisted the door handle violently, and it opened, spilling him into the garden. Once outside, he ran, dodging shrubs and randomly placed rocks, desperate to reach the back of the garden where he had espied Elizabeth and Wickham.
“Beckett! Beckett! We need your help!” Mrs. Gardiner cried. No doubt Beckett was some sort of manservant. Do they think that one man can stop me from reaching Elizabeth? Ha, I would like to see Beckett try.
As he rounded a curve in the pathway, his quarry came into view. They were already staring in his direction, no doubt alerted by the shouting.
“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth’s mouth fell open.
However, Wickham was grinning smugly. “You are too late, Darcy. She is mine now.”