Chapter 46

“Well!” Miss Bingley snapped, once the door was shut behind Georgiana. “I have never been so offended in my life!”

“Very rude,” Anne murmured, but within, she was horrified. Georgiana knew! She heard us! If Darcy cuts me out of his life, I am doomed to a life alone at Rosings. Whenever her mother had visitors, she was much better behaved. Anne looked forward to those Easter visits, and any others Mama could coax or demand from the Darcys—as well as the times Mama would foist herself upon them at Pemberley—at least a couple of times per year. It was too awful to contemplate future endless days and years without any reprieve.

“That stupid Lushington chit thinks herself so grand! Encouraging Georgiana Darcy, who is too, too proud! What does a child like her know? Nothing! Elizabeth Bennet insulted me, and I only meant to teach her a lesson! I suppose it was Miss Darcy who switched those pitchers—she has access to the keys of every chamber in the house. Or she had her servants do it. She probably spied upon us—a house so old and large as Pemberley likely has hidden passages.”

Anne’s eyes widened. Was Georgiana having them watched, even now? “Perhaps we ought to discuss this outdoors,” she suggested, “if we are being observed.” Anne cast her eyes nervously around the small parlour, searching for possible secret entrances or peep-holes.

Miss Bingley waved the idea away. “We were in the library before—everyone knows that such passages lead to and from only the largest rooms. Why would anyone bother with this one?”

But how would Miss Bingley know anything about secret passages and their placement? Anne stood, moving around the room, paying special attention to the pictures and panelling; Miss Bingley hardly seemed to notice, so obsessed was she with her perceived insults. There did not appear to be anything to find; this room only had two pictures, both of Derbyshire scenery. She lifted the corner of a frame—there were no peep-holes, nothing behind it except smooth wall.

“I want to go to the village,” Anne interrupted, desperate to stop her friend from speaking further upon incriminating subjects inside Pemberley. “I need new ribbons.”

The Darcy carriagedropped the two young ladies beside the village green, and they walked arm in arm towards the row of shops and their neat little displays; for a few minutes, Anne’s fears eased. Miss Bingley had been enthusiastic about the expedition—and Anne had even managed to leave Mrs Jenkinson behind, not an easy undertaking. Jenkinson liked to believe that Anne would be hit by a speeding carriage or become consumptive if she left the house without her.

During the short carriage ride into Lambton, Miss Bingley had spoken only of her desire for a new hat. Perhaps she would forget about plotting altogether. Anne touched the pocket of her dress, containing a handkerchief embroidered with acorns—her symbol of their treasured friendship.

But to her surprise, Lambton was anything but quiet. The town was bustling, with so many people standing around, for a moment she thought perhaps the Wakes Week had been extended. As they neared the main street, she saw what had the townsfolk so excited.

“What have we here? A regiment in Lambton?” Miss Bingley murmured, obviously pleased, for a number of men stood about in bright red coats, talking and laughing with the villagers. But Anne’s attention was soon captured by a young man amongst them of a most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with another officer on the other side of the way. Her friend spotted him in the next moment.

“I must know who that is!” she exclaimed, nudging Anne. “Do not you think his air something out of the ordinary?”

How will she manage a meeting without anyone to make introductions?Anne wondered, but she was not long left to speculate. Miss Bingley, under pretence of wanting something in an opposite shop, led the way across the street and quickly gained the pavement. With a perfect timing Anne could only admire, she dropped her own acorn-embroidered handkerchief, just as the two gentlemen reached the exact best spot to retrieve it for her.

Anne watched as the less handsome one practically tripped over his own feet to recover it.

“Oh, thank you so much,” Miss Bingley cooed with practised ease, reclaiming the handkerchief. “I have never seen officers in Lambton. A regiment is stationed here?”

Of course, there was nothing for it but that the officer should address her directly, entreating permission to introduce himself—Mr Denny, a captain—and his friend, Mr Wickham. The introduction was followed on Mr Wickham’s side by a happy readiness of conversation; however, his expression gleamed with greater, more obvious interest when Miss Bingley gave her name. Had he heard of her before, perhaps from villagers commenting upon Pemberley’s house party?

Anne never knew what to say to strangers, especially men. Miss Bingley had failed to include her in her own introduction, but that was for the best—it gave her an excuse to remain mute.

“I am grieved that we are not stationed here, although we are the Derbyshire Regiment,” Mr Denny explained, “for it is obvious that the company in this, our own neighbourhood, is just what it ought to be. However, we are soon to be posted to Hertfordshire.”

“We must depart only a few days hence,” Mr Wickham added, looking equally sorrowful.

“Do you know the neighbourhood well?” Miss Bingley asked, looking directly at Mr Wickham. “Have you heard of Pemberley?”

“I was born and raised there! The world is blinded by Darcy’s fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen. Oh, you will be very surprised, I am sure, to know my opinion of him.”

“Oh?” Miss Bingley said, her expression arrested. “Why is that?”

Anne listened as Mr Wickham told a tale of an inherited living from her uncle Darcy, which was meant to set him up as a gentleman worthy of any bride, and her cousin Darcy’s refusal to give it up. “His sister and I were nearly betrothed, before he intruded. Had his father lived, we would be wed by now!”

Wed? To Georgiana? Anne did recall, suddenly, having heard this man’s name. She could not envision her uncle allowing his daughter’s marriage to him.

“You were the steward’s son, were you not?” Anne asked, interrupting Mr Wickham’s diatribe. “I think I heard my uncle Darcy paid for your schooling?”

Mr Wickham seemed to notice her for the first time. “Yes. He was the best of men. I only wish the son more closely resembled the father.”

“I would too, I am sure, if it meant he would hand over large sums of money and pay for the advancement of my career. Still, I do not see why Darcy should, if he can avoid doing it. I cannot imagine any Darcy allowing a steward to marry into the family.”

He gave her a frosty smile. “Your uncle?” he asked, his eyes narrowing, his head tilting thoughtfully. “Would you be a de Bourgh?”

“Yes,” she replied, not liking his expression.

“Ah. That explains so much,” he said, and, after pointedly bowing only to Miss Bingley, left them so quickly it was barely polite, Mr Denny apologising for his haste as he hurried to join his friend.

“Why did you chase him away?” Miss Bingley grumbled. “He might have been useful.”

“I hardly chased him. I only pointed out facts. How could Mr Wickham be at all useful? He is plainly impoverished and probably a liar.”

Miss Bingley began walking again, examining shop windows as she went. “Would not Pemberley be ever so much better and happier if that awful Elizabeth and her awful sister were gone?”

Anne shrugged. Miss Elizabeth had been almost completely absent for several days while her sister was ill, and it had changed nothing—except that Darcy had been even more withdrawn than usual. Of course, Miss Bingley loved her silly romantic ideas, and probably still hoped that if Miss Elizabeth were to leave, somehow Darcy would magically fall in love with her instead. Anne understood it; once she had entertained the same stupid notions. Mama still did. But the longer she watched her cousin mope, the less likely she found it that he would look past his current enchantment any time soon.

“Darcy cannot marry Miss Elizabeth,” Anne said, trying to comfort herself as well as Miss Bingley. “She has no fortune and her relations are perfectly abysmal. In time he will get past his infatuation.”

“Darcy is not infatuated!” Miss Bingley spat. “He feels pity for the Bennet chits. They require his charity! Imagine, being actually related to and maintaining a kinship with that well-known, infamous gossip, Mr Pennywithers! The best possible solution is to get them away from Pemberley. I think it could be easily done. We simply give this Wickham fellow enough money to hire a coach, put them in it, and drop them in Hertfordshire. Or London. Cheapside. Who cares?”

Anne’s brows raised; her friend certainly possessed a talent for imagining audacious plans. “How would you explain their, um, unwillingness to be in his company?”

“Cannot you tell an opium eater when you see one? My father taught us to recognise all the signs.”

“Mr Wickham? But he is so handsome!”

“He is now. He will not remain so. But he will know how to keep them quiet until he can dispose of them.”

Anne felt herself begin to tremble. A kidnap? With a drug-crazed villain? Even if the Bennet sisters arrived safely home, if Darcy were ever to discover the plot, not only would he cut Anne from his life, but he might see her sent to New South Wales! Hopefully Miss Bingley was not seriously considering something so terrible. Still, the flaws in her plan must be pointed out, her mind sent in a different direction.

Besides, Anne did not hate the Bennet sisters. She simply did not like them. The lengths Miss Bingley was prepared to go to force a departure seemed a little…mad.

“It would take much time, to make such arrangements,” Anne said, scrambling for reasons her friend would accept. “Miss Bennet is under the strictest of orders. She was allowed downstairs for one hour this morning, and then back to bed she had to go. By the time she is fully recovered enough that we might even take her out of doors, Mr Wickham’s regiment will be removed to Hertfordshire.”

At that moment, and much to Anne’s relief, Miss Bingley dropped the topic utterly in favour of a small white chip hat wreathed in pink silk roses displayed in the window of a mantua-maker’s shop. They spent a happy hour selecting trims, ribbons, and of course, the hat—after having the pink roses exchanged for peach. The crisis, it appeared, had passed.

Until they were on their way back to Pemberley, the carriage heaped with their purchases, the hat box tied with string and placed carefully on Miss Bingley’s lap—when Miss Bingley announced, “I simply must find a way to use Mr Wickham to rid ourselves of that awful Elizabeth! Even if stupid Jane must remain.”

No! Frantically, Anne cast about for another argument against the plot.

“Miss Elizabeth is some sort of relation to that columnist in the Herald, is she not? The one who wrote about Richard?”

“Yes, as I have repeatedly been saying! Just look at what that caused! I am not sorry to be seated at the other end of the table from Mr Fitzwilliam, I tell you! He quite puts me off my appetite!”

Anne bit her lip. Her cousin had always been very kind to her, and was a gentleman, despite his looks. In fact, she had once begged her mother to fix upon him instead of Darcy as a bridegroom. He actually needed her money, and might have considered the match. It had been a useless gambit, only leading to Anne requiring yet another round of ‘improving’ tonics in order to refine her tastes in men. He was ugly now, so perhaps it was all for the best; still, she had retained a soft place in her heart for him, and hoped for his happiness with Miss Bentley, even if she could not feel any fondness for his bride.

“Who do you suppose revealed Richard’s story to Mr Pennywithers?” Anne asked.

“Everyone knows it must have been Elizabeth Bennet,” Miss Bingley snapped. “Proof of her low connexions!”

“Exactly. Which means, should she suffer a kidnap, or any other distressing circumstance, she has an outlet for her complaints. Heaven forbid she go missing! Without ever revealing her identity, Pennywithers could engage half the country in discovering Mr Wickham’s—which would surely lead back to us.”

She let that sink in, Miss Bingley finally appearing to see sense, as the frustrated expression upon her face revealed.

“It is not fair!” Miss Bingley threw the hat box so hard against the opposite wall of the carriage, that the vehicle was stopped so a footman could ask if they wished a different destination.

“It certainly is not,” Anne agreed, once the carriage was moving again. So much of life was unjust; if she had been born with Elizabeth Bennet’s wit and address, she would already be wed and have a family of her own.

They were on Pemberley land, although not in sight of the house, when suddenly Miss Bingley’s expression cleared.

“You are exactly correct!” she exclaimed excitedly. “Darcy must always wonder, regarding any column Mr Pennywithers pens in the future, if he received his information from Miss Elizabeth! I need only send a letter to him at the Herald with some tantalising information about Mr Darcy—including those tit-bits we learnt this morning regarding the legacy he failed to pay to Mr Wickham.”

“How could Miss Elizabeth possibly have learnt that?”

Miss Bingley smiled slyly. “Did he not also say he was nearly betrothed to Miss Darcy? That fascinating detail will be in the letter as well. There will be no possibility but to blame Elizabeth the Blabbering Bennet for everything Mr Pennywithers reports.” She giggled triumphantly, while Anne’s heart sank.