26. Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

E lizabeth walked briskly up the path to Lucas Lodge, her thoughts churning with the conversation she had anticipated having with Charlotte. The chill in the air bit her cheeks, but she hardly noticed as she made her way to the door. She had hoped to find Charlotte in good spirits, but recent events made her doubt that was likely.

She was shown into the drawing room by a maid, where she found Charlotte arranging flowers with a practised hand. The room was warm and inviting, but Elizabeth could not shake the sense of unease that had settled in her chest.

"Good morning, Charlotte," Elizabeth greeted, her voice light and cheerful. "I hope you are well today."

Charlotte looked up, her expression brightening. "Good morning, Lizzy! It is so good to see you." She set the flowers aside and motioned for Elizabeth to sit beside her. "How are the wedding preparations coming along?"

Elizabeth took a seat, smoothing her skirts as she did so. "As well as can be expected, I suppose. Mary is… content, and Mama is beside herself with excitement, as you can imagine."

Charlotte smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. "I am glad to hear it. Mary deserves all the happiness in the world, and Mr Collins… well, he will be a dutiful husband, I am sure."

Elizabeth watched her friend closely, noting the forced enthusiasm in her voice. "And you, Charlotte? How have you been?"

"Oh, I have been keeping busy," Charlotte replied, her tone bright but hollow. "There is always something to do, you know. And Mr Wickham has been such a cheerful visitor. He calls on Papa nearly every day to discuss politics."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed slightly. "Mr Wickham? I did not know he was so interested in politics."

Charlotte nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. "Yes, he seems quite passionate about it. But he always makes time to sit with me for a few minutes and take tea before he goes. It is… pleasant."

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, her scepticism growing. "Any gentleman would likely do the same, Charlotte. It is only polite. Surely, your mother and Maria join you in hosting him."

"Oh, no. Maria keeps quite away—I think Papa told her to—and Mama always finds some convenient excuse for leaving the room. And still, he remains!"

"He…" Elizabeth cleared her throat delicately. "He can hardly leave in the middle of tea. It would be shockingly rude."

"But he stays much longer than a quarter-hour. He truly fancies my conversation," Charlotte insisted, her eyes shining with a fervent belief. "Did you not say yourself that he seemed like someone who valued good conversation over a pretty face when we first met him?"

Elizabeth hesitated, searching for the right words. She did not want to hurt Charlotte's feelings, but she could not help but feel uneasy about Mr Wickham's intentions. "I did say that, but…"

Charlotte's face fell, the brightness dimming. "But what, Lizzy? You think he could not possibly fancy someone plain and old like me?"

Elizabeth stiffened, her cheeks burning scarlet. "No, indeed! If anyone says such things about you, why I—"

"It is only the truth." Charlotte sighed. "I am plain. I always have been."

"But you are clever and honest."

Charlotte's brows arched. "I am also entirely on the shelf unless, by some miracle, there exists a gentleman tall enough to reach me."

Elizabeth made a tight smile. "And you think Mr Wickham might be that gentleman?"

Charlotte cast her eyes to the floor, then lifted her shoulders. "Do you think I am being foolish?"

Elizabeth forced a smile, shaking her head. "No, Charlotte. I do not think you are foolish. I just… I worry, that is all. I encouraged you to pursue Collins, and that was a foolish quest if there ever was one. Perhaps I ought to stay out of the matchmaking business."

Charlotte's expression softened, and she reached out to squeeze Elizabeth's hand. "Do you know, I wondered if you would try to warn me off for a different reason altogether. "

"And what reason would that be?"

Charlotte's eyes flared, and she dipped her head forward in a conscious gesture. "You know."

"I am afraid I do not."

Charlotte widened her eyes again. "Him! I… well, Lizzy, everyone is talking about you and Mr Wickham as if the matter is settled."

Elizabeth sat back in her seat. "The matter is most assuredly not settled. And what do you mean, ‘everyone'? The only person I ever heard make such assumptions was Mama, and you know as well as I do that she is delusional."

Charlotte's hand fell from Elizabeth's. "Well, I am sure it was Mrs Philips and Mrs Long too, but… there, I suppose they must be mistaken." She chewed her lip. "Lizzy, are you sure? I should hate to think I might be hurting my friend if… you know."

Elizabeth frowned. "I think we can safely say that I will not be hurt."

Mr Wickham, however… that man might deserve a bit of "hurting" if he wounded Charlotte.

D arcy was hunched over his desk, a pile of documents before him, the dim light from the lamp casting long shadows across the room. His study, usually a place of quiet contemplation and order, was now a chaotic mess. Papers were strewn everywhere, and Darcy's head throbbed with the intensity of his concentration and the ever-present pain that had become his unwelcome companion.

He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the relentless pounding, but it was no use. The headache was exacerbated by the stress and the strain of bending over the desk, his eyes squinting to read the small, faded print on the yellowed pages. Memories and suspicions surged through him, all centring on George Wickham and the intricate lies that seemed to be closing in on him .

Darcy's hands trembled as he rifled through the documents. He was certain there was something in his cabinet of documents, something that would shed light on Wickham's story and perhaps even his intentions. His blood was up, his heart pounding in his chest as he sifted through the papers, determined to find the elusive detail that would validate his suspicions.

A soft knock on the door barely registered in his consciousness. The door creaked open, and a footman entered, carrying a tray with a decanter of brandy and a glass. "Mr Darcy," the footman said hesitantly, "Mrs Hodges thought you might need some refreshment."

Darcy barely glanced up. "Thank you, but leave it and go," he muttered.

The footman hesitated, setting the tray down on a side table. "Sir, are you well? You look—"

"Nothing whatever is the matter," Darcy snapped, waving a hand dismissively. Then, he straightened with a sigh. "My apologies, Carson. I do not need distractions right now."

The footman bowed slightly, retreating from the room with a worried expression. The door closed softly behind him, and Darcy was alone once more with his thoughts and the mounting pressure in his head.

Hours passed in a dizzy fit of ink-stained fingers and rustling papers. Darcy's vision blurred and swam, his headache only worsening after he surrendered and sampled the brandy the housekeeper had sent.

"No, not this one…" he muttered to himself as he tossed one paper aside. "What is this? From Uncle… ‘To my dearest sister' … this ought to be with Mother's affects, not here."

He picked up another document, scanning it briefly. "Bills of sale for cattle... irrelevant." He tossed it aside and grabbed the next, reading aloud, "The tenant of Watkins Farm... compensation due... no, no."

A ledger book followed, and he thumbed through it impatiently. "Expenses for the spring planting... invoices from the blacksmith..." Darcy groaned and set it aside with more force than necessary. "This is all useless!"

His fingers fumbled through more papers, eyes straining to make out the script in the dim light of the study. "Mortgage agreements, land grants… curse it all."

At one point, he paused over a letter that looked like his father's hand, hoping it might hold some clue, but it turned out to be a missive from his great-aunt about a long-forgot feud. "Rubbish!" he exclaimed, flinging it onto the growing pile of discarded documents .

His frustration mounted with each futile discovery. "Why can I not find anything useful?" he growled, running a hand through his hair. He rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate the pressure building within his skull. It was all this dratted tumour. His memory might have been vindicated where "Halstead" was concerned, but he was by no means certain of it anymore. He might have dreamed this all up.

Another document caught his eye, and he quickly scanned it. "Arrangements for the annual harvest festival... how did this even get in here?" He shoved it aside, reaching for the next.

Pages from old account books, letters of correspondence, even a few poems penned by his mother—none of them held the information he sought. Each item was read in part, then discarded in frustration.

At last, his persistence was rewarded. It ought to have been the first place he looked—rather, it was, but he had not seen it before. Darcy had been so sure that he had looked thoroughly through the very depths of the drawer where he kept his father's documents that he had only opened it again now in sheer desperation.

And there it was. Surely, he could not have missed this the last time he searched for it, could he? Had he actually searched here? He rubbed absently at his forehead as he pulled out a thick sheaf of documents tied together with a faded ribbon.

It was his father's will—nothing he had not read a hundred times already. But within it, a separate bundle marked with Wickham's name that, at some point, Darcy must have stuck there and forgot about. His hands shook as he untied the ribbon and spread the papers out before him.

There, in the elegant script of his father's hand, was the will of Wickham's father, who had been the steward of Pemberley. Darcy scanned the document, his eyes narrowing as he reached the section detailing the elder Wickham's wishes for his son, George. As was to be expected, there was a list of all known family members, each meticulously noted, along with their circumstances and where they might be found, should the need ever arise.

Darcy's father had later penned notes beside each name, indicating the decease of nearly all of them. The remaining two—a widowed aunt in Leicester and a grandmother on his mother's side—Darcy himself had received notice of their demise.

According to this, Wickham had no remaining relatives. Darcy's breath caught in his throat as he read and reread the names, the annotations. Not one among them could match the description of this mysterious relative who supposedly left Wickham his fortune .

He had doubted his memory—for ample reason, as the pain and stress clouded his thoughts daily—but here was the proof. His father's meticulous record-keeping had vindicated him. Unless there was something that his father's solicitor had overlooked—and that was unlikely, for the Darcys paid the man to be thorough—Wickham had lied about his inheritance, about how he leased Netherfield, about everything.

Darcy slumped back in his chair, the tension in his body releasing in a wave of exhaustion. He had been right, at least about this. The truth was a small comfort, but a comfort, nonetheless.

The door creaked open again, and the footman reappeared, his expression cautious. "Sir, may I bring you anything else?"

Darcy shook his head, his eyes fixed on the papers before him. "No, thank you. I have what I need." He waved the footman away once more, his mind already turning to the next steps. He wanted nothing more than to piece together the rest of the puzzle, to confront Wickham and expose his lies.

For now, though, he allowed his poor head a moment of respite. The fire crackled in the hearth, the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Darcy closed his eyes, the pounding in his head dulling to a persistent ache as his mind wandered back to the conversations he had had with Wickham over the years, the lies woven into the fabric of their interactions. How had he missed the enormity of it? How had he allowed Wickham to manipulate him this autumn, to plant doubts and fears that had no basis in reality?

And then, there was Elizabeth Bennet. He winced, recalling the look in her eyes when she had defended Wickham. She had believed in the man's charm, just as everyone else did, including himself. And Wickham seemed to hold no little interest in her . There could be no doubt that Wickham intended to make a conquest of her.

That notion alone sent the blood coursing through Darcy's veins. Elizabeth Bennet might be beyond his reach—why would she wish to bind herself to a dying man? She was not the sort of woman who would be content to marry for a comfortable fortune. She expected— demanded more, and she deserved it. But she would not find it with Wickham if that was what she was hoping. Just like Georgiana…

Darcy sat bolt upright once more, a quill somehow finding its way into his hand. Was Elizabeth Bennet in just as much danger of being used as he himself had been? Why did Wickham seem so interested in her?

It had to be more than merely the attraction of a beautiful woman, because Darcy had seen the man dancing and flirting with nearly every woman in Meryton, some of whom were prettier by the common standards. But Darcy had never seen Wickham so gallant and accommodating as he appeared to be toward Elizabeth Bennet.

Then again, there were many things Darcy had not seen until lately.

What was he to do about any of it? He had already sent a letter to Doctor Pembroke at Cambridge, and the man was expecting him next week. Even that was too long to wait for Darcy's taste. Every day only heightened the agony inside his head and narrowed the chances that something might be done for his relief.

But… well, hang it all, Meryton was very nearly on the road to Cambridge. He could leave London tomorrow and break his journey at Netherfield. Whatever Wickham was about, he could not afford to send Darcy away after introducing him to everyone as his friend.

Still, what could he hope to accomplish? No one would believe him if he declared his suspicions—that Wickham was put into place by a powerful man to curry favour and sway votes. It seemed preposterous, even to his own ears. And it was probably the product of his addled head. A bloody shame Richard was not here to help him sound out the idea.

She might help him make sense of it. If she would listen to him.

The clock on the mantel chimed the hour, the sound reverberating through the quiet room. Darcy pushed the papers aside, his mind racing with plans and strategies.

But first, he needed to clear his head. The pain was becoming unbearable, the pressure in his skull relentless. Darcy stood, swaying slightly as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He needed fresh air, needed to escape the confines of the study and the memories that clung to every corner.

He crossed the room, his steps unsteady, and opened the window. The cool night air rushed in, a welcome relief against his fevered skin. Darcy leaned against the sill, breathing deeply, trying to clear the fog from his mind.

And that was where he found himself two hours later—collapsed at the threshold, his tongue bleeding, trousers rumpled, his cravat soaked, and the side table near the door knocked over in the apparent aftermath of a full-body convulsion.

Darcy put a shaking hand against the door frame, his eyes bleary as he tried to verify the time on the mantel clock. Good Heavens.

He swallowed and drew out his handkerchief to mop his face. Time, it seemed, was not his ally. His condition was surely worsening .

He crawled on his hands and knees to his desk, for he did not trust himself not to sway again and pulled himself up into his chair. Did he dare attempt the stairs tonight? Darcy surveyed the scattered disaster of his desk and found the footman's bell.

It served him right for snapping at poor Carson earlier, for no one had ventured to disturb him. But now, it seemed… well, he would have to ask for help just moving about his own house.

Bloody humiliating.