27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

T he still room was filled with the earthy scent of drying herbs, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the small windows, casting a warm glow over the room. Elizabeth and Jane worked quietly side by side, their hands deftly bundling sprigs of rosemary and thyme, securing them with twine to hang above the hearth.

"Did you know that Mr Bingley has two sisters?" Jane asked as she stretched for the nail in the beam above her head.

"I did not. Let me guess—they are each more beautiful than the other and so brimming with kindness and goodness that they have already undertaken to write to their brother to plead with him to secure for them a sister who is equally good and beautiful."

"Oh, Lizzy, stop," Jane scoffed as she reached for another spring of thyme. "That does not even make any sense."

Elizabeth chuckled, winding the twine around a bunch. "Well, then, what did he say about them?"

"Rather… I think the opposite. About the younger sister, that is. She has a terribly handsome dowry, but—"

"He told you how much her dowry is?"

"Not specifically, no, but he said she is in much demand because of it. I do not think he meant it to sound as if he were bragging, nor quite as if he meant to say that her dowry was the only thing her suitors found appealing, but…"

"But it sounds as though both are true, nonetheless?" Elizabeth guessed.

Jane hooked the last sprig of thyme on the nail and lifted her shoulders. "It did sound like that, yes. He was more than implying that I should not permit her to intimidate me… if I ever had occasion to meet her. Do you think he means… what I think he means by that?"

Elizabeth pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. "You are only now noticing what everyone else has long seen. Mr Bingley hardly has eyes for anyone but you. "

Jane blushed. "You are imagining things, Lizzy," she murmured, though the corner of her lips curled into a smile.

"Am I? You must admit, he is rather attentive to you, even when Mama is not hovering nearby to remind him how beautiful and accomplished you are."

Jane shook her head, though her smile remained. "Mr Bingley is kind to everyone. It is in his nature."

"Oh, indeed, he is kind," Elizabeth agreed. "But I do not see him offering to fetch punch for just anyone, nor do I see him seeking out every opportunity to stand beside them when he is not engaged in another dance."

Jane's blush deepened, but she could not suppress a soft laugh. "You are incorrigible, Lizzy. But truly, I do not believe he thinks of me in that way."

Elizabeth's smile grew wider, her eyes sparkling with affection for her sister. "Then you are the only one who thinks so, Jane. The rest of us are quite certain that Mr Bingley is very much taken with you."

"And what of Mr Wickham, Lizzy? He seems to have made quite an impression on you."

Elizabeth's own cheeks warmed slightly, though she gave a light shrug. "Mr Wickham is very amiable, and I find his company agreeable. But I believe it is you and Mr Bingley who are the subject of more speculation."

"Perhaps, but it is all just conjecture, Lizzy. Nothing more."

Elizabeth tilted her head. "Perhaps. However, conjecture has a way of leading to something more, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. There are simply too many knowing heads wagging whenever you and Mr Bingley are seen together."

Just as Elizabeth was reaching for another bundle of lavender, a shadow fell across the doorway. She looked up to see her father standing there, his expression unusually serious. Mr Bennet's brow was furrowed, and he seemed to be looking at something far beyond the confines of the room, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

"Papa?" Jane asked. "Is something wrong?"

Elizabeth studied him carefully, her amusement fading as she noticed the slight twitch in his right hand, as though his fingers were moving of their own accord. His eyes were distant, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his mind as if he were carrying on a conversation with himself .

Mr Bennet blinked, his gaze finally settling on his daughters. He hesitated, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Elizabeth and Jane exchanged concerned glances, the mood in the room shifting as they waited for him to say something.

"Nothing is wrong," he said at last, though his tone lacked conviction. He seemed to be considering his words carefully, his hesitation unusual and unsettling. "I simply thought… perhaps I might have a drink in my study."

Elizabeth straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. "Of course, Papa. I can bring it to you."

Mr Bennet nodded absently, his eyes already drifting away from hers. "Yes… yes, thank you, Lizzy." Without another word, he turned and walked slowly down the hall, his steps measured and deliberate.

Elizabeth watched him go, her heart sinking with unease. Something was clearly troubling her father, but what it could be, she could not guess. She exchanged another look with Jane, whose brow was now furrowed in worry.

"Jane, did you see—"

"I did," Jane murmured, cutting her off. "What do you think it means?"

"I do not know. But I intend to find out."

P apa might have gone to the still room seeking a glass of small beer or mead, but Elizabeth thought the distress in his face called for something a touch stronger. She measured out a draught of scotch from the locked cabinet, then, thinking he might prefer something more substantial to sustain himself, stopped off at the larder for a small seed cake, some cheeses and cold meats. Balancing the tray in her hands, she walked through the hall toward her father's study.

Elizabeth approached the door to the study, her steps slowing as she noticed it was slightly ajar. She hesitated for a moment, peering inside .

Mr Bennet was seated at his desk, his posture slumped, one hand pressing against his forehead as though he could knead away whatever was troubling him. The sight tugged at Elizabeth's heart. She had seen her father irritated, exasperated, and even amused, but this level of distress was new and unsettling. She stepped into the room quietly, setting the tray on a side table before moving to leave. But before she could take more than a step back, her father spoke in a low, strained voice.

"Stay, Lizzy."

The words were heavy, laden with an unfamiliar gravity. Elizabeth turned back to face him, her heart tightening in her chest. She had known something was wrong, but the way he looked at her now made it clear that whatever it was, it was serious.

"I know you mean to ask, so let us not pretend."

Elizabeth moved cautiously to the chair across from his desk and sat down, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "What is it, Papa?" she asked gently, searching his face for answers.

Without a word, he passed her a letter, the paper crinkled and worn from where he had read and re-read it. Elizabeth took it with trembling fingers, unfolding it carefully.

The letter was from Sir Harold, the longstanding MP for Meryton. Elizabeth recognised the name instantly; her father and Sir Harold had known each other since their youth, though they were not close friends, merely acquaintances who had crossed paths over the years. Mr Bennet had written to him recently, offering well wishes for his "retirement" and inquiring after his health. But the contents of Sir Harold's reply were far from what she had expected.

Elizabeth's eyes moved steadily over the page, absorbing the careful phrasing of each sentence. The letter was brief, but its tone was unmistakably weary.

My dear Mr Bennet,

I have suspected for some time that my tenure would not last much longer, whether by the will of the people or by less direct means. I do not place the blame at your door, nor at any one man's feet. However, I must admit that I have faced considerable pressure on my votes over the past two years—pressures that have worn me down more than I care to admit.

My health is not what it once was, and the demands of this position have become increasingly difficult to bear. What concerns me most, though, is the future of the office I leave behind. I urge you to carefully consider whoever is nominated for the by-election. There are interests at play that may not align with the best outcomes for our community. Take care to protect what we have built .

Elizabeth sucked in a breath as she finished reading. "This… this is not a letter of a man content with his departure."

"No," Mr Bennet murmured. "This does not sound like the Sir Harold I know."

"What does this mean, Papa? What could Sir Harold be warning you about?"

Mr Bennet's expression was grim as he leaned back in his chair. "I wish I knew, Lizzy. But I fear that whatever it is, it is more than just the usual political manoeuvrings. Sir Harold would not have written such a letter unless he believed the situation warranted it. It is not as though we were ever terribly close."

Elizabeth swallowed. The idea that someone might be manipulating the political process in Meryton was deeply unsettling. "Do you think Sir Harold is right? Is there someone behind this who should not be?"

Mr Bennet sighed again, rubbing his temples as though trying to relieve some of the tension that gripped him. "I do not know, Lizzy. I truly do not. But I intend to find out. Tomorrow evening, I am invited to Netherfield for drinks with a few others, and I expect Sir Anthony will be there. I mean to ask him whatever questions I can think of to prove his credentials."

Elizabeth watched the play of feeling over her father's face in silence. She could sense the worry and doubt in him, emotions he rarely showed so openly. This was the man who deliberately laughed at convention and provoked others for his own amusement. But he did not look amused now, and it frightened her.

He swirled the contents of the glass she had brought him, then downed the remnants in one go before heaving a long sigh. "Say nothing to Jane or the others. I ought not to have mentioned it to you, but I knew you would give me no peace unless I confessed."

Elizabeth smiled thinly. "Of course, Papa. I shall leave you to think of what to do."

He grunted, his temple leaning against his index finger as he rested his arm on the desk. But as she reached the door, her father's voice stopped her again. "Lizzy," he said, his tone hesitant, almost vulnerable. "If you think of any questions that might test the man, perhaps you could write them down for me. I find… I find I have begun to distrust my own senses lately, and I would appreciate your help."

Elizabeth turned back to him. "Papa," she began softly, "I have been wondering the same about myself. Whether I can trust what I see and hear. But I will try to think of something that might help."

Mr Bennet gave her a faint, weary smile, one that did little to alleviate the tension in his face. "Thank you, my dear."

D arcy could delay no longer. He must see Georgiana, must ask her about Ramsgate—there was something there, some detail that either he had never credited, or had slipped through the cracks of his memory, and he could not rest until he had it. He signed the last document placed before him by his man of business and rose from his desk, though the movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him. He gripped the edge of the desk, willing the room to stop spinning.

When the world finally steadied, he made his way to his uncle's townhouse. As he arrived at the Matlock residence, he handed his coat and hat to the footman and inquired quietly, "Is Miss Darcy available?"

He did not want to speak with his aunt. Lady Matlock, though well-meaning, had a tendency to fuss, and Darcy was in no state to endure it. He needed to see Georgiana alone.

The footman returned with a nod. "Miss Darcy is in the music room, sir. Lady Matlock is presently occupied with guests."

Darcy breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to be spared an encounter with his aunt. He nodded his thanks to the footman and made his way to the music room, his steps slow and measured, every movement a reminder of the illness that was eating away at him.

When he reached the door, he paused, collecting himself before entering. He could hear the soft strains of the piano—Georgiana must have been practising. Steeling himself, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Georgiana sat at the piano, her back to him as her fingers danced lightly over the keys. The gentle melody filled the room, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging in Darcy's mind. For a moment, he simply watched her, trying to gather the strength to speak.

Sensing his presence, Georgiana turned, her eyes widening in alarm as she took in his appearance. "Fitzwilliam," she said, rising quickly from the bench. "You look unwell. "

Darcy winced, though he managed a faint smile. "It is nothing for you to worry over, Georgiana. I have been unwell, it is true, but nothing serious. Come, sit with me." He gestured to the settee, his heart twisting at the lie. He was lying to the one person in the world he had sworn never to deceive.

Georgiana hesitated, her gaze flickering with uncertainty, but she did as he asked, seating herself beside him. For a moment, Darcy struggled to find the words, his mind a jumble of fragmented thoughts. He forced himself to focus, to push through the haze.

"Georgiana," he began, his voice low and controlled, "I need to ask you something about your time in Ramsgate. I know we have spoken of this before, but there are some details I must clarify. Please, indulge me one last time."

She looked at him, suspicion clouding her features. "Why are you asking me about it again? You did not believe me before, Fitzwilliam. What more can I tell you now?"

Guilt gnawed at Darcy, an ache deeper than the relentless throb in his head. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as it closed over hers, the weight of his failure pressing down on him. How had he not seen it? How had he dismissed her so easily? "You are right," he murmured, his voice thick with remorse. "I should have listened to you—how could I not have? I failed you, Georgiana, and I cannot undo that. But please, I need you to trust me now. I need to understand. Start from the beginning... tell me everything you remember."

Georgiana bit her lip, uncertainty flashing in her eyes, but she nodded. "Very well, if it will help you. I first encountered Mr Wickham at the public rooms. It was a surprise—he seemed just as shocked to see me as I was to see him."

"He was alone?" Darcy asked sceptically.

"That day he was, but he told me that he was waiting for a friend to arrive in Ramsgate. He was not sure what day the man was to arrive, so he was simply amusing himself and biding his time."

Darcy's head throbbed with a pain that muddled his thoughts, each pulse drowning out the details of Georgiana's words. He struggled to find something—anything—coherent to ask, but the pain made it impossible to focus. Finally, desperate to keep the conversation going, he blurted out the first question that came to mind. "Can you describe Mr Billings? Do you remember anything specific about him?" It was a grasp at straws, and he knew it, but his mind could not conjure anything better .

"Mr Billings," she replied, her brow furrowed in concentration. "He did not say much about him at first, only that they were close and that Mr Billings would be joining him soon."

"Did he ever clarify what sort of friend this Mr Billings was?" Darcy pressed, trying to focus on her words despite the pounding in his skull.

Georgiana shook her head. "Not at first. But I did meet him about two weeks later when he arrived in town. They were at the public rooms together."

Darcy's vision blurred, the pain intensifying as he struggled to keep his thoughts in order. "So, you saw this Mr Billings? Could you describe him to me?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, I remember him. He was a shorter man, stocky, with very curly red-brown hair and eyes that were almost the same colour. He had the shoulders of a blacksmith but the hands of a gentleman. I thought he was striking in appearance, so I remembered him. He was only in Ramsgate for a few days before he left. Mr Wickham told me that Mr Billings had offered him an opportunity and that he had to return to London to arrange the details."

"What kind of opportunity?" Darcy asked, though his voice trembled slightly as he spoke.

Georgiana's memory faltered, and she looked down at her hands. "I do not remember exactly. I think it had something to do with being a steward for someone, but I am not sure. I wish I could remember more."

A steward? This was a dead end. Darcy's heart sank as he watched her struggle to recall the details. His own thoughts were slipping away from him, like water draining from a cracked vessel. He could not speak for a moment, the words refusing to form on his lips. He was barely able to concentrate, his mind swirling with blackness, threatening to engulf him.

"Fitzwilliam, you truly are unwell, are you not?" Georgiana asked, her voice trembling with concern. "Or is it my story that upsets you?"

Darcy forced himself to speak, though his voice was strained. "It is not your fault, Georgiana. Please, continue. How much longer did Wickham remain in Ramsgate?"

She hesitated, her eyes filling with worry, but she pressed on. "About a fortnight longer, waiting for a letter from Mr Billings to confirm the position. During that time, we encountered each other frequently in the public rooms, and he would introduce me to other ladies he had met on his morning outings. Really, Fitzwilliam, it all seemed entirely innocent at the time. Mrs Younge even permitted him to escort me back to our hired rooms, where we served him tea twice before he left."

Darcy's cheek twitched, his mind reeling as the implications of her words sank in. He could not speak; his throat was constricting with the effort. Georgiana was alarmed again, her voice filled with desperation as she continued.

"I know it was not proper to receive a gentleman, even though Mrs Younge was with me. But Mr Wickham was so friendly, so easy, just as though he were still a part of the family. I never meant to deceive you, Fitzwilliam. Please believe me."

Darcy closed his eyes, the darkness threatening to consume him. "I believe you, Georgiana. I truly do. I see now, in a way I did not credit before, how perfectly convincing Mr Wickham must have been."

Georgiana visibly relaxed, but her face clouded with confusion. "Why are you asking me all this now? What is happening?"

Darcy sighed, his heart heavy with the weight of the truth. "Because I was fooled, Georgiana. I was fooled, just as you were."

Her eyes widened in shock, her voice trembling with disbelief. "You? What do you mean? What has happened?"

Darcy hesitated, the truth almost too bitter to speak. "Mr Wickham has charmed an entire town, including some… very intelligent people… into believing he is the most benevolent man alive."

She puckered her mouth. "I… I do not understand."

"Neither do I," he sighed. "But there it is. He is living the life of a gentleman of means who is currently hailed as the saviour of Meryton in Hertfordshire."

Her face broke into a look of utter bemusement, and she shook her head. "A gentleman of means! How?"

"He has somehow stumbled into great wealth. Enough to lease an estate and essentially purchase the favour of all his neighbours by his magnanimity."

Georgiana shook her head in disbelief. "But that cannot be! He had almost no money when I saw him in Ramsgate. In fact…" She paused, her voice faltering. "I was embarrassed to tell you this before, but I gave him some of my spending money one day when Mrs Younge was not looking. He told me that his coin purse was stolen on the coach, and the bank where he kept his money was delaying on sending him more funds. "

Darcy felt as though the ground had been ripped out from under him. His heart pounded in his chest, his mind reeling with the implications. "How much did you give him?"

"More than fifty pounds," Georgiana admitted, her voice small and filled with shame. "He promised to pay me back, and the day he left for London, he did return half the money to me. But I have not seen the rest."

Darcy's hands shook as he absorbed this new information. Wickham had lied about the timing of his supposed inheritance. Had he not told Darcy that he was already a wealthy man by the time he met Georgiana in Ramsgate? Or was he remembering that detail wrongly?

No, no, he was sure of it. The timing was wrong, and Wickham had used Georgiana's sympathies to live off of her until he could secure more money elsewhere. And undoubtedly, Wickham had known that Georgiana would be too embarrassed to tell Darcy about it.

Darcy took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "Georgiana, I believe you. I should have listened to you before. You were right… George Wickham probably behaved every inch the gentleman, save for the part about taking money from a lady."

Georgiana straightened in her chair, her eyes filled with a mixture of relief and worry. "I am glad you believe me, Fitzwilliam. But I still do not understand why you are asking me all this. What is going on?"

"I wish I knew. Something is not right, and I wish I could think it through clearly, but I am struggling. It… it has been a trial of late to recollect and make sense of my own thoughts. I cannot even trust my own memory right now."

Georgiana scoffed. "What could you mean by that? You probably remember everything that ever happened in your whole life, even something silly, like… oh, like the name of Mrs Reynolds' favourite laying hen."

Darcy's face blanched as he realised the truth. "I…" He swallowed. "I do not remember," he whispered, his voice filled with a deep sense of loss. "What is her name?"

Georgiana's face paled in horror as she realised that Darcy was not jesting. "Henrietta," she whispered, her voice trembling with fear. "Her name is Henrietta."

Darcy closed his eyes and cupped his face in his hands, the realisation crashing down on him like a tidal wave. He was losing his grip on reality, on his memories, on everything he had once been. The sickness was taking more from him than he had ever imagined. Where would it end ?

"There is something very wrong with me, Georgiana," he confessed, his voice barely audible. "I have been experiencing crippling megrims. The dizziness, the nausea… I have even experienced palsies, and… well, that explanation will suffice. The doctors do not know for sure what it is."

Georgiana's mouth dropped open, her eyes wide with fear. Her hands shook, and she reached out as if to steady herself. "How long before you recover, Fitzwilliam? You… you will recover, will you not?" The desperation in her voice matched the terror in her eyes, her fingers clutching the edge of the table as though it were the only thing keeping her grounded.

Darcy smiled tightly. "I do not know what will happen, Georgiana. But whatever happens, I want you to know that I am proud of you. You were right when I was wrong."

Georgiana's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, I care nothing for that! You must see another doctor, Fitzwilliam. You must!"

Darcy took a deep breath, trying to push through the pain and the fear. "I mean to see a specialist in Cambridge about my condition. He is the best in the country, and certainly, he will know what is to be done. All… all will be well. And I will write to you soon, I promise."