Page 41 of A Searing Acquaintance
I revealed nothing that night about another matter, but now, based onyour friendship with George Wickham, I need to tell you the full story. Please, the details are painful and private, and I tell them to you in confidence.
I told you my father drank too much. It started after the car accident that killed my mother and my sister, Georgiana. I stayed away at school, wishing to spend as little time as I could in that empty house, and he was alone and grieving. What he didn’t know was that my mother had been having an affair with Jerome Wickham, George’s father, for nearly a year.
Would it have alleviated my father’s loss to know she had strayed? To know she loved him less than he loved her? I don’t know. I couldn’t chance it.
Three years after the accident, Jerome Wickham died. George contacted me, threatening to enlighten my father about the affair. He claimed to have love letters exchanged between his father and my mother as well as incriminating photos. I saw one such letter; it was indeed her handwriting. I paid him $10,000 for the letters and the pictures, and I demanded the negatives. Not surprisingly, he held back some items and returned six months later, claiming to have found more. I consulted with our family solicitors. My father was ill, and when we discovered it was terminal, I wanted nothing more than to keep him safely away from Wickham’s spurious claims. He maintained that, if I wouldn’t pay him, the tabloids would. You must know about the British press—they live for scandals and dirty bits on famous people. My father’s family is well known there, and they are zealous about privacy. I wrote another check, and collected what Wickham claimed were the last pieces of evidence. Until that night at the gallery, I’d had no contact with him for more than five years.
I’ve done what I can to keep this information private, even from my own family. I do not wish my mother’s memory to be tarnished among those who loved her. Even Richard, my closest confidant, is unaware.
I don’t know the depth of your acquaintance with the man, but I beg you to be careful. This might sound arrogant, but Wickham now knows you know me, and for that reason alone, he might wish to hurt you and, by extension, me. He hates me and blames my mother for hisparents’ divorce and financial ruin. I don’t worry for my own well-being, but I would hate to see you harmed. His word cannot be trusted.
As to the other charge you made: if I’ve cautioned Charles to be careful in his relationship with Jane, it isn’t because I question your sister’s feelings or intentions. She is a thoughtful, kind person. In the years I’ve known Charles, he has flitted between girlfriends, some serious but mostly not. He is generous with his friends, and he has my implicit trust as the best friend a man could ask for. I’ve seen him hurt a few times—last summer left him especially burned. Honestly, since he met Jane, Charles is the happiest I’ve ever seen him. I’ve done little more than check in with him to ensure he isn’t putting his heart, or Jane’s, at risk in a rebound relationship. Now, after seeing them together for nearly six months, I see that your sister truly is, as he says, ‘the One.’ They are beautifully matched.
One more thing. I apologize if I was overbearing about my dog and her dietary habits. She’s elderly, and she means a lot to me. I know you thought her name silly, but she was my sister’s puppy, and she is my last living link to Georgie.
Be well, Elizabeth. I hope you find happiness. I apologize for insulting you. We will likely meet again through Jane and Charles, but I promise to respect your wishes and keep my distance.
Sincerely,
Fitzwilliam (not Ferdinand) Darcy
It took only an hour for Elizabeth to run out of tissues. She was stupid, impetuous, immature, and judgmental. She’d known everything and remembered nothing. She’d jumped to conclusions about two very different men and had thought George worthy of her time because he was charming and had access to people and information she needed. Although she’d seen no sign that he was using her in return, Darcy’s history with him frightened her. Her business with him was done, and she would move on.
But infinitely worse was that this smart, caring man with a terribly sad past had fallen in love with her and she had neglected to notice it.Or rather, she’d misinterpreted nearly everything he said and did, and even though he was a lot less smooth than she’d assumed a British-American mega-millionaire would be, she was far worse. She was stupid and narrow-minded. And alone, except for an empty box of tissues, a slice of leftover birthday cake, and some nearly dead wildflowers.
Oh, how fortunate he must feel to have escaped me.
CHAPTER NINE
The elevator doors opened slowly, prompting Richard Fitzwilliam to rise from the hallway bench, hold aloft a six-pack of Wolf Hollow Amber, and break into his most charming smile.
“Good afternoon, sir. I’d like to talk to you about the world’s greatest vacuum cleaner…”
“Seriously?” Darcy panted, catching his breath from an early evening run. “You’re lying in wait for me? On a Saturday?”
“I’m glad to find you at home. I haven’t seen you in weeks. Thought perhaps you’d run off to some exotic island with a pair of blondes.” Rich grinned at the dark expression elicited by his joke. Darcy scowled and keyed the entry code into his front door. Walking in, he headed straight for the kitchen with Rich hard on his heels. Darcy may not have wanted company, but his cousin was determined to get answers to his questions.
“Seriously, can’t a man come home from a run and not get ambushed by stupid jokes?” Darcy grabbed a paper towel and wiped his face. His T-shirt and running pants were damp from his five-mile run and the first drops of a late April rain.
“Hey, you didn’t return my call.” Rich set the beer on the counter. “I thought we were going to scatter Coco’s ashes today.”
Darcy’s eyes flickered over to the empty dog bed near the couch, and he winced.
“Sheep’s Meadow or the Ramble? Or England?” Rich looked away,unsure whether Darcy was ready to actually discuss the topic. When Darcy had called a few days before with the news of Coco’s fatal stroke, he hadn’t wanted to talk about it beyond providing the straightforward facts. Rich knew his cousin well enough to recognize that he was still processing the loss, and he could only do that alone.
“Um, half here, I think. Some at Pemberley, of course. And the rest over there with a stone.” Darcy cleared his throat. “It takes about a week to get the ashes from the vet. They use a cremation service. Perhaps in ten days or so we can take them over to the park.”
“Okay. You’re doing all right?” Rich peered closely at Darcy. He was still breathing heavily and drinking deeply from a water bottle.
Darcy nodded.
“You know, I loved her too. She was a sweet, sweet dog. She didn’t suffer.”
Darcy sighed. It sounded a little shaky.
Rich rubbed his beard. “Channeling it all by running a lot?”
“The world of psychoanalysis is lost without your insights,” Darcy said in a soft but sharp voice.
