Unforgiving Temper (41 page)

Elizabeth spoke up, eager to fill the awkward
silence left by the tongue-tied Rebecca even though
Lord Grissholm did not seem to notice.

“Your lordship, may I enquire about
your
morning? It was pleasant, I hope?”

“Yes, it was. Thank you for asking,”
Grissholm replied lightly. “And now I shall leave you two to your
handiwork. I must attend to some pressing business in my study, but
I would be happy to accompany you ladies later this afternoon. If I
understood Rebecca correctly last evening, I believe you will be
making a trip to Madam Devereaux's today?”

Elizabeth was disappointed that his reply
held nothing to satisfy her burning curiosity regarding the meeting
with George Wickham. She gave him a deliberate, inquisitive look,
but he only returned it with a steady, hooded expression. It seemed
she would have to wait until he was ready to divulge any news
regarding Lydia's letters.

Still, she could not ignore the anticipation
that glimmered in Rebecca's pleading eyes and so, with a stifled
sigh, she acquiesced to the excursion.
One of us might as well
enjoy the afternoon,
she thought before answering the viscount.
“Yes, my lord, we were discussing that very thing just before you
arrived. We shall be happy for the company.”

“Very good, then. I look forward to it.”
Grissholm gave her a broad smile and offered a small bow. As he
left the room, he paused in the doorway but did not turn when he
spoke once more. “And Miss Bennet, would you please come to my
study in an hour. I have a small matter of business I wish to
discuss.”

* * * *

Squeezing her hands together to steady
herself, Elizabeth took a deep breath and then knocked lightly on
the door to Lord Grissholm's study and waited, casting a quick
sidelong glance to the footman standing nearby. At
Lord Grissholm's clear, deep command, she stepped into the
mahogany-paneled study not knowing what to expect.

While thoughts of Rebecca's recent
matrimonial speculations knotted her stomach with apprehension, her
real hopes were for an end to the now excruciating separation from
her family. Lord Grissholm continued to assure her that her
father's condition was stable, and even improving rapidly under the
diligent care of his personal physician, but Elizabeth wanted
desperately to see him for herself. To be so close yet obliged to
wait for the necessary arrangements only added to her
frustration.

“Miss Bennet. Very punctual, I see.
Please come in.”

“Lord Grissholm, what is it you wish to
discuss?”

“And very direct, too. I like that.”

“Please, sir, I beg you, do not trifle with
me.”

“Very well, I will tell you my meeting with
Mr. Wickham was very productive.”

“What did he say? Has he agreed to give you
the letters?”

“He had quite a lot to say, actually, but I
shall spare you the embarrassment of repeating any of it.
Unfortunately, we have not come to an agreement on the letters as
yet.”

“Oh.”

Elizabeth looked at the dark, imposing man
sitting behind the massive desk. If she could have found another
way to retrieve Lydia's letters without involving him, she would
have done so; but Wickham had been thorough in his scheme and the
only means of escaping her hopeless circumstance was to accept
Lord Grissholm's generous offer of assistance. At least he was
an honorable man who had shown great concern and sensitivity; a man
she could trust. She sighed.

“What is to be done then?”

Before answering, Grissholm guided her to a
large, overstuffed chair well away from his desk. “Please sit down,
Miss Bennet. The first thing that must be done is to determine
the authenticity of the letters he has in his possession. I have
one of them with me. Will you look at it?”

Elizabeth gingerly took the folded piece of
foolscap and opened it. She could not prevent the warm rush of
color brought on by her sister's appalling words. “Yes, this is
Lydia's hand.”

“You are sure? And these words are hers?”

“You read it!?” Elizabeth gasped, realizing
that once again Lydia had exposed her family to censure and
ridicule.

“Of course I did. I had to be sure of what I
was getting. Do not be alarmed, Miss Bennet. I have seen much
worse. Young girls have a tendency to forget themselves when it
comes to a handsome face.”

“Not all of us, I assure you,” she
murmured.

“Nevertheless, I ask you once again to be
certain it is her letter.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth sighed, “this is my sister
Lydia's letter. I am positive.”

“Good,” he announced, taking the letter back.
“Now that we are certain, I can move forward in the
negotiations.”

“How long will it take? To retrieve all the
letters?”

“That is difficult to say. Mr. Wickham
is a very careful man who trusts no one. I fear dealing with him
will require some delicacy – and a little more time.”

Clearly disappointed, Elizabeth slumped
against the back of her chair. “I could have told you this would be
difficult. Mr. Wickham is very good at what he does.”

“He is not the only one,” Grissholm replied
with grim conviction. “I promise you I shall have him by and by. It
will just require a little more time than we planned. Can you be
patient a little longer?”

“I suppose I shall have to be. Is there
nothing I can do?”

“No, not at present. Now that you have
verified this letter, I meet Wickham in two days' time to discuss
the terms. Unfortunately, he must return to his regiment, which
will delay the final settlement. He insists on doing our business
in London and will have to arrange another leave to bring the rest
of the letters. It is uncertain when that will be.”

Elizabeth sat staring at the flames dancing
in the hearth, her thoughts drifting across the miles to Longbourn
and her family.
What must they be going through while I am
forced to sit here doing nothing!
The mixture of disappointment
and frustration showed plainly in her face.

“I know you are anxious to return to your
family, Miss Bennet, and I am resolved to settle this as soon
as possible. As for your father, if there is any change at all, you
shall know immediately.”

“Thank you, my lord. I know that you are
doing all you can. You have certainly done more than I ever
intended you should. It is just that I feel as though I shall never
see my family again.”

Grissholm sat down beside her, gently taking
up her hand as he spoke. “You shall be in Hertfordshire before you
know it. Trust me! And, until then, I shall do my best to keep your
mind happily occupied. Starting with that visit to Madam
Devereaux's. You shall have the best Indian shawl in her shop!”

He was pleased to see a tiny smile cross her
lips. “For Rebecca's sake, I shall go; but you must not buy
anything for me. I have enough already, really.”

“Ah, but I insist. I have it on very good
authority that a woman can never have enough of such things! Go
ready yourself and tell Rebecca to do likewise. We shall leave in
half an hour.”

Without giving Elizabeth a chance to protest,
he pulled her up from the chair and swept her out the door and into
the hallway. He watched her take a tentative step forward, then
turn back with a challenging lift of her chin; but he only smiled
resolutely and gave a slight bow as he slowly closed the door.

Hearing the sound of Elizabeth's retreating
footsteps after what he knew was a few minutes of deliberation on
her part, Grissholm allowed a small smile to play at his lips.
Their meeting had gone even better than he expected.

Returning to his desk with renewed
enthusiasm, he sat down and promptly withdrew a thick packet from a
side drawer. Unfolding the outer sheet of paper, he looked briefly
at the stack of letters it contained before placing the letter
Elizabeth had identified as Lydia's on top. Shaking his head at the
ridiculously large number of letters the girl had written to
Wickham, he re-wrapped them all together and tied the package with
a length of string, then dropped them back into the drawer.

“Too bad Elizabeth is not as easily persuaded
as Wickham,” he mused quietly to himself, “but she will be swayed
in time. When she has waited long enough, I daresay she will do
almost anything to return to her dear sick papa.”

* * * *

Hours after her interview with the viscount,
Elizabeth sat at her dressing table absently brushing her hair in
long slow strokes. She was barely aware of Molly moving about the
room, setting things in order for the evening. Her mind was on
Rebecca's earlier teasing comments and the subsequent shopping trip
with Lord Grissholm. The recollection sent a tiny shock of
astonishment through her as she considered the viscount's
ever-growing interest. His frequent attentions went far beyond any
responsibilities associated with her position. If she had had any
doubts of their meaning before, his keen interest and intimate
advice on the shawl she had reluctantly picked out at Madame
Devereaux's was more than enough to convince her. Rebecca was
right; a declaration would not be far off. Elizabeth was at a
complete loss as to how she managed to once again arouse a passion
without the slightest intention of doing so.

She sighed at the memory of having once told
Jane she would only marry for the deepest kind of love.
Lord Grissholm was rich and handsome enough. It was certainly
a match her mother would approve of. He was attentive and often
generous to a fault. Did she love him? Not exactly, but she admired
and esteemed him, and perhaps that would be enough for now. They
had a good beginning and the kind of love she desired could easily
come with time. Marriage to the viscount would shield her family
from Lydia’s foolishness, and would be an added protection in the
event of any future decline in her father's health. Although her
heart remained reluctant, the more sensible part of her reasoned
that to be married to such a man would be advantageous in many
ways.

Such a man,
she mused.
I barely
know him, really. Not even as well as I knew Mr. Darcy – or at
least thought I did.
Her mind returned to the tea shop they had
visited after their shopping trip and the abandoned newspaper she
had seen lying on the table next to theirs. Skimming the headings
as she listened to Lord Grissholm order their tea and cake,
her only intent had been to see what was happening in town, but for
some reason her curiosity was stirred by a small article near the
bottom of the page. Even now, she could see the words staring up at
her, and again felt the strangely poignant sensations they had
stirred within her:

MAGADALENE HOUSE BLESSED

The annual accounting of the well-known
charitable house committed to the reformation of penitent young
women reported having received several generous donations during
the past fiscal year. Most notable among its benefactors were Lady
Montague-Smyth of Lincolnshire, Sir Henry Steeple of London;
Mr.
Fitzwilliam Darcy of Derbyshire
…

Did his sister's brush with disaster prompt
him to help others that were not so fortunate? Mr. Darcy's
letter of last spring had shown him to be a very private man who
valued principle and integrity, yet here was an act that was
altogether foreign to what she knew of him. He obviously had many
more virtues than she could have ever imagined at their first
meeting. Virtues that included compassion, perhaps? Elizabeth
stared into the mirror, wondering – what else was hidden behind
that stern, dispassionate countenance?

Her attention was drawn to the maid's
reflection in the mirror as the girl finished turning down the
sheets on the bed.

“Molly, did you not once tell me you come
from Derbyshire?” Her sudden query sounded much louder than she
intended, startling the girl.

“Yes, Miss. I grew up in Lambton. My parents
have an inn there. The Red Lion, it is; and a very fine
establishment, if I do say so.”

“Have you ever heard of a place called
Pemberley?”

“Oh, yes! It is a very grand estate, not five
miles from Lambton.”

“Is that so?” Elizabeth smiled. The answer
only fed her mounting interest. “And do you know anything of the
family?”

“They have always been a good sort of people,
as far as rich people go.” Molly replied candidly; then realized
the answer bordered on impertinence and hurried on. “None of them
ever done an unkind thing to any of us in the village; except if
you count the steward's son who Old Mr. Darcy treated like his
own. One summer the lad came home from university and started to
brawlin' in the Red Lion. He tried to say t'was one of the village
boys that started it, but young Mr. Darcy made it right. He
paid all the damages and compensated my family handsomely.”

“He did, did he?”

“That's the sort of man he is, Miss. We were
all grieved terrible for the new master when his father died so
sudden-like. My brother Nathaniel is in service at Pemberley and
told us all about it.”

Elizabeth heard the genuine regret in the
girl's voice. “He must have been a great man to deserve such
esteem.”

“He was that, I can tell you true.”

“What a sad thing to lose him so suddenly.”
Elizabeth thought of her own father's precarious condition.

“T'was very sad indeed; especially for the
young miss. First her mother, and then her father. My brother said
t'was two months or more before the new master would even leave her
alone for more than a few minutes at a time.”

“He sounds like a very good brother,”
Elizabeth mused, preoccupied with the picture of Mr. Darcy
Molly was painting.

“A very good brother and a very good master.
I can remember a time when my best friend, Annie, fell sick. Her
father has a tenancy on Pemberley. She was so sick I thought she
might die, but Mr. Darcy sent the apothecary round to tend her
– even when he knew her father couldn't pay. He paid for it
himself. Said his tenants' families were an important part of the
estate, he did.”