Pride and Proposals

Lost in her reverie, she was startled when the carriage jerked to a stop. When Carter, the footman, opened the carriage door, she gave him a puzzled glance. “Hello

Carter, why have we stopped? Is there a problem on the road?”

He grinned. “No, ma’am. We’re at the Matlock chapel.” He positioned the steps and held out his hand so she could descend.

Elizabeth gratefully straightened up after the confined quarters of the carriage and glanced around. It was indeed the grounds of the Matlock churchyard—less green, but otherwise just as she remembered them on the sweltering June day when they had laid Richard to rest. “I cannot believe we are here already! You made very good time, Weston,” she said to the groom who was hitching the horses to a nearby fence.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Weston smiled, then turned away shyly.

In June, the graveyard had been shaded with weeping willows and birch trees and carpeted with thick grasses. But this time of year, the trees were bare of leaves, and most of the grass was a dull brown. Nonetheless, she heard a cheerful birdsong in the distance, and the sun shone brightly. The graveyard held the kind of peaceful quality often found in such places.

It was a lovely spot for Richard’s final resting place. Blinking back incipient tears, she murmured to Carter, “I would like to visit the colonel’s grave alone.”

Carter frowned, scanning the deserted churchyard. “Very well, ma’am. Weston and me will take the horses to that stream to water ‘em. But we’ll be back in a trice. You won’t want to stay out long in this cold.”

Elizabeth nodded. The sun had warmed the air, and the temperature was mild for January but still chilly. She drew her cloak about her as she climbed the hill toward the Fitzwilliam family gravestones. The small hill on the east side of the churchyard was home to a mausoleum and several grand effigies of prominent members of the Fitzwilliam family, but Richard’s grave marker was a plain gray marble with his name and the years of his birth and death. He had expressed a desire to avoid anything too ostentatious. However, the grave’s simplicity set it apart from the far more ornate markers surrounding it.

Grass had grown around the grave, but Elizabeth could still see the outline where the earth had been disturbed. There was a rather flat gray rock next to the grave, and Elizabeth sat on it, not caring about the state of her skirts. Gathering her cloak about her, she set her reticule down and leaned forward to better view Richard’s gravestone.

The letters carved in the marble grew blurry and wavy, frustrating her desire for a clear view. Tears fell freely down her cheeks.

Sometimes, she had difficulty not being angry at this vexing situation. Loving Richard had been simple; he had been her best friend. Why did he have to be taken from her and leave her with these complicated questions about Mr. Darcy?

She tried to guess what Richard would say about this situation, but her imagination failed her. It was impossible to envision confessing feelings for someone else. But what if she spoke to him not as a fiancé, but as a friend? As she would speak to Jane?

She sent up a silent plea to the heavens. Richard, I might be falling in love with your cousin. I am so sorry. I did not mean for it to happen. What should I do?

A divine message would be welcome at this moment. Perhaps a bolt of lightning or an angel would appear to give her a sign. She would have settled for a dove. Or a sparrow. But nothing happened.

She imagined a Richard who had never loved her romantically, who had only ever seen her as a friend. How would he have felt if she loved his cousin?

Well, of course, he would be overjoyed. If he believed Elizabeth would be a good match for Mr. Darcy. Richard had loved his cousin.

Would Richard have seen me as a good match for Mr. Darcy?

In an instant everything became clear to Elizabeth. Richard had wanted the best for her—he would want her to be happy. She might believe she was betraying Richard, but he would never have felt that way. In fact, he had expressed concern over his cousin’s isolation and wished he would find a woman to love. What if Elizabeth could be that woman?

She blinked the tears from her eyes, and the engraved letters and numbers grew clearer. Then just for a moment, the entire gravestone seemed to glow with a soft white light. Elizabeth gasped. Richard had given her the guidance she sought—without an angel or a burning bush. She blinked again, and the gravestone looked utterly ordinary in the bright wintry light. Did I see anything at all?

Elizabeth stood and stepped toward the gravestone, needing to feel it under her fingers. Removing her glove, she laid her naked hand on the top of the smooth marble. It should have been cold, but it felt warm to her touch.

“Thank you, Richard, dearest one. Even now you continue to give me gifts.” A tear rolled down her cheek, but she was no longer overwhelmed by grief. Instead, she felt a tiny seed of hope beginning to grow. She straightened and smiled.

Now she was ready to return to London and face William again. As she tugged on her glove, she dabbed her face with her handkerchief, hoping her red-rimmed eyes would not alarm Weston and Carter. Elizabeth turned away from the grave, wondering if they had finished watering the horses.

There was a tall figure blocking her way, silhouetted by the sun. For a moment, her heart leapt in the hopes Mr. Darcy had met her. But when her eyes adjusted to the sunlight, Elizabeth gasped. It was Wickham!

Chapter 17

“Hello, Sister,” Wickham sneered. “I thought this might be a good day for a family reunion.”

Elizabeth could not imagine Wickham’s presence was an accident. Somehow, he must have learned she would be here—alone.

Swallowing hard, Elizabeth nodded a curt greeting. “Mr. Wickham, what a coincidence.” She tried to brush past him. “If you will excuse me, I must—”

“I am afraid I will not excuse you, Lizzy.” Wickham’s hand shot out and grabbed her upper arm like a vise.

She attempted to pull away, but he only tightened his already bruising hold on her arm. Taking advantage of his superior strength, Wickham yanked her toward him and whispered in her ear. “Someone has been telling stories about me to Darcy. He’s got Bow Street Runners looking for me and stirring up trouble with the London merchants. Suddenly, my word is no good, and no one wants to give me credit. And everyone believes me one step from the gallows!”