Some Particular Evil

Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

D arcy had spent the first two days after his escape in fear and confusion, reeling from the reality of his situation. While he had been able to calm the tumult in his mind somewhat since waking this morning, he still could not be easy. In the carriage ride to London, he had determined to lie as low as possible for several days before making any enquiries as to the validity of the warrant, just in case the thief-takers who had intended to kill him were scouring London for any sign of him. However, the inactivity was eating him alive, and he could not withstand another minute inside these four walls.

Darcy had always been comfortable being alone with his thoughts, but the pain and anger his meditations had wrought since his flight were too much to bear. He had not been used to brooking disappointment, and doing so while being trapped in this squalid inn amongst the lowest order of society only exacerbated his bilious frustration. Just days before, he had seen his future laid out before him as if set in stone—a life full of love and laughter and rousing banter with his Elizabeth. This unexpected, unwelcome shift had been jarring, and he was helpless to change any of it.

His dreams had been shattered, his very life was in danger, and he was as close to destitute as he had ever been. He found himself wholly at the mercy of others, and it was unsettling in the extreme.

Sarah the salty maid had only grown more antagonistic. The bed was not any more comfortable to sleep in or sit on than it had been when he arrived. The coffee was no fresher, no matter what time of the day he imbibed. And even having more of the comforts he was accustomed to, thanks to little Tom-Tom’s efforts, he still felt wholly out of place and overwhelmingly restless.

Darcy had had the boy procure him a full toilette, including a mirror, tooth powder, soap, and several real wax candles. He gazed at himself and ran his hand over the stubble that was covering his head and face. The beetroot bruises had faded and his standing bath this morning had nearly washed away what was left of them. He wondered if he ought to reapply the clever colouring, as it certainly made him look rougher than he ever had before. The gaunt hollows beneath his eyes and cheekbones were no disguise; they were genuine, the result of a lack of sleep and an abundance of anxious care.

Peering out the grimy window gave him no solace. Darcy had attempted to watch the people passing by and imagine what their stories were. All he saw at first were the misfits and urchins who made up the lowest rung of society milling about in a constant effort to ply their trades and drink away their troubles. He snarled as he watched the men stumble in and out of the bawdy-house across from him, wondering where they even got the coin to afford such lurid pastimes. His ire was heightened, however, when he saw a rather fine carriage draw near and drop a refined-looking gentleman before its doors.

Surely this must be one of these rich tradesmen he had heard about. They attempted to pass themselves off as proper gentry but could not fully escape their miserable roots. Surely no man of truly elevated birth would degrade himself with such women.

Such thoughts only left him more mawkish. He stepped away from the window and began to ready himself for a walk out of doors.

He would head out under the cover of darkness. He would walk the nearby streets and observe what was going on around him, then he would return to his room. Perhaps the exercise would help clear his mind, or at least align his thoughts in some definite direction. As it was, they were such a jumble of emotion and speculation and hurt and anger that he knew not which facet to focus on.

His first thought upon waking had been Georgiana. Would they tell her he was missing? Was she at risk because he was not to be found? Could any of this have to do with her? Should he contact her, send her immediately to Pemberley, or at least let her know how to get in touch with him? Or would that only put her in danger? How he wished he could confirm to her his safety, shelter her tender heart from worry for him. But how?

Too, his mind had not stopped concocting theories about who was responsible. He had settled on Wickham as the natural choice, though where the reprobate would find the funds for such an undertaking, Darcy could not say. He was a wily one, however, and even a terrible card player could have a winning hand occasionally. He relived their every interaction from their youth onward, down to the last period in the last sentence of the last letter he had sent the blackguard. What had Darcy done but try to help steer Wickham in the right direction, disabuse his father of his delusions, and protect his dear sister? Surely, he had done nothing to deserve such an extreme reaction.

Besides, had not Wickham punished him enough by plying his deceptions upon the woman Darcy loved?

Darcy meditated on his last moments with Elizabeth repeatedly. All that she had revealed to him.

She had never encouraged his suit—did not even understand he was courting her. She had certainly not been pining for him, patiently waiting for him to come to terms with the struggle between his heart and his head, everyday expecting an offer from him. And when he made his offer, freely admitting that none of the obstacles he had wrestled with could outweigh his affection or her worth, she had accused him of being condescending.

Of course I was condescending!

To offer for a woman of such low birth and mean connexions; that was how strong his affection was! How could she not see this?

He had written to her, informed her that he was safe, and hopefully given her a means to write him back, should she understand his covert message. But would she respond? Would the rest of the letter only heighten her exasperation, or would it help her to see him in a better light? If nothing else, he hoped it would illuminate to her Wickham’s true character. The very notion of his bright, witty Elizabeth being taken in by that rogue made his blood boil. Darcy pounded his fist against the table, causing the ewer to jump and clatter in its basin.

Yes, he must get out of this room. Now .

Having read and reread Mr Darcy’s letter and heard Colonel Fitzwilliam’s own words regarding Mr Wickham, Elizabeth was forced to admit that she must have been wrong about him. Certainly, the lieutenant had lied to her. Lied to everyone, she could now see. Had he not told her his tale of woe in the strictest confidence and claimed that he would never expose Mr Darcy publicly? Yet, after Mr Darcy’s departure from Meryton, Mr Wickham had done no less than broadcast his grievances to the whole village, casting Darcy in the role of villain while donning the mantle of a maltreated victim.

From what the two gentlemen had revealed to her, it was clear that the charming, well-mannered Mr Wickham was the blackest enemy, while Mr Darcy, as aloof and unpleasant as she once thought him, was the real injured party. Having her pride in her ability to sketch a man’s character thus demolished was a hit to her confidence. How had she so dreadfully misjudged each of them?

It was obvious now just how duplicitous Mr Wickham had been. Too charming by half. She had assumed the truth of his claims because he had given his statement without ceremony. His manufactured history was likely just rehearsed and retold so many times that it rolled off his tongue without effort. Besides, there was enough truth in the tale that the charlatan might have begun to believe it himself.

Had not Jane warned her to be more circumspect? She could still hear her sister’s gentle admonition, asking her if she should believe in Mr Wickham so implicitly, reminding her that she knew so little of him, and even informing her that Mr Bingley had heard ill of the man. Oh, why had she not listened?

What else had she been wrong about? When Mr Darcy had called her ‘tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt him’, Elizabeth had chosen to hold that heartless insult against him and allow it to taint every interaction between them. Yet, when he made his disastrous proposal, he had spoken of her beauty, her wit, and her intrinsic worth. Had he changed his mind about her, then? Perhaps his hurtful words that first evening had simply been meant to discourage Mr Bingley from throwing him at the local maidens and not as a personal remark on her looks.

He had said nothing during their many discussions that indicated he disliked her, only that he thought differently on certain matters than she did. And all those times she had noted him staring—could he have been gazing in admiration rather than searching for flaws? It must be so. He had certainly demonstrated that he found her more than tempting during their encounter in Rosings’s study.

She blushed to think how she had excoriated him in Hertfordshire and continued to do so in Kent, culminating with her unfounded accusations after his sincere declaration. He had been almost childlike in his confidence, as if there were no possible answer she could give but the affirmative. How deeply it must have cut him to hear her assert that he was the last man she would ever think to marry.

Yet, the proof of his innate goodness was there before her—for all her abusing him and casting him away, in his letter he expressed appreciation for her gracious assistance, accepted blame for the miscommunication between them, and astonishingly still wished to be friends.

Friends they would be. Would they have been more, had she been aware of the truth of matters earlier? She could not say, and she was not able to dwell on it now, for it was time to dress for dinner.