Chapter Seven #3
They stood opposite each other, both breathing hard, both trembling—whether from cold or from anger, Darcy could not have said.
That loosened curl had worked free again and was blown across her cheek by the wind.
He found, absurdly, that he wanted to smooth it back, even as his pride smarted under her words.
It came to him, unwelcome and clear, that her good opinion mattered to him in the midst of fury.
The very woman he most wished to condemn was the one whose regard he could not bear to lose.
He turned and walked back into the house without another word.
I Could Not Repent
Elizabeth sat in her chamber, still shaking. Jane was beside her on the bed, silent, steady.
“You have gone pale,” Jane said at last. “Has anything particular occurred?”
“Mr. Darcy spoke to me of our meeting on the road,” Elizabeth answered. “He is angry that I lied to him when he was searching for Georgiana, and I claimed to have seen no one. He is exceedingly displeased.”
“Oh, Lizzy.”
“He has every right to be hurt. I owned myself sorry for the suffering my choice occasioned him, but I could not repent the choice itself. I cannot.”
Jane was quiet for a little while. “Then he will remain angry, I suppose.”
“I expect so.” Elizabeth drew a slow breath. “He said I knew nothing of his connexion with Georgiana, and that I presumed too much in judging him upon a few days’ acquaintance with her, when he has known her all his life. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps I did presume.”
“You acted from compassion for Georgiana,” Jane said.
“He does not see it so. He sees only that I deceived him whilst he was half beside himself, that I prolonged his misery needlessly.” Elizabeth rose and stepped to the window. Below, his carriage stood at the door.
“Then you must reconcile yourself to his resentment,” Jane said gently.
“I do,” Elizabeth replied. “Though I confess it troubles me more than I thought it would.”
She did not enlarge upon that uneasiness, nor examine too closely the strange moment in the garden when he had looked at her with such anguish that she had an unwelcome impulse to comfort him. That she kept to herself.
“Perhaps, in time, he will understand that you were trying to protect the person he loves best in the world,” Jane said.
Elizabeth looked again towards the drive, where Mr. Darcy’s carriage was now moving away. “I regret that I caused him pain. But I would make the same choice again.”
“Come,” Jane said, rising. “Georgiana will be wondering where we are. Whatever passes between you and Mr. Darcy, it need not touch our care of his sister.”
Elizabeth followed her from the room, grateful for the distraction of useful occupation. There would be time enough, later, to consider what had passed between herself and Mr. Darcy—and what it might mean for the days to come.
Setting the Snare
Darcy House was quiet when Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived. The servants had orders to admit him at any hour, and it was well past midnight when he appeared in the library, still in his greatcoat.
Darcy rose from his desk, where an open ledger lay untouched. His mind would not settle to figures.
“Will you take some brandy?” he asked.
“I should be glad of it.” Richard stripped off his gloves and took the chair opposite. “You look as if you have not slept.”
“I feel considerably worse than I appear, I assure you.” Darcy poured two measures and handed one across. He hesitated, then drew a folded sheet from his pocket. “This came to-day. It is from him.”
Richard’s expression hardened. “From Wickham?”
Richard’s expression hardened as he took the folded sheet. He read it through once, his mouth thinning, then laid it on the table between them.
“You see the tone,” Darcy said. “He speaks of ‘a transaction respecting a young lady under my protection,’ of sparing the feelings of families of consequence, and expects to be paid to hold his tongue.
“Five hundred pounds.” Darcy’s mouth curled. “He calls it a trifling sacrifice compared with the preservation of a young lady’s name.”
Richard laid the letter on the table between them. “He overreaches himself, as usual. But this tells us several useful things. He is alive. He is in, or near, London. And he believes you will buy his silence.”
“He will have nothing from me,” Darcy said. “Not one penny.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Richard replied. “Payment would only encourage him to try again. What we must do is turn his demand to our own advantage.”
Darcy looked at him sharply. “How?”
“Consider the manner in which he wishes to be paid,” Richard said, tapping the page. “An order on your banker, to be left at the post office till called for. That requires him to show himself there, or to entrust some agent with collecting it. Either way, we have a point of contact.”
“You would have the letter prepared, and then—what? Station some one there to watch for him?”
“Precisely. We answer him with apparent compliance—enough to keep him hopeful. We send the order as he directs. Then we observe who comes to claim it. If it is Wickham, we follow him back to his lodgings. If it is some creature of his, we follow him.”
Darcy’s grasped his glass. “In the mean time you mean to be searching his old haunts.”
“I have already begun,” Richard said. “So far, he has not been seen at the gaming-houses or coffee-rooms he favours. That, in itself, is telling. A man like Wickham does not vanish unless he is afraid. It suggests he is hiding under some woman’s protection, or in lodgings where he is known only by an assumed name. ”
“Mrs. Younge,” Darcy said at once. “She has every reason to harbour him.”
“She is my first guess also,” Richard agreed.
“If she is concealing him, he will be beyond our immediate reach until we can discover her lodging. Fortunately, women in her position do not simply disappear. Companions, governesses, upper servants—they move through particular agencies and circles. Someone will know where she has gone.”
“And you believe you can discover it?”
“In time, yes. I have contacts who can make discreet enquiries amongst placing agents and former employers, without your name ever being mentioned.” Richard took up the letter again. “Between this and Mrs. Younge, we have two avenues. One will lead us to him.”
Darcy turned away, walking to the dark window. “All the while he is at liberty, he is a danger to Georgiana.”
“Less than you suppose,” Richard said quietly. “This letter shows his thinking. He wishes to profit by her, not to ruin her outright. He threatens scandal only as a means of obtaining money.”
“Which makes him more contemptible, not less.”
“It makes him more predictable,” Richard corrected. “We can use that. We set the snare at the post office, we trace his messenger or himself, and when we have his direction, we judge how best to secure his silence.”
Darcy faced him again. “What do you propose when you find him?”
“That will depend upon the circumstances,” Richard said. “For the present, it is enough that he understand this: any attempt to make a claim upon Georgiana, any whisper of this affair to any living soul, will be answered with prosecution for fraud and whatever other charges can be sustained.”
“He will laugh at threats on paper.”
“On paper, yes. Not so easily in person, when he is confronted with the particulars we already know, and with the prospect of seeing his own name dragged through the courts.” Richard’s gaze was steady.
“And if he proves obstinate, if he insists upon remaining in England and trading on what he knows, then we consider forcing the issue, scandal or no. But that is the last resort.”
Darcy was silent a moment, anger and prudence at open war within him.
“For the present,” Richard said, “you go back to Hertfordshire. You see to Georgiana’s comfort. You lease Netherfield, settle the household, engage a companion. You give everyone the impression of a careful brother arranging his sister’s convalescence. Leave the hunting of Wickham to me.”
“It should be my task,” Darcy said.
“It should be our task,” Richard answered. “But only one of us can be spared from Georgiana, and it is not you. She must see you calm, occupied, intent upon her future—not raging after vengeance in London.”
Darcy gripped the back of his chair, then relaxed. “Very well. I return to Netherfield as soon as the companion is engaged. You will set the watch at the post office?”
“I shall,” Richard said. “I shall, at the same time, put other enquiries abroad. If Mrs. Younge is in Town, I mean to find her within the week. Between her and this letter, we shall have Wickham out of his hole sooner or later.”
They fell silent, the fire crackling in the grate the only sound.
“When Georgiana is ready,” Darcy said at last, his voice roughened, “she will tell me all that passed. Until then, I am obliged to act half blind.”
“Then let us at least ensure that when she does speak, he is already in our power,” Richard replied. “So that whatever she has to tell, she may speak it knowing he can do her no further harm.”
Darcy inclined his head.
“Very well,” Richard said, rising. “I will send word to Netherfield the moment there is anything worth reporting. Until then, you must play the dutiful country neighbour and the anxious, but reasonable, brother.”
After his cousin had gone, Darcy remained in the library, staring into the fire. The letter on the table seemed to pulse with all its implied threats and insolence. Somewhere in London, Wickham was waiting for his answer, imagining that money would again purchase his escape.
He would have his answer soon enough. And when Georgiana at last found strength to tell her story, Darcy intended that Wickham should already be found—and made incapable of ever using that story against her.
Serious Things
They had been but few days together at Longbourn when Mary began to perceive that Miss Darcy’s silence did not proceed from want of thought.