Chapter 31 #2
Darcy nodded, emotion tightening his mouth. “Tell her it is not over, but there is hope.”
Elizabeth smiled at him.
Hope.
It was too small a word for what she felt as she gathered up the truth they had found in that one misplaced letter.
Wickham had arrived at Netherfield smiling over his forged paper and stolen confidence.
Tomorrow, he would be made to look upon what carelessness, arrogance, and one clever woman’s eye had brought down upon him.
And Elizabeth intended very much to be present when he did.
∞∞∞
Darcy did not sleep well the night before Wickham’s appointed return.
He had slept better than on the first night, certainly.
There was comfort in knowledge, and Elizabeth’s discovery had given them the first firm ground upon which to stand since Wickham had appeared in Bingley’s drawing room.
Yet knowledge was not victory until it was used, and Darcy knew George Wickham too well to believe a single exposed error would make him surrender with grace.
By the time Wickham arrived, every arrangement had been made.
Sir William Lucas had come to Netherfield the previous afternoon, not in his usual expansive spirits, but with all the consequence of his office and a seriousness that did him credit.
He had examined the disputed paper, listened to Mr. Philips’s explanation, and agreed that an inquiry was necessary.
A charge of forgery, particularly one made in connection with a contract of marriage, could not be ignored.
Darcy had not wanted Georgiana present, and he told her so shortly before Elizabeth left to return to Longbourn for the night.
On that point alone, however, his sister had resisted him.
“I must be there,” she had said, pale but composed, with Elizabeth seated beside her and holding her hand. “He came before me to make his claim. I wish to be present when it is answered.”
Darcy had nearly refused. Then Elizabeth had looked at him—not pleading, not commanding, but reminding—and he had understood. If they hid Georgiana away entirely, Wickham would remain a terror from the shadows. If she saw him defeated, then perhaps the wound he had inflicted might begin to close.
So, Georgiana sat now in Bingley’s study beside Elizabeth, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Elizabeth was calm, though Darcy knew her well enough to see the force beneath it.
Richard stood near the mantel, all lazy soldierly ease to the untrained eye and coiled readiness to anyone who knew him.
Mr. Philips sat at the desk with the papers arranged in precise order.
Sir William occupied the chair opposite, sober and official.
Darcy stood behind Georgiana’s chair, close enough that she could know he was there without feeling guarded like a prisoner.
The clock struck the hour.
A few minutes later, the sound of footsteps came in the hall.
Wickham entered as if he had been expected at a card party.
He sauntered in with his usual careless elegance, hat beneath his arm, smile ready, eyes moving at once to Georgiana. She stiffened, but she did not look away. Elizabeth’s hand moved silently over hers.
“Well,” Wickham said, glancing around the room, “what a solemn assembly. Have we gathered witnesses for the happy agreement?”
“No,” Darcy said coldly. “Sir William is here to inquire into the validity of the marriage agreement you presented, as there is strong reason to suspect it is a forgery.”
Wickham’s smile faltered.
Only for an instant.
Then he laughed. “A forgery? Come, Darcy. You always did dislike when your father favored me, but even you must see this is a desperate charge.”
“I see many desperate things in this room,” Darcy said. “The charge is not one of them.”
Sir William cleared his throat. “Mr. Wickham, you will understand that a document of such consequence, when challenged by the lady’s guardian and family, must be examined.”
“By all means.” Wickham spread one hand, though the motion lacked some of its earlier grace. “Examine whatever you wish. I have nothing to fear from truth.”
Richard made a sound too quiet to be called a laugh.
Darcy stepped forward and took the disputed paper from the desk. He did not hand it to Wickham. He merely looked at the signature, then at the man who had tormented his childhood, flattered his father, squandered every advantage, and finally tried to claim Georgiana as payment for his own failures.
“Do you remember, Wickham, when we learned our letters?”
Wickham blinked. “What?”
“Our letters. In the nursery, before Eton, before tutors had the sense to despair of you. You never could get some of them quite right. Lowercase b, p, q, and g were particular enemies of yours. They all seemed to turn themselves about on the page.”
Color rose in Wickham’s face. “What the devil has that to do with anything?”
“It made reading difficult for you,” Darcy continued. “And you never had much taste for anything difficult.”
Wickham’s eyes flashed. “If you mean to insult me—”
“I mean to ask you a question.”
“Then ask it.”
Darcy held the paper lightly between both hands. “What was my father’s full name?”
Wickham looked almost relieved. “George Rupert Darcy.”
Darcy smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile. He felt no pleasure in it, only the cold satisfaction of a door closing at last.
“No.”
Wickham’s face changed.
“Almost everyone believed that,” Darcy said.
“The mistake was common enough. But my father’s middle name was Rubert.
With a b. It was an old family spelling, peculiar and inconvenient, but he was particular about it.
He signed it so on his will, his codicils, his letters, and every legal instrument we have obtained from his solicitor’s office. ”
Mr. Philips quietly laid the copies out in order: George Rubert Darcy. George Rubert Darcy. George Rubert Darcy.
Then, last, Wickham’s agreement.
George Rupert Darcy.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Darcy looked directly at Wickham. “My father might have done many wicked, selfish, foolish things. I am sorry to say that I could not, at first, dismiss the possibility that he had done this one. But he would have known how to spell his own name when signing away his daughter’s future.”
Wickham’s complexion had gone gray.
“The letter upon your paper,” Darcy continued, “is either a p made by someone who believed his name to be Rupert, or an inverted b made by someone whose hand betrayed him. Either way, it proves the same thing. My father did not sign it.”
Wickham’s mouth opened, then closed. His gaze darted to the papers, to Sir William, to Richard, then to Georgiana. He looked for weakness and found none. Georgiana was trembling, but she sat upright, her face white and resolute, Elizabeth’s hand firm around hers.
“This is absurd,” Wickham said hoarsely. “A spelling mistake cannot—”
“An unusual name misspelled in a signature is not a mere spelling mistake,” Mr. Philips said. “Not when every verified signature tells against it.”
Sir William’s expression had grown grave. “Mr. Wickham, do you maintain that this document is genuine?”
Wickham swallowed.
Darcy watched the calculation move across his face. Lies lined up and failed. Outrage failed. Charm failed. There was nowhere left for him to stand.
“I was owed,” Wickham said.
Georgiana flinched.
Darcy’s hands tightened at his sides.
“I was owed,” Wickham repeated, louder now, as if volume could make grievance into justice. “He promised me everything. He said I was as dear to him as a son. He said I should not be left dependent upon your pride and coldness. He meant for me to have a place in the family.”
“So you forged his name to steal my sister,” Darcy said.
Wickham’s eyes glittered with panic and fury. “You would not have given me what was mine.”