CHAPTER 32 #3
She did not know his countenance, his voice, his manner, or the precise nature of his claim upon Mr. Darcy’s history.
She knew only what had been said: that he was connected with Mr. Darcy’s family; that he knew enough of Derbyshire, old obligations, and household names to make falsehood appear almost domestic if he chose; that he bore Mr. Darcy enmity; and that truth, in his possession, required examination before it was allowed indoors.
These were serious matters.
They were not, however, the whole of her anger.
Mr. Darcy had come to her the morning after a dinner in which he had been received as a friend, and had spoken that name as if it were a thing he would rather have kept from every room she inhabited.
He had asked no obedience of her. He had not demanded belief, pity, secrecy, or trust without evidence.
He had only trusted her judgment, exceeded for one unguarded instant the command he usually kept over himself, and left her with a warning she could still feel beneath the surface of her skin.
Be careful.
Elizabeth closed her fingers over the glove.
Mr. Wickham might be one of the reasons Mr. Darcy was so careful with her.
The thought displeased her exceedingly.
It was one thing for Mr. Darcy to govern himself from honour. Honour, though provoking, had at least the merit of being respectable. It was quite another for Mr. Wickham, by existing, to lend honour a sharper excuse.
Elizabeth had not, she told herself, spent weeks finding reasons for Mr. Darcy to enter Portman Square—work, advice, dinner, friendship, all very proper in their several ways—merely so that some man with old claims and convenient injuries might make retreat appear noble.
Mr. Darcy might choose restraint, if he must. Elizabeth would not admire the choice, but she could respect the principle.
Mr. Wickham had no right to assist it.
Elizabeth had not met Mr. Wickham.
Nevertheless, he had become an obstacle.
And obstacles, in Elizabeth’s experience, were best understood before one decided whether they must be avoided, outwaited, or removed.
This was not, of course, a conclusion to be acted upon with any vulgar enthusiasm.
Elizabeth did not intend to pursue Mr. Wickham about London with a lantern and a list of accusations.
Nor did she mean to make Mr. Darcy’s confidence into drawing-room currency, even with Jane.
There were matters one might tell a sister, and matters one kept until telling became either necessary or kind.
But ignorance was not discretion.
She crossed to the writing table.
The first sheet she took up seemed too large for the business; the second too ceremonial. She selected a smaller paper, trimmed for practical notes, and dipped her pen.
For several moments she did not write.
It was tempting to ask too much. It was more tempting to ask in such a way that no one could answer.
Mr. Hartwood had a talent for receiving imprecise anxieties and returning them as legal inconvenience.
She must therefore be precise enough to be useful and guarded enough not to betray what was not wholly hers.
At last she wrote:
Dear Mr. Hartwood,
I should be obliged if you would ascertain, with discretion, what may be known in town of a Mr. George Wickham, connected, I believe, with Derbyshire and with the family or household of Mr. Darcy.
I do not require rumour, but any facts which may safely be known: his present direction, known associates, any debts or proceedings that may be ascertained without impropriety, and whether his name has lately appeared in any matter where prudence may be required.
Pray let this be done quietly, and without communication to Mr. Darcy unless necessity requires it.
Yours sincerely, E. Bennet
She read it once.
“Unless necessity requires it” was, she decided, fair. Mr. Darcy’s dignity was not to be protected at the expense of his safety, nor her own. But she would not go behind his back merely to indulge curiosity. She wanted preparation, not gossip.
She sanded the note, folded it, and sealed it before she could improve it into cowardice.
Mrs. Doddridge had not moved, though Elizabeth suspected she had observed every stage of the operation with the same appearance of having observed none of it.
“For Mr. Hartwood,” Elizabeth said when the servant came. “Directly, if he is in chambers; otherwise to his clerk, with my request that it be placed before him today.”
“Yes, miss.”
The note went out.
Elizabeth returned to the fire and found Lord Pomington awake, watchful, and apparently restored to an opinion of the world that required no translation.
“You need not look so severe,” she said. “I am being careful.”
Lord Pomington blinked.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, looking toward the closed door. “I am aware that is not the same thing as being wise.”
Outside, a carriage passed over the stones of the square. Inside, Portman Square resumed its excellent order, which had survived dinners, warnings, newly married visitors, opera invitations, and at least one gentleman’s failure of restraint.
Mr. Darcy had asked her to be careful.
Very well.
She would begin by learning what sort of obstacle he was.