CHAPTER 52 #3
“That was the genius of the old accusation,” he said, very low. “It was not merely that I was accused of debt. It was that I was accused of the one weakness my father could least forgive. Wickham knew it. His father knew it better.”
Elizabeth understood then why the note had changed the air of the room. Not only because Wickham had money, but because he had removed a weakness he would never have dared show to the man who still protected his story.
“Then the money came from somewhere he trusted more than your father’s affection,” she said.
“Or from someone who had reason to hide the source as much as he did.”
That was the first new thought, and it was uglier.
Elizabeth looked down at Hartwood’s neat hand. “And Miss Darcy is in the house where you cannot reach her.”
Mr. Darcy’s jaw tightened.
“Darcy House is not unsafe by being Darcy House,” he said. “It has servants, order, reputation, walls enough to satisfy anyone who wishes to be satisfied.”
“But walls depend upon who commands the door.”
“Yes.”
“And you do not know who does.”
“No.”
Elizabeth looked toward the window. Outside, Portman Square was orderly, dark beyond the glass except where lamps marked the square. A carriage passed; a boy called somewhere near the corner; a servant’s steps crossed the hall beyond the library door.
This house had spent the last days proving what it could do with linen, luncheon, rooms, hooks, and ordinary comfort.
Now it might be asked to do something harder.
“Who is her companion?” Elizabeth asked.
“Mrs. Younge. She was Miss Fenwick before she married.”
“A relation of Mrs. Wickham?”
“A poorer relation, I believe. Mrs. Wickham recommended her.”
Elizabeth understood the difficulty at once. A stranger might have been questioned. A woman recommended through an old family obligation could be trusted before she was known.
“And your father would accept that?”
“Entirely. Mrs. Wickham was born Miss Fenwick. She has made a lifetime’s art of reminding my father what Lady Anne’s family is owed.”
“And do you know Mrs. Younge yourself?”
“No. I know only the recommendation.”
“Then we do not yet know whether she is sensible, obedient, vain, bribed, or merely blind.”
“Any of those may be enough.”
“Then we had better not learn the answer too late.”
His face tightened.
“You cannot call at Darcy House,” Elizabeth said.
Mr. Darcy looked down at the note.
“No.”
She hated the flatness of it.
“You have tried.”
“More than once.”
“And they refused you.”
“A refusal need not be spoken. A message from my father, a servant instructed not to know when Miss Darcy might be at home, a door opened only far enough to keep civility intact — there are many ways to exclude a man while preserving the politeness of a house.”
Elizabeth felt the force of it then: not merely estrangement, but exclusion made orderly.
“Then a brother cannot reach her by being a brother.”
“Not in Darcy House.”
The same city could improve a girl or expose her. The difference was not always affection. Sometimes it was access.
“How old is Miss Darcy now?” she asked.
“Nearly sixteen.”
Nearly sixteen. Young enough to require protection; old enough for flattery to call itself courtship. And after such distance from her brother, there was no knowing what she had been taught to believe.
Elizabeth looked down at Hartwood’s note again.
“Then Mr. Hartwood must learn what he can.”
“Hartwood cannot command Darcy House.”
“No. Nor can I.”
The admission cost her more than she liked.
“But Richard should know,” she said.
Mr. Darcy looked at her.
“Richard,” he repeated.
“He may call with Lady Matlock.”
“My aunt may not know there is cause.”
“Perhaps she need not be told all of it at once. Miss Darcy is in town. Lady Matlock may very naturally wish to see her. Richard need only remind her of it.”
Mr. Darcy was silent.
“A cousin escorting his mother to call upon Miss Darcy can hardly look extraordinary,” Elizabeth said. “They may ask after her music, see whether she is at ease, and invite her to some morning engagement. If all is well, no harm is done.”
“And if all is not well?”
“Then Richard will know what more to tell his mother.”
He looked again at the note. “I should write to her.”
“Perhaps. But not until we know whether a letter would reach her — or what she has been told to think of receiving one.”
His face tightened.
“You think she may have been taught to fear me.”
“I think we do not know what she has been told.”
He looked away.
“That is worse.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth softly. “But it is better to learn it gently than to make her feel surrounded.”
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Elizabeth drew a sheet of paper toward her.
“To Richard first,” she said. “Then Mr. Hartwood.”
Mr. Darcy stood beside her, still and pale, but no longer alone in the stillness.
Beyond the library door, Portman Square moved in its ordinary evening order: servants, lamps, fires, quiet steps. Elizabeth could not command Darcy House, and she could not know what had been placed between a brother and a sister.
But she could help him find the door most likely to open.