Chapter 18
KITTY REPEATED WICKHAM’S account of Darcy at breakfast. She meant only to tell Lydia that Mr. Wickham had called Darcy proud, which surprised no one at the table. Their mother agreed before Kitty finished the sentence, Mary glanced down at her book, and Elizabeth reached for the coffee.
Then Kitty added, “He thinks Mr. Darcy judged Lizzy before he knew anything about her.”
Elizabeth set down the pot, and Jane looked across the table. “What did he say?”
Kitty glanced at Elizabeth and lost some of her confidence. “Nothing dreadful. Only that Mr. Darcy saw Lizzy driving sheep along the lane and concluded that Longbourn lacked proper management. Mr. Wickham said gentlemen like him think such work lowers a lady.”
“That is not what happened,” Elizabeth said.
Kitty blinked. “He said Mr. Darcy told people you ought not to have been doing it.”
“He said it to me, not to anyone else.”
Mrs. Bennet stopped buttering her toast. “And why were you doing it? Your father employs men for that purpose, though never enough of them, as I have told him for twenty years.”
“The gate failed.”
“Then Hill should have sent someone. Your father cannot expect his daughters to manage the livestock.”
“Hill does not manage the fields, Mama.”
“She manages everything else.”
Lydia laughed; Kitty did not.
Jane kept her attention on Elizabeth. “What did Mr. Darcy say?”
Elizabeth remembered the lane, the frightened horse, and Darcy standing in the dirt with one hand against the animal’s neck. She remembered his question, his obedience, and the confidence with which he had judged the gate and those responsible for it.
“He said I should not have to do it.”
Kitty seized on the words. “That is what Mr. Wickham said.”
“No. Mr. Wickham said Mr. Darcy thought the work lowered me.”
“Is there a difference?” Lydia asked.
“Yes.”
Elizabeth heard the weakness in her answer. Darcy had drawn the distinction himself, yet one broken gate had led him to judge her family.
Mary closed her book. “Did Mr. Wickham hear the conversation?”
Kitty frowned. “He did not say.”
“Then he cannot know what Mr. Darcy meant.”
“He knows him.”
“That does not give him knowledge of words he did not hear.”
Kitty looked wounded. “He was not inventing it.”
Elizabeth wished she could agree without reservation. Wickham had not invented the broken gate or Darcy’s objection. He had only made Darcy’s judgment sound more contemptuous than it was.
“No,” she said. “But I did not tell him.”
Mrs. Bennet returned to her toast. “I see nothing strange in it. Mr. Darcy thinks himself above everyone, and now he has found fault with Longbourn. I expected no better from the man.”
Jane said nothing, and her concern made the story harder for Elizabeth to dismiss.
By noon, the story had reached Meryton. Elizabeth learned this when she entered her aunt’s sitting room and found Mrs. Phillips discussing it with two neighbors.
“My dear Lizzy,” Mrs. Phillips said, “you never told me Mr. Darcy found you tending sheep.”
“I was not tending sheep.”
Mrs. Long leaned forward. “Kitty said half the flock escaped.”
“Six sheep passed through a broken gate.”
“And Mr. Darcy objected to your being there?”
“He objected to the condition of the gate.”
Mrs. Phillips exchanged a glance with Mrs. Long. “Mr. Wickham understood that he objected to more than the gate.”
Elizabeth removed her gloves. “Mr. Wickham was not present.”
“No, but he has known Mr. Darcy since childhood.”
The answer came with such confidence that Elizabeth almost laughed. Their lack of knowledge was a license to supply every missing fact.
Mrs. Long lowered her voice. “Mr. Darcy could not comprehend a gentleman allowing his daughter to perform a laborer’s task.”
“He said no such thing.”
“Not in those words, perhaps.”
“In no words.”
A pause followed. Mrs. Phillips looked disappointed, though she tried to hide it behind concern.
“My dear, no one blames you.”
“That is fortunate, since I did nothing wrong.”
“Of course not. The blame belongs elsewhere.”
Elizabeth knew where her aunt meant to place it: on Darcy for his arrogance, on her father for neglect, or on Longbourn for failing to resemble Pemberley. Wickham’s story had room for every conclusion except the truth.
She remained long enough to ask after her uncle, then left before another visitor could arrive and improve the tale again.
Outside the shop near the corner, she saw Wickham speaking with Denny. He noticed her before she could decide whether to cross the street.
“Miss Elizabeth.” He bowed. “You look as though Meryton has tried your patience.”
“Meryton has been repeating a story.”
His expression changed by no more than a breath. “Then I fear Meryton has found its chief occupation.”
“A story about Mr. Darcy and a broken gate.”
Denny glanced between them. “I promised Carter I would meet him.” He touched his hat and left.
Wickham watched him go. “I did not expect a private remark to travel so far.”
“You made the remark to Kitty.”
“She asked why Darcy concerned himself with your sheep.”
“And you answered with words he never used.”
Wickham’s face held regret without surrender. “I spoke of the man I know.”
“You spoke of an encounter you did not witness.”
“I know how he regards those beneath his station.”
Elizabeth felt the force of the claim because she had made it herself. Darcy had dismissed her at the assembly and judged her family. In the lane he saw neglect where she saw a task that required doing. Wickham had built his story from facts Elizabeth could not deny.
“He helped me,” she said.
“I do not doubt it. Mr. Darcy is generous when it suits him. That does not prevent him from thinking himself above those he assists.”
“That is convenient.”
“For him?”
“For you. Whatever he does confirms your opinion.”
Wickham’s smile faded. “You think I was unfair to him.”
“I think you told Kitty that he judged me from an incident you did not see.”
“I believed you had reached that conclusion yourself.”
She had reached a conclusion, though not the one he spread. Darcy judged Longbourn’s management and assumed she should not have had to do the work. Wickham changed concern into contempt and omission into proof.
“I should not have spoken of it,” he said. “For that, I ask your pardon.”
Elizabeth’s mouth tightened at the narrowness of the apology. “You should correct Kitty.”
“I will speak to her.”
“And to anyone else who heard it from you.”
His gaze rested on her face. “You ask me to defend Darcy.”
“No, I ask you to correct yourself.”
A trace of admiration entered his expression. “Your distinctions are as sharp as his.”
“Do not use him to avoid the point.”
Wickham bowed. “I shall correct it.”
Elizabeth left him with no confidence that he would.
At Netherfield, the story arrived before dinner.
Bingley heard it from a neighbor who had called on business, and repeated it to Darcy with more anger than sense. They stood in the library, where Darcy had been reading a letter from Stewart.
“The man claimed you saw Miss Elizabeth among the sheep and announced that Longbourn was unfit for a gentleman’s daughter.”
Darcy folded the letter. “Who claimed it?”
“He would not name his source.”
“Then he had none worth naming.”
Bingley paced to the window. “He said the story came from Meryton.”
“Most stories do.”
“This one concerns you.”
Darcy watched the rain run down the glass. “It concerns Miss Elizabeth more.”
Bingley stopped. “Then you know what happened.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The gate failed, several sheep reached the lane, and my horse took alarm. Miss Elizabeth directed the dog while I blocked the road.”
“That sounds less scandalous.”
“It was less scandalous.”
“What did you say to her?”
Darcy remembered Elizabeth’s hand on the gate and the change in her face when he spoke of duty, labor, and men who should have prevented the need. What he had meant as concern came out as judgment.
“I said she should not have been required to perform the task.”
Bingley considered him. “I can see how she might misunderstand.”
“This was no misunderstanding. Someone chose to stretch the truth.”
“Wickham?”
Darcy’s silence answered.
Bingley turned to his friend. “You cannot let him use Miss Elizabeth to continue his grievance.”
“What would you have me do? Deny words I spoke?”
“Explain them.”
“To whom?”
Bingley opened his mouth, then closed it.
Darcy returned the letter to the desk. Any public defense would enlarge the story and place Elizabeth at its center. Silence would leave Wickham’s version untouched. Neither course spared her.
“Has Miss Bennet heard it?” he asked.
“I do not know.”
“Caroline will.”
Bingley’s expression hardened. “She will not repeat it.”
Darcy hoped that was true.
The next afternoon proved the story had done more than furnish conversation. Darcy and Bingley entered Meryton on foot and found greetings that ended too soon. Men who had once ignored Darcy now judged him; women who had sought his notice turned toward one another after he passed.
Bingley noticed by the second shop.
“They believe it.”
“They prefer it.”
Near the assembly rooms, Mr. Allen stood outside the apothecary’s shop with a parcel under his arm. He greeted Bingley, then looked at Darcy with uncertainty.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Allen.”
The parcel slipped. Darcy caught it before it struck the pavement and returned it.
Mr. Allen thanked him, though embarrassment colored the words. “My hands are unreliable.”
“Then someone should have tied the cord twice. Darcy examined the knot and secured it. “There.”
Mr. Allen studied him. “You have a practical turn.”
“When necessity allows.”
A smile touched the old man’s mouth. “Necessity allows more than pride admits.”
Bingley looked away. Darcy returned Mr. Allen’s gaze.
“That may be true.”
Mr. Allen nodded and continued down the street.
Elizabeth stood outside the milliner’s farther along the street.
Darcy saw that she had witnessed the exchange. For a moment neither moved. Then she crossed toward them.
“Mr. Bingley. Mr. Darcy.”
Bingley greeted her with relief and Darcy bowed.
Elizabeth shifted her gaze between them. “You heard the story.”
“Yes,” Darcy said.
Bingley began, “No sensible person could believe—”
“Many sensible people believe what fits their expectations,” Elizabeth said.
Darcy heard no accusation in the words, which did not make them easier to receive.
“I gave the story its foundation,” he said.
Her eyes held his. “And someone else built upon it.”
“You know who.”
“I spoke with him.”
Bingley stared. “Did he admit it?”
“He admitted speaking to Kitty. He promised to correct the account.”
Darcy doubted the promise, and Elizabeth appeared to share his doubt.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“For what part?”
The question struck with the accuracy she often used against him.
“For speaking as though Longbourn’s failures gave me authority to judge your place within it.”
Bingley shifted, then found reason to inspect a window display.
Elizabeth’s expression changed. “You did judge it.”
“Yes.”
“And you still believe the gate should not have remained broken.”
“Yes.”
A reluctant humor touched her mouth. “Then your repentance has limits.”
“My judgment of the gate does not trouble me.”
“No. I suspected it would not.”
“The rest does.”
Along the road, two passing women lowered their voices.
“Mr. Wickham’s version hurts because it resembles the truth,” she said. “That is what gives it strength.”
Darcy had no defense against that.
“He made your concern into contempt,” she continued. “But he could not have done so had contempt not seemed possible.”
“Because of the assembly.”
“And because you judged my family before you knew them.”
“I knew enough to form an opinion.”
“There. See how quick you return to it?”
Darcy drew a breath, then stopped. He had accepted fault and defended it in the same exchange.
Elizabeth softened at his struggle. “You do not have to agree with me.”
“I know.”
“Or approve of Longbourn.”
“I know that as well.”
“What is bothering you?”
“Another man used my words to diminish you, and I made it easy for him.”
The noise of the street seemed to recede, though the carts still passed and voices continued around them.
Elizabeth studied him for several seconds. “That is better than the first attempt.”
“It needed correction.”
“So did Mr. Wickham’s.”
“He will not correct it.”
“No,” she said. “I doubt he will.”
Bingley returned his attention to them. “Then we must.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “A public denial will only give the story another week of life.”
“What do you propose?”
“Nothing. Let Meryton tire of it.”
Darcy disliked the answer because it required her to bear what he could not repair.
Elizabeth saw his objection. “You cannot command every opinion into obedience, Mr. Darcy.”
“No.”
“Then this may prove useful practice.”
She curtsied and returned to her aunt’s house.
Bingley waited until the door closed. “She defended you.”
“She defended the truth.”
“That distinction comforts you?”
“No.”
Darcy turned back toward the street. Wickham had made the truth uglier, but Darcy created its sharpest edge.