Chapter 24
ELIZABETH WOKE WITH no clearer opinion than the one that had kept her awake most of the night. Darcy was not amiable because she doubted Wickham, nor did his pride become less objectionable because Wickham’s charm proved less honest than it appeared.
Kitty came to breakfast with reddened eyes and turned on Lydia when she asked whether Mr. Wickham’s failure to ride past Longbourn had made her cry.
“I never said he would.”
“No, but you looked out of the window whenever a horse came up the lane.”
Mrs. Bennet began complaining about her daughters’ interest in officers, but Kitty pushed away her plate and left the room.
“It proves she expected him,” Lydia said.
“It proves you enjoy distressing her,” Jane replied.
Elizabeth said nothing. Wickham had shown Kitty enough attention to make neglect feel like injury, but too little for her to complain.
After breakfast, Jane asked Elizabeth to join her in the little parlor. “Kitty will not speak to me because she thinks I took Mr. Darcy’s part yesterday.”
“You told her Wickham should not leave her expecting a visit he never meant to make. That is taking Kitty’s part.”
“She does not see it that way.” Jane hesitated. “Do you think he meant to call?”
“I do not know.”
Before Jane could answer, Hill came to say that a boy from Meryton had brought a note for Miss Catherine.
Kitty, who was halfway down the stairs, ran the rest of the way before the housekeeper finished speaking.
She took the note, broke the seal, and turned toward the drawing room as Lydia emerged behind her.
“Is it from him?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Then it is from him.”
Kitty clutched the note to her side and tried to pass, but Lydia caught her arm with more curiosity than malice. Jane intervened before their mother heard the quarrel and carried it into the breakfast room.
“Kitty, if the note concerns only you, no one will press you. But if it concerns Mr. Wickham coming here, Papa ought to know.”
Kitty’s face changed. “It does not concern Papa.”
Elizabeth held out her hand. “Then tell us what it says.”
“You have no right.”
“No, but if you are wise, you will not refuse.”
Kitty looked from one sister to the other, then toward Lydia, whose bright eyes promised no mercy. At last she unfolded the note and read, not from generosity, but because Lydia would otherwise invent its contents before dinner.
“My dear Miss Catherine,” she began, and stopped.
Lydia gave a crow of triumph. “My dear Miss Catherine! Oh, Kitty!”
Jane silenced her with a look. Kitty continued, the paper shaking in her hand.
“I am prevented from doing myself the pleasure of riding near Longbourn this morning. A trifling matter of business detains me in Meryton, but I shall hope for a more fortunate opportunity soon. If Mr. Darcy should be at your house today, pray do not let him think I have avoided him. I would not have him imagine me conscious of anything unbecoming. You mentioned that he and Mr. Bingley sometimes call in the afternoon, and that you expect them to dine with you on Thursday. I shall trust to your kindness not to let him misrepresent my absence.”
She lowered the paper, and the passage fell silent.
Lydia recovered first. “Well, that is civil enough.”
Elizabeth looked at her. “Civil?”
“He says he would have come if he could.”
“He asks Kitty to account for him to Mr. Darcy.”
Kitty’s eyes filled. “All he wants is for Mr. Darcy to stop telling lies about him.”
Jane took the note from her. “Kitty, when did you tell Mr. Wickham that Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley are coming to dinner on Thursday?”
Kitty hesitated. “I do not remember.”
“You must remember something.”
“He asked whether Mr. Darcy came often, and I mentioned the dinner. That was all.”
Elizabeth felt the first sharpness of certainty. This proved nothing about the living or Wickham’s debts, but Darcy could not have invented it. Wickham had used Kitty’s admiration to learn when Darcy would be at Longbourn and now he expected her to defend his absence.
“Did he ask anything else?” Elizabeth said.
Kitty drew herself up. “I did nothing wrong.”
“I never said you did. Tell me what he asked you.”
She looked away, and some of the tension left her face. “He asked whether Mr. Darcy spoke much to you.”
“And whether he came with Mr. Bingley or alone,” she added when no one answered. “He wanted to know if Mr. Darcy meant to remain at Netherfield through the winter.”
“Why did he ask you?” Jane said.
“Because I knew. Everyone knows Mr. Bingley calls to see you, and Mr. Darcy sometimes comes with him.” Kitty’s defense weakened as she spoke. “Mr. Wickham said he could not guard against a man who concealed his intentions.”
Elizabeth understood then why Kitty mistook Wickham’s questions for confidence. Each invited her to prove herself useful, while her answers gave him knowledge he could use without revealing his plans.
“Did he tell you why Mr. Darcy’s visits concerned him?” she asked.
“Mr. Darcy watches him and will turn everyone against him if he has the chance.”
“And so you watched Mr. Darcy for him.”
Kitty colored. “I did not watch him. I noticed things.”
“Because Mr. Wickham told you which things to notice,” Elizabeth said, gentler than before. “That is the difference.”
Jane’s hand tightened on the note, and Lydia’s amusement faded.
“He said Mr. Darcy pretended to dislike what he most wished to command.” Kitty looked ashamed as soon as the words escaped her. “I did not know what he meant.”
“Kitty, this was not kind,” Jane said.
“He is in difficulty.”
“Then he should speak to men, not ask a young woman to answer for him.”
Kitty flinched. “He asked no such thing.”
“Yes, he did,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Wickham asked you to tell Mr. Darcy that he had not avoided him and made his reputation your charge.”
Lydia’s expression shifted from amusement to irritation. “Well, I would not do it. If an officer cannot explain himself, he may find another girl to do it.”
Kitty snatched the note from Jane. “You all hate him because Mr. Darcy hates him.”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “That would be easier.”
Kitty looked at her in confusion, then fled upstairs.
Jane made as if to follow, but Elizabeth stopped her. “Let her be for a few minutes. She will not listen while she can still persuade herself she is defending him.”
Lydia lingered, tempted by the drama but no longer certain she agreed with Kitty. “I still say he writes a very pretty letter.”
“He writes with a purpose,” Mary observed from the doorway.
Jane looked at the folded paper. “We should show Papa.”
Elizabeth knew it was necessary, though Kitty would regard it as a betrayal. She was less certain whether her father would consider the matter serious or find amusement in it.
They found him in his library, where he listened without interruption while Jane explained the note and Elizabeth added what Kitty had admitted. He read Wickham’s lines twice.
“At least,” he said at last, “Mr. Wickham has the merit of thrift. He spends other people’s credit, tests their patience, and trades upon their daughters’ confidence.”
“Papa,” Jane said.
“Yes, my dear, I know. It is not amusing. Or rather, it is amusing if one forgets that Kitty is crying upstairs.” He set the note on his desk. “What do you propose?”
“That she send no answer,” Elizabeth said.
“I do not think he asked for one,” Jane added.
“Not in words, but he invited one.” Bennet leaned back. “Has your mother seen this?”
“No.”
“Then she need not. I have no wish to hear that Mr. Wickham’s handwriting proves the goodness of his heart.”
Elizabeth almost smiled, but resisted the temptation. “Will you speak to Colonel Forster?”
“I may have to. First, I will write him and learn whether this trifling matter of business has a name. I suspect it does.”
He looked from Jane to Elizabeth. “You must not torment Kitty.”
“We do not mean to,” Jane said.
“No, but any truth that does not flatter her will feel like torment because we have allowed the nonsense to continue so long.”
Elizabeth accepted the rebuke because it was not for Kitty alone. She laughed at Kitty’s weakness often enough, and when Wickham first distinguished her, Elizabeth regarded it as foolish rather than dangerous. Elizabeth had dismissed Kitty’s vanity without considering how someone might exploit it.
They found her in the room she shared with Lydia. She had not wept as much as Elizabeth expected, but sat on the bed with Wickham’s note beside her and her bonnet in her lap, as if she might still go to Meryton by force of will.
Jane approached first. “Papa says you must not answer the note.”
“I did not mean to.”
Lydia, who had followed them, leaned against the bedpost. “Yes, you did.”
Kitty glared at her. “No one asked you.”
“No one ever does, but I know more than you think.” Lydia glanced at Elizabeth, then looked away. “He asked me at the assembly whether Papa kept Sarah outside at night.”
Elizabeth became still. “What did you say?”
“That Sarah goes where she pleases and barks when anyone deserves it. I thought he was making conversation.”
Kitty’s anger faltered. “He asked you about Sarah?”
“He asked everyone something. That is how gentlemen talk.”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “That is how some gentlemen learn what they have no right to ask.”
Kitty looked from Lydia to the note, and the anger left her face. What she had treasured as distinction began to look like inquiry.
“He said he liked me because I was not proud,” she whispered.
Jane sat beside her. “That may have pleased him. It does not mean he was kind.”
Kitty pressed the bonnet out of shape. “You will tell Mr. Darcy.”
“No,” Elizabeth said, and continued before Jane could object. “We will tell Papa what must be told. Mr. Darcy does not need Kitty’s mortification handed to him.”
Kitty stared at her, uncertain whether to be grateful. “You believe Mr. Wickham is wicked.”
The question held less defiance than fear, and Elizabeth would not let her anger answer for her. “I believe he is careless with other people’s trust.” She paused, then corrected herself. “No. That is too mild. I believe he uses it.”
The admission did not prove Darcy right or Wickham guilty of everything alleged against him, but it ended the comfortable belief that Darcy’s pride explained every injury and Wickham’s openness every contradiction.
Lydia shifted. “Are we not going to Meryton, then?”
Three faces turned toward her.
“What?” she said. “It is a fair question.”
Despite herself, Elizabeth laughed. Jane covered her mouth, and even Kitty gave a reluctant sound that was not quite a sob.
“No,” Elizabeth said. “We are not.”
The morning passed under a restraint Mrs. Bennet could neither understand nor tolerate. Kitty remained upstairs, Jane stayed near her, and Elizabeth walked in the garden until her thoughts began to repeat.
Bennet’s messenger returned from Meryton by noon. Elizabeth saw him from the shrubbery and went inside before anyone sent for her. Her father received the report in the hall, dismissed the man, and called Elizabeth into the library.
“The trifling matter of business,” he said, “appears to concern Mr. Pritchard, Mr. Goulding’s groom, and a chestnut mare hired without payment.”
Elizabeth closed the door. “A mare?”
“Hired with a promise of payment, kept longer than agreed, and returned with a strained leg and an apology so charming that Mr. Goulding’s groom was almost grateful for it.”
“He cannot blame that on Mr. Darcy.”
“No. Mr. Darcy did not hire the horse, strain it, or offer the apology.”
Elizabeth looked down. The irony was mild, but it struck the exact place she had been trying not to examine.
Bennet’s voice gentled. “Lizzy, there is no shame in being deceived by an agreeable man, but it is dangerous to defend the deception when it serves no one but him.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She met his eyes. “I am beginning to.”
He nodded and did not press further. For that mercy, she loved him more than if he had forgiven her aloud.
When Elizabeth returned to the garden, Sarah lay in the shade with her head on her paws, watching the sheep beyond the fence. Her attention did not waver when Elizabeth approached and stood beside her.
She could not yet think well of Darcy. His reserve still offended her, and he had told too little while expecting too much. Yet Wickham had supplied evidence against himself through small evasions that no longer fit an innocent explanation.
Elizabeth had disliked Darcy in part because Wickham gave her permission to do so. His account transformed Darcy’s arrogance into cruelty and made every guarded answer appear further proof of guilt.
Elizabeth had no new conclusion to replace the old one. She knew only that Wickham’s account no longer deserved the confidence she had given it, and Darcy was not responsible for that change.