18. A Possibility of Error
eighteen
A Possibility of Error
Darcy had a letter from Georgiana around a week after he sent his last. He hurried to his chambers, eager to read his sister’s words. The seal, engraved with her initials, broke easily.
Dear Brother,
I confess, I am all astonishment that Mr. Wickham is in Meryton. I had thought all our dealings with him concluded. It would seem that Providence has other schemes of which we are not aware.
My heartache over Mr. W. is at an end, I assure you.
I find myself quite content at home with Mrs. Annesley.
My work with the masters proceeds apace, and I dutifully attend to my correspondence.
I am not yet ready to speak of the events of the summer.
There were misunderstandings all around, and when it is time, I shall confide all.
Please believe me when I inform you that I am hardly the young and foolish girl you think me to be.
Do not let the presence of your old friend distress you; perhaps he has decided to improve himself and even now works to repair his character. You say he is courting Miss Elizabeth’s sister? It is altogether shocking how paths cross in such a manner.
Now, tell me, brother—am I to have a new sister soon? I should like that above almost all things. And Elizabeth is an exceptional woman—absolutely perfect for the position of Mrs. Darcy.
Warmest affection,
Georgiana
Darcy read the letter twice.
Then a third time.
By the fourth reading, the words had ceased to arrange themselves into any order he liked. Georgiana’s hand was familiar, her phrasing affectionate, her humor restored; and yet the letter left him less at ease than if she had confessed herself miserable.
My heartache over Mr. W. is at an end.
Too unaffected. Too carefully indifferent.
Darcy knew very well that Georgiana, when truly at peace, did not announce it with such precision.
She wrote of music, Mrs. Reynolds, some new ribbon, an opinion cautiously formed about a book.
She did not declare old wounds closed as if addressing a physician across a sickroom.
There were misunderstandings all around.
He thought of that sentence more than once.
What misunderstandings? Wickham’s presence in Ramsgate admitted no charitable explanation.
Mrs. Younge’s treachery admitted less. Georgiana had been deceived, persuaded, and nearly carried toward ruin by a man who knew precisely what advantage he pursued.
Darcy’s mind rejected every softer interpretation before it could fully form.
And then, with equal unwillingness, Elizabeth’s words sounded in his thoughts.
Your account of Mr. Wickham bears almost no resemblance to the gentleman my family has known.
He set the letter upon the desk and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose.
Elizabeth was not foolish. Obstinate, yes.
Too proud of her discernment perhaps. Too inclined to trust the evidence of her own eyes when those eyes had just seen a portion of a man.
But not foolish. And Georgiana, in this letter, spoke of Wickham as Elizabeth had done: perhaps he has decided to improve himself.
Perhaps.
Darcy disliked the word.
It opened doors he preferred closed.
What if Wickham had indeed come to Hertfordshire for honest work?
What if, by some unlikely exertion of conscience, the man had begun to repair what he once wasted?
The thought did not absolve him. Three months of industry could not erase years of dissipation.
But rumor did not distinguish between degrees of guilt.
If Meryton had taken Darcy’s contempt and fashioned it into public judgment, Wickham’s prospects might be damaged past easy repair before any proper inquiry could be made.
And if Darcy were wrong about Ramsgate—
He rose so abruptly that his chair scraped against the floor.
No.
He was not wrong.
Georgiana had nodded.
Still, he rang for his man.
Fletcher appeared within minutes, neat, grave, and prepared for whatever task might be required of a gentleman who had not slept well in days.
“You will make discreet inquiries in Meryton,” Darcy said. “Discreetly, Fletcher. I do not wish my name attached.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Concerning Mr. George Wickham, presently employed in Mr. Philips’s office.
I wish to know whether he has contracted debts in the neighborhood, whether he frequents cards or gaming of any kind, whether he has formed any improper acquaintance, whether any tradesman complains of him, and whether there are ladies whose families might have cause to regret his attentions. ”
Fletcher’s face gave away nothing. “Yes, sir.”
“You will speak to servants where possible. Shopkeepers if necessary. No threats. No coins large enough to invite invention.”
“Small coins invite invention too, sir, but less elaborate.”
Darcy smiled. “Then use judgment.”
“I shall, sir.”
“And Fletcher—if you hear nothing against him, I expect you to report that as faithfully as any accusation.”
This time Fletcher’s eyes lifted briefly. “Certainly, sir.”
When the man departed, Darcy stood alone beside the desk, irritated by the necessity of the order and more irritated by the relief that followed it.
He had done something. Not enough to satisfy Elizabeth, perhaps, and certainly nothing that would repair what had already been whispered, but inquiry was better than mere brooding.
A quarter hour later, he ordered his horse.
He told himself he intended a mere ride. The air might clear his head. Netherfield, with Miss Bingley’s pointed concern and Bingley’s good-natured attempts at cheer, had become nearly intolerable. A road, a horse, and several miles of countryside required less explanation than human company.
His route, however, took him not across the open fields toward Longbourn, but through Meryton.
He recognized the choice when the village came into sight.
There was no reason to turn back.
Meryton wore the ordinary business of a market town: carts before shops, women pausing beneath signs to exchange intelligence, a boy running with a parcel under one arm, the smell of bread from the baker’s, damp straw near the yard. Darcy slowed his horse at the edge of the street.
Then he saw him.
Wickham emerged from Mr. Philips’s office with a folio tucked beneath one arm and his hat pulled low against the wind.
He did not saunter. There was none of the old careless ease in his step, no performance for women at windows.
He crossed to a shop two doors down, spoke briefly to the proprietor, and went inside.
Darcy remained mounted at the corner, half-screened by a cart drawn up before the apothecary.
Several minutes passed.
A woman came out of the shop with a wrapped parcel.
A boy followed carrying a ledger. Then Wickham appeared again, shaking the proprietor’s hand.
The man accompanied him to the door, speaking earnestly.
Wickham opened the folio, showed him a paper, indicated a line, and waited while the proprietor examined it.
Whatever answer he gave seemed to satisfy, for the man clapped him upon the shoulder before returning inside.
Wickham stood alone on the step a moment, rearranging the papers with care before setting off toward the office.
A clerk.
A diligent, useful clerk.
Darcy’s teeth ground together.
Happy manners. Useful hands. A civil word in a village street. None of it proved innocence. Wickham had always known how to look the part required of him.
Still, Darcy directed his horse toward Longbourn with less confidence than he had possessed an hour before.
The welcome at Longbourn did not improve his mood.
Hill admitted him with correct civility, though he thought even she regarded him with a measure of caution.
In the drawing room, Mrs. Bennet received him in a manner determinedly polite and somewhat strained, as if she had resolved to be gracious while reserving the right to remember every injury at a later date.
Miss Bennet greeted him kindly, but her eyes carried concern.
Elizabeth rose from beside the window, relief and apprehension mingling in her face.
The younger ladies offered less diplomacy.
Lydia, seated with Kitty over a basket of ribbons, gave him a look of such open disapproval that Darcy respected her for the courage of it.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, and returned to her ribbon as if his name had exhausted her courtesy.
Kitty followed her sister’s lead, though with less severity and more curiosity.
Mary, who sat with a book upon her lap, regarded him through spectacles of moral purpose. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy. I have lately been reading that a whisperer separateth chief friends. It is from Proverbs.”
“Mary,” Mrs. Bennet said weakly.
“I thought it applicable, Mama.”
Darcy bowed. “Miss Mary Bennet, Scripture is rarely inapplicable, though perhaps not always comfortable.”
Mary considered this, then nodded once, apparently satisfied that he had not rejected correction.
Elizabeth crossed the room, gathering her gloves and bonnet from a chair. “Mr. Darcy, shall we walk? The weather is fine enough, and Mama has just declared the room too warm for sense.”
Mrs. Bennet fluttered. “I said no such thing.”
“You implied it by opening three windows.”
“It was close.”
Darcy offered his arm. Elizabeth took it, though the gesture held less ease than it had days before.
They walked into the garden without speaking. Behind them, Lydia’s murmur rose, quickly hushed by Jane. Darcy heard none of the words. He did not need to. The Bennets had chosen their side.
Or perhaps, more accurately, they had chosen not to abandon one of their own.
Elizabeth led him past the low wall, along the path bordered by late roses gone heavy at the edges. When they had reached a little distance from the house, she released his arm and faced him.
“We have decided to stand by Mr. Wickham,” she said.
Darcy’s chest hurt, though he had expected nothing else. “So Miss Lydia’s greeting suggested.”
“She is angry.”
“I observed as much.”
“She is also frightened.”