18. A Possibility of Error #3
Darcy had answered, with all the belief of youth, that some fields refused cultivation.
His father had smiled.
“Perhaps. But one ought to attempt the plough before declaring the harvest impossible.”
Darcy had thought himself wiser.
The memory lingered unpleasantly.
Miss Bingley met him in the entrance hall.
“I declare,” she said, folding her hands with elaborate disappointment, “you spend more hours at Longbourn than at Netherfield.”
“I had business.”
“So you always say.”
Mrs. Hurst glanced up from the sofa where she sat with her embroidery.
“I begin to suspect Miss Elizabeth possesses remarkable powers of persuasion.”
Darcy removed his gloves.
“I require no persuasion to call upon the lady I court.”
Miss Bingley’s expression froze.
Mrs. Hurst wisely lowered her eyes to her work.
The silence that followed became sufficiently uncomfortable that even Miss Bingley abandoned it.
“Mr. Bingley has been looking for you.”
“I shall find him presently.”
He escaped before Caroline could recover.
Bingley occupied the library with an estate map spread across the table.
“There you are!” he exclaimed. “I was beginning to think Longbourn had adopted you.”
Darcy managed a faint smile.
“I should not object overmuch.”
“I knew it.”
Bingley folded the map.
“You do not look happy.”
“I am not.”
He sank into the nearest chair.
Bingley regarded him for a long moment before pouring two glasses of port.
“You need not tell me if you prefer silence.”
Darcy accepted the glass.
“I fear I have behaved badly.”
“With Elizabeth?”
Darcy nodded.
“I asked her to choose.”
Bingley’s brow furrowed.
“Between yourself and Mr. Wickham.”
“Oh.”
The single syllable contained considerable sympathy.
“I did not intend to frame it so bluntly,” Darcy continued. “At least, I believed I had not. But upon reflection...”
“You did.”
Darcy rubbed a hand across his forehead.
“I did.”
Bingley leaned back.
“You know, Darcy, there are very few people whose judgment I trust more than yours.”
Darcy looked up.
“But there is one thing I have observed.”
“What is that?”
“When you become convinced you are protecting someone, you cease hearing anything that contradicts you.”
Darcy stared.
Bingley gave an apologetic shrug.
“You did it with Georgiana.”
“I was protecting my sister.”
“You were.”
“You believe I was wrong?”
“I have no notion.” Bingley spread his hands. “I know nothing of Wickham except that you dislike him and Elizabeth does not. I merely observe that everyone who disagrees with you lately leaves looking rather unhappy.”
Darcy could not dispute the charge.
Elizabeth.
Georgiana.
Richard.
Even Bingley had hesitated more than once before offering an opinion.
The realization sat heavily.
“I love her,” Darcy said.
“I know.”
“I have never doubted anything so completely.”
Bingley smiled.
“I thought you had never doubted anything at all.”
Despite himself, Darcy gave a short laugh.
“Perhaps that has been my failing.”
“Perhaps.”
Neither spoke for several moments.
The fire shifted upon the hearth.
Outside, a gust of wind scattered leaves against the library windows.
Finally Darcy rose.
“I ordered Fletcher to make inquiries.”
Bingley blinked.
“Inquiries?”
“Into Wickham.”
“What sort?”
“Debts. Gaming. Improper conduct.”
Bingley’s expression brightened.
“That seems sensible.”
“I should have done it weeks ago.”
“It is done now.”
Darcy crossed to the window.
“If Fletcher returns with evidence against him, Elizabeth will have the truth.”
“And if he does not?”
The question remained suspended between them.
Darcy rested one hand against the cool glass.
Beyond the lawn, autumn stretched across the Hertfordshire countryside in muted gold and green.
If Fletcher came back empty-handed...
If no debts appeared.
No seduced daughters. No creditors… and no gaming hells or whispers.
Then what?
Would that erase Ramsgate?
No.
Would it prove Wickham innocent?
No.
But it would prove something else.
That the man presently living in Meryton bore less resemblance to the youth Darcy remembered than he had wished to believe.
Darcy closed his eyes briefly.
He thought of Elizabeth standing in the garden.
“Will this be the wedge that drives us apart?”
He had answered from wounded pride instead of love.
The distinction shamed him.
Opening his eyes once more, he spoke so quietly that one might missed the words.
“If I lose Elizabeth...”
He did not finish.
He could not.
For the first time since arriving in Hertfordshire, Darcy admitted a possibility he had steadfastly refused to entertain.
He might be wrong, though not about everything.
He could not be wrong about Georgiana or even necessarily about Wickham. Could he be wrong enough that his stubbornness had become a weapon?
And if he wished to deserve Elizabeth Bennet, whose courage lay not in agreeing with those she loved, but in speaking honestly even when disagreement carried a cost, then he would have to possess equal courage himself.
Whether that courage required defending the past or questioning it, he did not yet know. But for the first time, the second possibility no longer seemed impossible.