Chapter Fifteen
For the first weeks of her sojourn with Mr. and Mrs. Wickham, Elizabeth found little about which she could complain.
The servants were from the staff of Pemberley, and they all knew what was necessary to make it easy for Elizabeth to manage.
Her new bedroom was pleasant, modern, and warm.
There were ample comfortable seats in the moderately sized drawing room, and a good pianoforte that Mr. Darcy had installed for her use.
Though it was not nearly so big as the grand piece in Pemberley’s much larger drawing room, it was a precise, finely made instrument to practice upon.
She busied herself memorizing the layout of the rooms and corridors, and where each item in the drawing room was, how far out the legs of the armchairs stuck, which direction to the upstairs rooms, and how to open the closets where the chamber pots were hidden.
All of the ordinary matters of accustoming herself to a new space as a blind woman.
In matters of daily life, there was no great difference from what had been Elizabeth’s life before.
As soon as they dressed in the morning, they walked from the woods in which the dower house was hidden across the park to the main house.
She was always supported by Jane’s arm or by Wickham’s.
Once they were across, they ate the usual breakfast with Mr. Darcy and Fitzwilliam, with Wickham’s father also sitting with them on most days.
The remainder of the day was spent in company. Mr. Darcy’s voice had become too weak for him to read aloud to the party, but Fitzwilliam made an exemplary alternative, and when he needed a break, Wickham’s reading voice was also excellent and varied.
The soft glow that Elizabeth perceived during the day, and that was the only remainder of her sight, was long gone when they went home each day, having been replaced hours before by the dimmer candles and fires that she could not perceive at all while wearing the ribbon over her eyes.
Fitzwilliam was sometimes absent; he called upon other gentlemen, and once or twice dined with a neighboring family. Mr. Darcy sent him out to inspect fields or to speak with the tenants whenever there was a difficulty.
But as diligent as those gentlemen were, most tasks were, as they always had been, managed by Mr. Wickham, by the understeward, and by other men in the employ of Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth would have had no cause to repine her new life in the dower house if not for two considerations. First, Wickham had become too attentive to her, too friendly, and too gallant in his eagerness to do everything for the sister of his lovely wife.
And second, he had chosen Submit Jones, the maid who Elizabeth had heard him with years before, to be his housekeeper.
They spent so little time in the dower house that Elizabeth had not realized that this was the arrangement until nearly a week had passed.
Yet, as soon as Elizabeth knew, she knew that this could not be by chance.
It was a good position for the maid. A large addition to her consequence and salary. Perhaps the girl had blackmailed Wickham with threatening to tell Jane. But Elizabeth did not think that she was the sort to do so. Or perhaps Wickham was simply fond of her.
It did not matter. Even if he did not currently use her as his mistress, making a woman who he had seduced before his housekeeper showed an utter disrespect for Jane and her position.
In thinking this, Elizabeth did not forget to blame herself, more severely than she ever had before.
As for Wickham, he had discovered that the blind, scarred little girl he’d sneered at for years was now a woman considered by his friends to be an attractive object.
George Wickham’s mind was so constituted that if he had found a woman to be beautiful, whose appearance was generally considered to be ugly, then he would have despised her and despised that thing in himself which liked the look of the girl.
A few days after Wickham had returned to Pemberley, when several of Wickham’s friends were hosted for dinner by the newly married couple, Mr. Clarke had seen Elizabeth walking back from the big house with Jane, and he had exclaimed upon the beauty of the woman.
All the rest of the party had agreed, and there had been a discussion where his friends agreed that while the scars were unfortunate, they had faded sufficiently that Miss Bennet could be safely named as a pretty girl, though without doubt she would have been a true beauty had she not been injured in such a way.
This made Wickham notice her as a woman who might be worthy of his attentions. It was impossible for him to treat a girl generally acknowledged to be pretty in the way he would treat one considered ugly.
Matters would have gone no further if Wickham did not angrily and continuously watch Fitzwilliam from the corner of his eye and fantasize about ways to make him miserable.
Wickham noticed that Fitzwilliam’s eyes habitually drifted to no-longer-so-little Elizabeth Bennet’s now-acknowledged-to-be-pretty form.
When she sang and played, as Mr. Darcy frequently requested, he did not even attempt to disguise his rapt attention.
Lord. What a joke.
What a ridiculous, silly, nonsensical joke.
Fitzwilliam, after years of allowing her to hang out about him, and indulging her whims, and always talking to her, after all that he had fallen in love with the chit. He really was preparing to make such a fool of himself.
He might even, one day, offer for her.
After his father was safely dead, of course. The old man would be furious if Fitzwilliam attempted to marry the girl while he was alive.
At first Wickham had a vague notion that a match between his wife’s sister and the master of Pemberley could only be to his benefit. Fitzwilliam would then always have some interest in the wellbeing of his house, as much as they hated each other.
After a few days this idea was replaced with a sharp and precise plan to hurt Fitzwilliam.
He would seduce Miss Elizabeth.
Take her maidenhood, ruin her for all the world. Maybe he’d even manage to put a child in her. Once Mr. Darcy was dead, he’d tell Fitzwilliam. He imagined whispering it into his ear as they watched the dirt being tossed onto the casket.
And the act would show scorn for Jane. He would prove to himself that he was not like his father.
His mother had brought her lovers into the same bed that she’d shared with his father. So, Wickham had already rutted with Submit in Jane’s bed.
He was the man. He was the master of his own house. He would never show undue respect to a woman.
Seducing his wife’s sister, also enjoying her in their marital bed. That would prove to everyone what sort of man he was.
Wickham’s mouth went dry at the thought of it.
His efforts to seduce Miss Elizabeth, however, made no progress.
It was the cursed blindness.
He’d never realized how utterly inconvenient it was for a girl to be blind.
Wickham was used to putting his excellent appearance, his way of holding himself, his ability to smile and look properly to excellent use.
Yes, of course, the voice and the words he said were part of the process of seduction, but they were only a small part.
And when he casually touched her, in a way that might excite her, it was clear enough that Miss Elizabeth was made uncomfortable by his touch.
His words of flattery made no impression.
When he teased her, she laughed but she did not tease him in return.
She looked very good when she laughed, and at those times when she laughed in company, Fitzwilliam’s eyes were glued upon her.
However, she never relaxed around Wickham.
Her tenseness was not that of a maiden who was frightened that her feelings might cause her to behave in a way that she would regret. It had more similarity to that of a farmer who hoped to get as little on his clothes as possible while he shoveled manure.
Perhaps it says much about Wickham’s true sentiments regarding himself that he was so willing to think of this as an analogy for how a woman reacted to him.
He began to despise Elizabeth for her insensibility. He despised her for not craving his touch. And he despised her for her clear fondness for Fitzwilliam. It was likely that she was in love with him.
While obvious rank nonsense from the perspective of wealth, connections, and equality, such a match would in fact make much sense in so far as long-standing connection and friendship, and delight in each other’s company could give cause for a marriage.
Wickham wished he could hurt Elizabeth. But the fact that she was so dear to Fitzwilliam made him hesitate.
As a man with little taste for prolonged labors without any certainty of success, Wickham had already given up the scheme of seducing her, when Elizabeth Bennet approached him one day, while he was alone in the drawing room, to confront him about Submit Jones.