Chapter Seventeen
When Elizabeth and Darcy stepped into Pemberley’s big drawing room, Darcy hissed. “Wickham.”
Elizabeth guessed that Wickham must wish to either tell his own tale first, or to be ready to smear her character if she or Fitzwilliam said anything about what had happened. It did not matter. She need not fear him.
It was Jane. It was Jane who must fear.
Old Mr. Darcy’s weakened voice called out, “Fitzwilliam, where have you been all this time? You see George has returned already. If you insist on remaining at Pemberley to watch me die, at least remain about.”
“I apologize,” Darcy replied. “There was a matter of importance which required my attention.”
Darcy watched Wickham like he might a poisonous snake.
The man’s countenance was untroubled.
Someone who did not know him might guess that there was nothing amiss for him. Except, Wickham’s hand wildly tapped on his leg in that way that he always did when he made any serious bluff at cards.
It was a great part of why he so consistently lost money at the table.
George Wickham was not unduly anxious.
Greenstead had been signed over to him, and he believed that even if Fitzwilliam convinced Mr. Darcy to wholly cease favoring of him, his patron could not reverse the gift.
He did not need Jane’s high opinion. If she became angry at him, he would act in such a manner as to force her to understand that he was the master of the house, and that he would be treated as such.
He could beat his wife, if it proved necessary, though he hoped she would not force that from him, as it would reduce his respectability as a gentleman.
As he walked back to Pemberley, Wickham had decided on what he would say to question Elizabeth’s character and Fitzwilliam’s rationality. He had things he could say. Some of them were even true. Mr. Darcy would understand.
He would make Mr. Darcy understand. I would never try to seduce a blind girl, or the sister of my wife. No, no, no. I am not that sort of man. Dear Mr. Darcy, you know who I am, you know my character, and my love for you.
She kissed him, and he stopped her.
That was what Fitzwilliam saw.
Elizabeth had been in love with him, and everyone knew she was a spirited woman, prone to impulsive action.
She never thought in the serious way that a young gentlewoman ought to.
It was the fault of the early education she received from her father, who, as good of a man as he had been, had awful notions about what to teach young women.
It was the fault of no one living that Mr. Darcy’s steady work had been insufficient to correct her character.
We all remembered how she had thrown such a crying fit when she was not allowed to read Tom Jones the very first week after she’d arrived at Pemberley. There was no surprise that Miss Elizabeth allowed her curiosity—it was nothing worse than that—to gain the better of her.
Wickham imagined himself saying to his wife, in the most serious and somber tones—the voice he would have used to comfort the relations of the dying if he’d been given the living: Dear Jane, do not think so ill of your sister.
As Wickham had walked across the park to the drawing room, and then as he listened to Mr. Darcy tell another sad story of more happier times, he strove to convince himself that this was what had truly happened.
Was it not what had happened? Elizabeth had been the one to approach him. She talked to him about carnal relations. She put her hand against him. Truth.
The slut.
No, no, no.
The poor, poor misguided girl. They must lock her up for a year and make her listen to many, many improving sermons and books about morality in hopes that her character was not entirely reprobate and without hope of correction.
He, as one who had meant to become a pastor would take on that role, if only Mr. Darcy would give it to him.
At last, after a wait that was terrible to Wickham’s nerves, Fitzwilliam entered the room with Elizabeth on his arm.
In the gaze of his old childhood companion, a man who had lectured him many times to correct his behavior, Wickham felt shame. It was suddenly impossible to believe his own lies, as he knew that he must.
He had grabbed his sister by law, a blind girl, and he had forced his lips against hers while she struggled to escape his grip. Elizabeth was not a low-born maid or farmer’s daughter, who only pretended to be difficult to assuage her future guilt at the joy of their joining.
This was a gentlewoman who Wickham knew full well disliked him.
Gentlewomen were special. They deserved greater consideration. Everyone knew that.
Looking at Elizabeth, Wickham felt a surge of lust. She had seen him correctly, and unlike everyone else who loved him, she had rejected him because she saw him as the worm he was. And that made him long to force her to give him pleasure.
Darcy said, “Mrs. Wickham, speak with your sister. Perhaps in the other room. Privacy is best for what she wishes to tell you.”
“No, no, no. Fitzwilliam.” Wickham stood. “I do not know what she told you. But I’ll not have my wife’s mind filled with such stories. Poor, poor Elizabeth. I cannot judge her so harshly as I ought.”
Jane looked at him. She frowned deeply; her forehead wrinkled in concern. It was a rare look for her.
“What are you talking about?” Mr. Darcy demanded to know.
“If Miss Bennet understands what she has done and understands that what she wished for is impossible, I will not spread her secrets. I apologize, sir, but silence is a matter of honor.”
Elizabeth looked towards him. The pretty scarf covered her eyes, but she had a most considering expression. She turned towards Fitzwilliam and whispered to him.
Fitzwilliam said clearly, “I have already once attempted to expose your true character to my father. I shall not make such a mistake a second time. But you know that I am not your dupe.”
This speech filled old Mr. Darcy with unhappiness.
The whole conversation was hateful to him.
He was closer and closer to death. Every day left him more deeply in pain, weaker.
He had planned to have no regrets. But now, those whom he loved best were opposed to each other.
George and Fitzwilliam hated each other.
And from how Fitzwilliam looked at George, he feared from that there was a real chance that they would fight one day.
“Good God,” he said. He pressed his hand to his side, though the pain had spread through the whole of his ribs. “Sit down. Both of you. Fitzwilliam, sit.”
His son continued to stare at George, clearly unwilling to move until such time as George went to sit down.
“I am certain that whatever happened between George and Lizzy,” Mr. Darcy said to his son, “you need not feel such anger.”
His son looked at him solemnly. “I assure you, I ought.”
“What happened?” Jane rose and took Elizabeth’s hands. “You do not look—not like a horrible event has occurred. Lizzy, what happened? What is wrong?”
“I must tell you something.” Elizabeth and Jane walked towards the far end of the room.
George started to follow them. “I will not—”
Fitzwilliam stood between him and the two sisters.
“Sit down,” Mr. Darcy exclaimed fiercely. “George, sit first. Now. I do not know what you have been up to, but I will not see matters become worse.”
“She is my wife. She belongs to me. It is my right to know all her doings. To hear what she is told. I’ll not have my rights trampled upon.”
Fitzwilliam did not move. He watched George in such a way.
Fitzwilliam’s way of looking at George was both calm, yet violent.
Lord. He might do it.
He might challenge George to a duel. What if they were both killed, and that was near the last thing to happen before he died?
“Good God, George, sit down and tell me.” Mr. Darcy exclaimed as the two stared at each other. “What did you do to Miss Bennet?”
“I did not—”
“Not your prepared story,” Mr. Darcy said. “Not that most pretty tale that you have prepared. Why is Fitzwilliam so angry at you?”
“I believe because he has formed an unsuitable attachment to Miss Bennet,” was Wickham’s reply. “And thus, he is prepared to listen to any story she brings.”
Wickham said so much because it was true, and because he very much hoped that hearing this would distract Mr. Darcy enough to keep him from asking further questions upon the matter.
Mr. Darcy replied with a scoffing laugh. “The girl is blind and hideously scarred. Even if I did not trust my son’s good sense, he has better taste. Tell me a tale that is possible.”
The expression on Fitzwilliam’s face when he shot an annoyed glance at his father almost paid Wickham back for the discomfort of the conversation.
The young master was not pleased with his ancestor.
Wickham hoped to keep Mr. Darcy from hating him, from seeing him as…as something bad. He wanted Mr. Darcy to die thinking well of him, and that was his chief hope at present.
He did not know why he cared so much.
Mr. Darcy would not suddenly shower more money upon him—he had already received more by far than a patron gentleman ordinarily gave his protégé.
Yet…he hated the thought that Mr. Darcy might think ill of him.
Wickham sat as Mr. Darcy had ordered him to.
He smiled at Mr. Darcy. “Yes. I will speak to Jane later, to explain the truth of whatever Miss Bennet says.”
After so many years of closely watching Jane, waiting for the day when he would own her, Wickham understood her moods. His wife was struggling against tears.
Good.
This day had been extremely disappointing, and Wickham was happy that some of the unpleasantness was shared. Sharing misfortune formed a chief part of every idea that he had heard about what a happy and domestic marriage ought to be.
“Fitzwilliam, sit as well,” Mr. Darcy said. “Do sit. Let us talk as calm, rational beings. I have little time. Let us not waste this time being angry at each other. Fitzwilliam, tell me what Elizabeth said about Wickham.”