Chapter Twenty-Three
Two weeks after he arrived at Pemberley, the whole party attended a public assembly at which Mr. Bingley danced with Mrs. Wickham twice.
Afterwards he talked with her for some time, chiefly listening to Mrs. Wickham’s joy at seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and her delight in hearing from Elizabeth how well the new girl, who’d been named Jane after her, was growing.
Wickham tended to drink a great deal when the alcohol was purchased by other persons, and he was deep in his cups when a friend came close and with a laugh pointed at the pair. “Do you mean to sell her to Bingley?”
“What do you mean?”
Mr. Taylor replied, “If I was married, I would not let my wife look at a gentleman in such a way.”
“It is merely Bingley. He is harmless,” Wickham replied, not turning towards them.
“Hahahaha. You are a trusting one. But, look at how she talks to him. That woman likes him better than she likes you.”
This was of course likely to be true. Wickham knew very well that despite his wife’s great effort to love Mr. Wickham to avoid being foresworn, Mrs. Wickham had no great liking for her husband. However, Mr. Taylor’s words awakened Wickham’s jealousy, and he turned to study his wife and Mr. Bingley.
Over the course of several minutes of observation as that lovely woman smiled at Mr. Bingley, Wickham decided that Jane did like Mr. Bingley too much.
There was a thing in her eyes.
“That damned bitch,” Wickham muttered. A heady rush of rage went through him. That damned bitch.
This brought a laugh from Mr. Taylor, who was in fact considerably drunker than Wickham.
This gentleman was owed more than five hundred pounds in debts of honor by Wickham, and he was generally a man who paid close attention to his financial interest. It can only be his drunkenness which explains why he goaded Mr. Wickham into actions that he ought to have known might cause substantial financial losses to all of Wickham’s creditors.
“I wonder if they’re rutting in the stables when you are out playing cards,” Mr. Taylor said. “Bet she sneaks into Pemberley’s park to meet him, when she says she’s meeting her sister. Mrs. Wickham always pretends to be virtuous. So high and above us all. But mud sticks to every boot.”
Mr. Taylor’s sneer had, on more than one occasion, made crude remarks at Mrs. Wickham, or attempted to paw her while her husband pretended not to see.
In all such cases he was gently avoided, but there was something about the look in her eyes when she escaped his attentions that made Mr. Taylor know that she thought very little of him.
“No. Worse. She wishes she could,” Wickham said. He had no reason to imagine that Jane was straying. He knew her better than that. “She admires him. God, I swore. I once swore.”
“Hahahaha,” Taylor laughed. “You swear a great deal. But there is nothing that you’ll do to her. We all know you are a coward. Barely a gentleman.”
Wickham stomped across the room towards the couple, walking right through the dancing floor, and shoving a Miss White to the side as he went past. “Step away from my wife, you damned cur.”
Bingley was quite surprised to be approached in this way by Mr. Wickham. “I have no notion what you are talking about.”
“I see you—hic—trying to seduce her. I see how you look at her! I see it.”
“Mr. Wickham, I certainly have no dishonorable intentions towards Mrs. Wickham.”
“Mr. Wickham,” Mrs. Wickham said to her husband, “what is this about? I was simply telling Mr. Bingley about Rosy.” At her husband’s blank look, she added, “Mrs. Brown’s little child.”
“A brat. You were speaking about a brat. Of course. You wanted to tell him that you’d let him put a brat in you to scorn me. Never, ever speak to Bingley again. You hear? By God, you said you’d obey me. If you ever speak to Bingley again, I’ll beat you till your back is blue.”
A crowd was gathering, which included both Mr. Darcy and his wife, and all of the party presently at Pemberley, including Bingley’s sisters and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.
Darcy walked out and put his hand on Bingley’s shoulder, “I believe that Mr. Wickham is drunk, and we ought to ignore what he says. Mrs. Wickham, if you would wish to remain safely with Mrs. Darcy for the evening I would—”
“Darcy, damn you. You have always spat on my honor. Fight me. If you are not a coward. Trying to arrange a tryst between my wife and your friend. Damn you. I’ll not see you make me a cuckold.”
A hush fell. The music stopped. Everyone stared between Darcy and Wickham. Darcy said in a slow, precise voice. “Wickham. You are drunk.”
“Fight me; I’m not a coward. You are the coward.”
“No.”
It was widely known in the neighborhood that Mr. Darcy had sworn to his father, when old Mr. Darcy was nearly on his deathbed, to never fight a duel with Wickham. This challenge made Wickham seem more cowardly, rather than Mr. Darcy, since everyone knew that he would respect such an oath.
Several footmen had approached, and Darcy said to them, “Help Mr. Wickham to his carriage.”
Mrs. Wickham said to her sister and Mr. Darcy, “I shall of course go with him.”
Matters likely would have ended here, if Mr. Taylor, who was more entertained by these events than he had been by anything in the past month, had not shouted out while sloshing his glass of punch onto the floor, “That’s right, Wickham! Slither home like the skulking coward you are.”
A rage went through George Wickham.
They all laughed. They all sneered at him. He had become an object of sport, a man considered by his nearest neighbors to be worthless. He had become like his father. And all because other men cheated at cards when they played with him—they must cheat, otherwise he would not lose so much.
Mr. Wickham said to Mr. Bingley, “You, sir, you have attempted to destroy the honor of my wife, and the happiness of my heart. You have no oath to your father to hide behind. Will you meet me tomorrow, or are you a coward?”
When Bingley did not reply immediately, Wickham pointed at Bingley, “A coward. A true coward.”
Mr. Bingley stiffened and stood taller. “I am no coward, and you know that I am not.”
“Then meet me.”
“I shall.”
“Tomorrow morning. At dawn.”
“I shall be there. Darcy, will you be my second?”
“Bingley,” Darcy said. “There is no cowardice in refusing to fight a duel.”
“My honor, and the honor of Mrs. Wickham has been questioned,” Bingley replied with the sangfroid that he knew was supposed to be present in a gentleman in such a situation. “And I am no coward. If you do not wish to accompany me, I shall ask Mr. Hurst.”
Mrs. Wickham was pale. She said to Bingley, “You should not do this. Your own conscience tells you that our behavior has always been proper. Ignore him.”
“I am not a coward,” Bingley replied. His hands were visibly shaking. “I will not be a coward. Darcy, for the third and last time, I ask: Will you accompany me as my second?”
“I shall,” Darcy replied. He intended to use every opportunity between now and then to convince his friend to not fight. That was a chief duty of a second.
Mrs. Wickham started crying, and Mrs. Darcy embraced her sister while Darcy and Bingley waited for Wickham to find his own second.
It transpired that Mr. Taylor, who had gone so far in promoting this fight, was absolutely insistent that he would not act as Wickham’s second for a duel.
Quickly, all of Wickham’s friends disappeared from the room when it was known that he needed a second. This likely was out a fear of Mr. Darcy.
Not only was it illegal to participate in a duel, being the second in one also could subject someone to legal penalties.
Everyone in the room assumed that if Mr. Bingley was killed in the duel, his friend would bring a prosecution against Mr. Wickham.
It was well known that Darcy always wished to know if anyone had evidence that Mr. Wickham had engaged in illegal behavior.
It was not even certain that Wickham would escape punishment. He was widely disliked, and it was clear that this duel would not be fought over a sensible matter.
Those who might have otherwise accompanied Wickham as a lark, and to see an actual duel fought—or for the joy of bringing home the story of how Wickham begged off at the last minute once again—were frightened by the possibility that they would become involved in such a legal case.
After looking around the room for one of his companions, and seeing none of them, Wickham burst out angrily to Darcy, “What is this! Have you bribed my friends to abandon me?”
Darcy said to Bingley, “Mr. Wickham cannot find a friend at an assembly in his home county, who is willing to stand with him. No one will despise you if you do not meet him. He is not enough of a gentleman that any serious person could be expected to accept his challenge.”
“I am not a coward,” Bingley repeated. “I have known him since I was a schoolboy, and I have the highest respect for his wife. I have dined at his house, and we meet frequently in company. You cannot pretend that he has no standing to challenge me.” Bingley called out to the crowd that was only a little dispersed, “Will anyone stand with Wickham as his second? I will not have it said that I am a coward who avoided a fight when my honor demanded that I appear.”
Silence for half a minute.
Then Wickham’s old friend Mr. Clarke came from the crowd. “If no one else will stand with Wickham, I would be happy enough to see him shot. Though I dare say he’ll beg off again when he realizes that you are serious about shooting him.”
“I shall not,” Wickham said. “I have never been a coward.”
“You certainly have been,” Mr. Clarke said in reply. “But if no one else will attend you, I will—Darcy, let’s go decide where they will fight and the other arrangements. Shoot at the same time, or what?”
Darcy felt cold. He had sincerely hoped that Wickham’s difficulties in finding a second would cause the matter to come to nothing.
The two men went to the card room, which was then vacated of its usual residents so they could discuss the matter in privacy.
“Mr. Clarke,” Darcy said, “this is madness. Mr. Wickham is drunk. You do him no favor by serving as his second.”
“I hope to see him dead. Bingley is a good enough shot to manage it. Do you think he has the stomach to shoot at Wickham?”
“I do not know.”
“Deuced, damned fellow. I dare say he’ll just shoot in the air. But we should give him every chance.”
“Sir, you have taken the role of Wickham’s second. It is your duty to represent his interests, not those of Mr. Bingley.”
Mr. Clarke pressed his lips tightly together.
The room was brightly lit by many flickering oil lamps hanging over the card table.
That gentlemen then nodded. “Fire at the release of a handkerchief then. I am sure Wickham will prefer that to shooting in turns. Let us meet at the clearing in the woods about two miles from Pemberley, and a mile from Greenstead. The one along the woodsman’s path that starts near the turnpike.
Do you know which one I am referring to? ”
“Yes,” Darcy replied, rather hoping that it would prove that they understood different clearings by this description, but not expecting it.
“Well, nothing else to say then. Encourage your friend to shoot for the body.”
“I shall encourage him to accept any apology that Mr. Wickham may make, and to not fight, even if Mr. Wickham will not make one.”
“Or that,” Mr. Clarke agreed. “It would be a pity if poor Bingley was shot instead of Wickham. Do you think?—Mrs. Wickham does like him a great lot. Well, let us hope for the best.”
The two returned to the dancing room which had emptied. Wickham and Bingley’s argument had made the last scheduled dance of the night considerably more entertaining than usual.
Elizabeth stood in a circle with her aunt and uncle, and Mr. Bingley, his face pale, while Mrs. Wickham had been pressed into a chair, and Mr. Wickham stood in front of it.
Elizabeth said to Darcy, “I am worried that he will do something to Jane during the night, but she will not defy him to stay with me.”
Darcy took his wife’s hand and squeezed it. “There is nothing to be done.”
“I hope you shoot him dead,” Elizabeth said to Bingley. “But make sure to not let him hit you.”
“Madam, I do not intend to fire at him at all,” Bingley replied. “I shall shoot into the air. I do not think—I could not shoot another man. Not to save my own life.”
“Good Lord,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Wickham hardly qualifies as a man. It would make me enormously happier if he was shot.”
“The Lord must manage such things, for I shall not.”
Stupid Bingley. That was what Darcy thought.
Wickham had heard Bingley declare that he would not shoot at him, and he grinned at Darcy like a shark. Any hope for the fight to be avoided by Wickham backing away out of cowardice once the drink had left him was gone.