Chapter Three #3
Mr. Darcy paused, his gaze steady on Lydia. “Soon thereafter, a young woman from Lambton came to Pemberley seeking help. She was in distress, and Wickham had deserted her after promising marriage.”
Lydia’s eyes widened.
“I settled the matter privately,” Mr. Darcy said. “I ensured she and the child were provided for. I did not tell my father, who was then very ill. I did not wish to add to his distress.”
He reached into the leather portfolio case beside his chair and withdrew a document.
The paper crackled as he unfolded it. “Here is the settlement I arranged, acknowledged by Wickham’s signature.
He acknowledged the child and the estate’s payment in exchange for his silence and departure from the neighbourhood. ”
He passed it to Mr. Gardiner, who examined it and handed it to Lydia. She glanced at it briefly, her expression uncertain.
Mr. Darcy produced another paper. “My father died shortly after that date. This is a copy of my father’s will. You will see here a bequest of one thousand pounds to George Wickham, but there is no mention of the living at Kympton.”
He placed the document on the table before Lydia. She stared at it, her lips pressed together. Mr. Bennet picked up the document and read over it quickly, then handed it to Mr. Gardiner. He looked up sharply at the magnitude of the estate described.
“There had been discussion of that living,” Mr. Darcy said. “My father hoped Wickham would take orders and become a respectable clergyman. But Wickham did not do so. He neither finished university nor pursued ordination. Indeed, he was openly scornful of the notion of becoming a parson.”
He produced another document. “This is signed by Mr. Wickham a few months after my father’s death.
In this, he acknowledges receipt of three thousand pounds—three times what my father left him—in lieu of any claim to a preferment for a parish in the gift of the Pemberley estate.
He states explicitly that he has no intention of taking orders and states he does not intend to seek a career in the church. ”
The room was silent save for the ticking of the mantel clock. Lydia took the paper with trembling hands and read it slowly.
“There is more,” Mr. Darcy said. He withdrew a ledger from his portfolio.
“These are accounts of sums I advanced to assist another young lady whom Wickham had—” He paused delicately.
“A young lady he left in a similar condition to the first. I secured a marriage for her with a widower farmer of good character. I gave her a dowry and have since ensured the child’s schooling. ”
Lydia’s face had gone from flushed to pale. She stared at the ledger, then at Mr. Darcy, then back at the papers in her lap.
“You are lying,” she said, but there was no conviction in her voice now. “Wickham said—he told me—”
“What did he tell you?” Mr. Darcy asked, not unkindly.
Lydia’s voice was strangled. “He told me you would make up tales to turn everyone against him. You, his other acquaintance—you all lie about him because you are jealous.” She looked up at Mr. Darcy, her eyes glittering with anger.
“I do not blame you for believing him,” Mr. Darcy said quietly.
“He is exceedingly skilled at making himself appear the injured party. But I have no need to invent tales. The truth is damning enough. These documents are legal records with his signature upon them. You may examine them as closely as you wish.”
Lydia stared at the papers before her—the signatures, the dates, the sums. Her face crumpled. Slowly, tears began to form in her eyes. She slumped in her chair, all her defiance draining away, leaving only a frightened child.
Elizabeth pressed her handkerchief to her face, anguish mounting in waves.
Two other young women. Two others whom Wickham had ruined and abandoned.
And she—she had believed every word he spoke.
She had championed him, defended him, thought Mr. Darcy proud and cruel for denying him what was rightfully his.
She could not bear to look at Mr. Darcy, or to see in his face the knowledge that she had been so thoroughly deceived. She had judged him so harshly and so wrongly.
“I have more to show you,” Mr. Darcy said after a moment. “Much more. But perhaps you have questions, Miss Lydia. I would hear them.”
Lydia’s fingers worked restlessly on the fringe of her shawl. “He said—Wickham said you were cruel to him. That you begrudged him everything your father wished him to have.”
“I would not usually lay such business before a lady, Miss Lydia, but your case is uncommon. You must at least be satisfied that I speak truth. As you see from these documents, I gave him far more than my father left him,” Mr. Darcy said evenly.
“Four thousand pounds when he was bequeathed only one. What do you imagine he did with that money?”
Lydia had no answer.
“He told me you kept the living from him out of spite,” she said, her voice smaller now. “That you wanted to see him suffer.”
“The living was never his to claim. He has not taken orders in the seven years since my father died. He signed away any interest in it, as that document attests. He took the money and assured me he would make his way in the law.” Mr. Darcy paused.
“He did not pursue the law. He pursued cards, and drink, and—” He stopped himself.
“pursuits of a nature I shall not detail.”
“You have invented all of this,” Lydia said, but the words came out as barely a whisper. “You want to set me against him.”
Mr. Darcy regarded her with a searching gaze, then reached once more into his portfolio. He withdrew a thick sheaf of papers and laid them on the table before her.
“These are notes of debts,” he said. “Some I have paid on Wickham’s behalf to prevent scandal.
Others remain in my possession as surety.
Here—tailors’ bills for clothing far beyond his means.
A carriage he hired and damaged beyond repair, leaving the owner unpaid.
Tavern bills running to hundreds of pounds.
Bills from a modiste for gowns and finery purchased for ladies whose names do not appear. ”
He spread them across the table. Lydia stared at them, her face growing paler with each one she examined.
“You will see his signature on each,” Mr. Darcy continued. “These debts alone amount to several thousand pounds. They would be sufficient to see him confined to debtors’ prison for a term that might well extend to his life’s end, should anyone choose to pursue them.”
The room fell silent. It was not explicitly a threat, yet the meaning was unmistakable.
“I do not say this to frighten you, Miss Lydia,” Mr. Darcy added, his tone gentler now.
“I say it so you understand the character of the man who made you promises. He lives entirely on credit he cannot honour and the easy manners by which he induces others to bear his expenses. He has done so since he came of age.”
Lydia’s hands shook as she picked up one bill, then another. The signatures were unmistakable — bold and careless, repeated again and again across the pages.
Mr. Darcy turned to Mr. Bennet. “Sir, with your permission, there is more Miss Lydia should know before we determine the proper course.”
Mr. Bennet gave a tired nod. “Continue.”
Mr. Darcy addressed Lydia again, his manner still calm but grave.
“This summer past, Wickham attempted to persuade another very young lady to elope with him. She was fifteen years old, as you are. He professed the deepest affection for her and persuaded her to consent to a clandestine marriage in Scotland. But when he learnt that her dowry was held in trust until she came of age—and could not be reached without her guardian’s approval—he abandoned her without warning or explanation.
She was left desolate and bewildered, left to wonder why the gentleman who professed himself devoted had disappeared.
I possess no documents relating to this matter.
Such a writing could ruin the young lady if it were made public. ”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “Fifteen? Like me?”
“Precisely like you,” Mr. Darcy said. “Young, trusting, flattered by the attentions of a handsome older man.”
A shiver of apprehension ran through Elizabeth. She gripped the seat of her chair. Georgiana Darcy was fifteen. It could be no one else. Mr. Darcy was speaking of his own sister’s near-ruin to save Lydia from her delusions.
“More recently,” Mr. Darcy continued, “I have been in contact with a Mr. King of Meryton. He is uncle to a young lady of your acquaintance—Miss Mary King. Mr. King was obliged to remove his niece from the neighbourhood after she inherited ten thousand pounds from her grandfather. Wickham had begun to pay her marked attention, and Mr. King grew uneasy at his attentions.”
Elizabeth crossed the room and knelt beside Lydia’s chair, taking her sister’s hand. Lydia clutched at it desperately, her grip so tight it was painful, but Elizabeth did not pull away.
“Mary King?” Lydia’s voice was faint. “But he said—he told me Mary King was nothing to him. That she was dull, and he pitied her.”
“He told you what suited his purpose,” Mr. Darcy said. “Just as he has told many young ladies what suited his purpose at the time.”
Lydia slumped further in her chair, her face now wet with tears. Her sister’s grip tightened further, fingers digging into her palm, as though Elizabeth were the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned upside down.
Mr. Darcy let the silence settle for a moment, then spoke again. “Miss Lydia, there is one more matter we must discuss. Do you wish to hear the settlement Wickham proposed for your marriage?”
Lydia looked up, confused. “Settlement?”
Mr. Darcy glanced at Mr. Bennet, who stirred in his chair.