EIGHT
Meryton.
Elizabeth
Mrs. Phillips was married to a local attorney in Meryton, and by virtue of both his profession and the proximity of their house to the militia station, she had become acquainted with a considerable number of officers over the years.
They passed through her parlour frequently and were always received with enthusiastic welcome.
Elizabeth was therefore very glad when her aunt pressed the gentlemen who had accompanied them to remain for coffee and muffins, and they readily obliged.
She wanted Mr. Wickham nearby a little longer.
The subject he had touched upon so briefly in the street had not left her mind for a moment since.
The girls introduced Mr. Collins to Mrs. Phillips, who received him with ready warmth.
“A very handsome parlour, ma’am,” said Mr. Collins, looking about him approvingly. “The arrangement is extremely tasteful. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whose judgement upon such matters is remarkably refined, would, I think, regard it very favourably.”
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh?” repeated Mrs. Phillips with interest. “Is she a relation of yours, sir?”
Mr. Collins straightened slightly. “She is my patroness.”
Mrs. Phillips required no further explanations. Within minutes Lady Catherine’s drawing room, dining arrangements, opinions upon domestic management, and extraordinary affability had all entered the conversation. Mr. Collins appeared perfectly happy to continue indefinitely.
Mrs. Phillips soon rang for refreshments, and coffee and muffins were brought in almost immediately, to the great satisfaction of Lydia and Kitty.
Mr. Denny accepted a cup cheerfully. Mr. Wickham thanked Mrs. Phillips with easy politeness.
Mr. Collins received his own with considerable ceremony and continued speaking of Rosings between every sip.
The girls attended to very little of it.
By the time the muffins had nearly disappeared, Kitty proposed a game of whist. She and Mr. Denny paired immediately.
Mrs. Phillips turned quickly toward Mr. Collins before Lady Catherine could be introduced again and invited him to make up her side at the table.
Mary drew her chair nearer to the players and appeared perfectly content to observe the game.
“I confess I am not thoroughly practiced in the game,” Mr. Collins said, settling himself only after adjusting his cuffs and waistcoat. “But I suppose it behoves a man in my situation in life to improve himself upon every subject of common social —”
Nobody at the table was listening. Mr. Collins appeared to become sensible of this after a moment and directed his attention toward the cards.
Mr. Wickham, declaring that whist was not his game that evening, drew a chair toward the smaller seating arrangement where Elizabeth and Lydia had settled themselves apart from the table.
Lydia remained there perhaps five minutes before the attraction of the card game proved too strong to resist. She soon removed herself to a position directly behind Mr. Denny’s chair, from which she observed the play and supplied commentary at considerable volume.
Elizabeth and Mr. Wickham were left largely to themselves.
Elizabeth felt the return of her earlier curiosity almost immediately. The unfinished conversation from the walk remained too present in her mind to be easily dismissed, and now that they sat apart from the others, she was conscious of wanting very much to hear it continued.
She did not begin the conversation at once, however. Instead, she attended quietly to her coffee and waited. Silence, properly managed, was often more effective than direct inquiry.
Wickham watched the card table for a moment.
“Your cousin,” he said at last, “appears to have a particular fondness for mentioning his patroness.”
“You will forgive him,” said Elizabeth. “He is a passionate man in his loyalties. Lady Catherine has been very good to him and he does not forget it.”
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” said Wickham, and said nothing further for a moment.
Elizabeth set down her cup. “Forgive me for being direct,” she said, “but I could not help noticing the look on your face when Mr. Collins first mentioned her name. Out in the street.”
Wickham raised his brows slightly. “That is very perceptive of you.”
“I have been told so before.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Yes. I know Lady Catherine. She is the sister of Lady Anne Darcy. Darcy's mother.”
“I did not mean to pry,” said Elizabeth, lifting her hand slightly.
“You do not pry, Miss Elizabeth.” He glanced toward the card table and was quiet for a short while. Then he said, “So. Darcy. How long has he been in Hertfordshire?”
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before answering.
Mr. Wickham had now confirmed the connection between Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Darcy’s mother exactly as Mr. Collins had described it the previous evening.
Furthermore, the easy familiarity with which he spoke Darcy’s name only sharpened Elizabeth’s curiosity to hear what a man who had known him so long might say of his character.
“About a month, I believe,” said Elizabeth. “He is staying at Netherfield Park.”
Wickham nodded slowly. “And the neighbourhood. How does it find him beyond the assembly?”
“Not well,” said Elizabeth simply. “To the best of my knowledge, he has made very little effort since the assembly to recommend himself to anyone here, and public opinion has settled against him accordingly. He is considered proud, and among the most disagreeable of men.”
“That,” said Wickham, “does not surprise me in the least.”
Elizabeth looked at him carefully. “You speak as though you know it to be his nature.”
“I speak from a very long acquaintance,” said Wickham.
His voice remained even throughout, which Elizabeth found more persuasive than any display of resentment could have been.
“My father served as steward at Pemberley for many years, and as Darcy and I were little more than two years apart in age, we were brought up almost together.”
A faint smile touched his mouth, though without much amusement in it.
“The elder Mr. Darcy was a man of uncommon generosity. He was exceedingly kind to me from childhood and treated me with an affection I can never forget. I was raised almost as one of the family.” He paused briefly. “Darcy did not always receive that arrangement kindly.”
Elizabeth remained silent, her attention fixed upon him entirely.
“The late Mr. Darcy intended me for the church,” Wickham continued.
“He made provision for me in his will, a comfortable living which had long been understood to be mine. Everything had been settled.” His expression altered slightly.
“But after his death, Darcy found reasons to disregard the arrangement entirely.”
“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth. “Surely he could not simply disregard his father’s wishes?”
“The matter allowed him sufficient discretion,” said Wickham. “Enough, at least, for inclination to carry more weight than honour.”
He spoke without visible bitterness, which gave the account considerably greater force.
“I am sorry,” said Elizabeth quietly.
“I have long since ceased expecting justice from Darcy,” said Wickham, though mildly enough that the words sounded more weary than resentful.
“The militia has provided me with a respectable occupation and I endeavour to be satisfied with it. I mention the matter only because you appeared interested, and I dislike speaking in half confidences.”
Elizabeth thought of Mr. Darcy at the assembly.
The complete indifference. The words delivered to her face without the smallest concession to courtesy.
She had been revising her opinion of him since Mr. Collins's revelation the previous evening, telling herself that grief explained a great deal.
That a man who had suffered what he had suffered deserved some allowance.
She was less certain of that argument now.
“Was he always this way?” she said. “This pride, this coldness. Was it always his nature, or is it —” She did not finish the sentence but Mr. Wickham understood it.
“You are asking whether the accident made him what he is.”
“I suppose I am.”
He raised his brows slightly and was quiet for a moment, as though weighing the fairest answer to give.
“I will tell you plainly what I know and what I do not. I have not set eyes on Darcy in three years. He cut all connection with me after the matter of the living, and I had no occasion and no desire to seek him out afterward.” He paused.
“I heard in passing, from someone from Derbyshire, that there had been an accident. That he had married and that the carriage had overturned. That his wife had not survived and that he himself had been very badly injured.” He was quiet a moment.
“I do not know the details. I was not told directly by someone close to him. As I said, we were no longer in any communication.”
“You did not know about the wedding?” said Elizabeth.
“Darcy was always very reserved with me, even before the matter of the living. He shared very little of himself despite all my attempts at openness.” Wickham kept his voice perfectly level, though something shifted faintly in his expression.
“So, to answer your question, no, I did not know of the wedding. His father treated me almost as a son. I considered Darcy very nearly a brother, yet he did not invite me.” He allowed the remark to settle a moment.
“That alone ought to tell you something of the nature of his feelings toward me. Whatever suffering he has endured since cannot alter what came long before it.”
For a moment, Elizabeth could think of nothing to say.
Wickham’s account sat uneasily beside everything Elizabeth had heard the previous evening. The more she learned of Darcy, the less confidently she found herself able to judge him.