EIGHT #2
The thought crossed her mind, unbidden and deeply uncomfortable, that perhaps his suffering had not come entirely undeserved.
That the world possessed, at times, a harsh way of returning a man’s conduct upon himself.
She rejected the thought almost immediately.
It was neither charitable nor just. Whatever Darcy had done to Wickham, his wife had done nothing at all, and she had died.
Penance did not work that way. It could not.
“You said he cut all connection three years ago,” she said at last. “Before the accident.”
“Yes.”
“Then the man you knew and the man he is now may not be entirely the same.”
Mr. Wickham considered this. “If he has altered at all,” he said carefully, “I would say his circumstances have perhaps reduced his inclination to act upon certain impulses. A man confined to a bath chair has fewer opportunities for the particular varieties of cruelty that require him to be on his feet.” He paused.
“But the disposition itself, I doubt very much that has changed.”
Elizabeth shook her head with visible disbelief. “How can someone be entirely as bad as you describe,” she said at last. “Even now, in his present condition, he is still proud, still cold, still contemptuous of everyone around him. And yet —” She stopped.
“And yet?” said Mr. Wickham.
“And yet people speak of him with genuine feeling. Mr. Collins, who has never met him, spoke of his misfortune with real sorrow. Mr. Bingley seems fiercely loyal to him.” She looked at Mr. Wickham directly. “It is difficult to reconcile.”
Mr. Wickham was quiet for a moment as if in thought.
“I would not claim Darcy entirely without good qualities,” he said at last. “That would not be just. But consider the sources. Your cousin knows him only through Lady Catherine, who is both his aunt and his greatest admirer. Affection will naturally soften any account from her.”
He glanced briefly toward the card table before continuing.
“As for Mr. Bingley — I know him from my Pemberley days. Amiable, wealthy, inclined to think well of everyone without question. Darcy has always known how to secure the loyalty of such men.”
He paused briefly.
“And I will say this for him, he is deeply attached to his sister. Whatever else may be said of Darcy, he has always cared for Miss Darcy with genuine devotion.”
Elizabeth turned this over in her mind.
“And his sister?” she said. “You mentioned Miss Darcy.”
“I did,” said Mr. Wickham. He paused briefly, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly before he continued.
“Miss Georgiana Darcy is very like her brother. Proud, reserved, and not inclined toward easy acquaintance. She has been brought up to think very highly of her own consequence and conducts herself accordingly.”
He paused again.
“When she was younger, she was exceedingly fond of me. But around the time she turned fourteen, Darcy began encouraging her to keep her distance.” His tone remained light, though Elizabeth thought she detected something less indifferent beneath it.
“She is, however, far more accomplished than her brother. She remains chiefly in London now under the supervision of a lady companion engaged in completing her education. That is nearly all I know of her at present.”
Elizabeth received this in silence. Miss Darcy was an entirely new figure to her imagination. Mr. Collins had not mentioned that Darcy had a sister.
She found herself wondering what sort of young woman had been formed in such a household, with a brother at once so admired and so condemned depending entirely upon who spoke of him.
And somewhere beneath the thought came the unwelcome recollection of Mary’s quiet insistence, that it was dangerous to judge anyone entirely upon a first account.
“You have given me a great deal to consider,” she said instead.
“I have given you only what I know,” said Mr. Wickham. “Which is more than most people in this neighbourhood have been given. I leave the judgement entirely to you, Miss Elizabeth.”
He said it with a smile that was entirely agreeable, and Elizabeth returned it, and said nothing further on the subject of Mr. Darcy that evening.
The whist party soon concluded. Mr. Collins declared it a most instructive game and thanked Mrs. Phillips at considerable length. Kitty demanded a rematch that nobody agreed to. The party gathered themselves, said their farewells, and stepped out into the cool Meryton evening.
Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham accompanied them as far as the turning before taking their leave.
Elizabeth observed, as Mr. Wickham bowed his farewell, that everything he did was well done.
The bow was neither too deep nor too slight.
The parting words were warm without excess.
He had conducted himself the entire evening with the same easy, unforced attention, and she could not find a single moment in their acquaintance thus far that she could fault.
She was not entirely sure whether that reassured her or gave her pause.
Mr. Collins spoke the entire way home. He covered the superiority of Rosings’ muffins relative to those served at Mrs. Phillips’, the strategic errors he had observed at the whist table, and the general civility of Meryton society, which he considered very tolerable for a market town.
Elizabeth walked beside him and heard none of it.
She had gone to Meryton that morning with a better opinion of Mr. Darcy than she had carried home from the assembly. She was returning with considerably less certainty than she had set out with.