TWENTY-THREE
The Common Ground, Meryton.
Elizabeth
The common ground was wider than Elizabeth remembered it.
She had walked its edges often enough as part of her usual routes out of Meryton, yet standing now nearer its centre, with the sky stretched broad above it and the town visible in the distance, she found the openness unexpectedly pleasing.
The ground was firm beneath their feet, the grass cropped short by season and use, the air carrying the sharpness of an afternoon that had not yet decided whether the sun intended warmth or not.
Sarah walked some paces behind, close enough to satisfy propriety and far enough to satisfy good sense.
Elizabeth knew her father had chosen her with characteristic precision.
She was older than either herself or Jane, entirely trusted, and possessed the rare quality of knowing when her presence was sufficient without becoming obtrusive.
Marsh had ridden up front with the coachman on the journey from Longbourn. Elizabeth had noticed the arrangement when they set off and understood its purpose. He remained near enough to assist Darcy whenever required and far enough to afford him the privacy his station demanded.
Now Marsh moved steadily behind Darcy’s chair as the party crossed the open ground.
Jane and Bingley walked somewhat ahead, their conversation low and continuous and entirely absorbed in itself, which was perfectly consistent with every occasion upon which they had been in one another’s company during the past four weeks of their acquaintance.
Elizabeth walked beside Darcy.
He had not spoken much since they set out, though it was not an uncomfortable silence. Elizabeth suspected part of it arose from the crowded carriage ride and the rest from his continual attention to the surroundings about them.
“My dog,” said Darcy, after they had walked perhaps five minutes in quiet, “would have been entirely insufferable in a place such as this.”
Elizabeth glanced at him. “I did not know you had a dog. I do not recall seeing one at Netherfield.”
“I did not bring him.”
Elizabeth twisted the small sunflower she had plucked upon disembarking from the carriage. “What is his or her name?”
“Caesar.”
Elizabeth considered this. “That is a considerable name for a dog.”
“He is a considerable dog.” Something in Darcy’s expression shifted toward the warmth she had come to recognise as his version of genuine amusement. “A deerhound. Bingley finds him alarming.”
“I can only imagine.”
“He is entirely harmless. He merely occupies a very great deal of a room.” Darcy was quiet a moment. “Aside from Marsh, he has been my most consistent company at Pemberley these past two years.”
Elizabeth did not press the point but waited.
“When Bingley came to drag me here,” Darcy continued, with a dryness that did not entirely conceal what lay beneath it, “Marsh had to come with me. I thought it best not to impose an additional member of the household upon Bingley’s new establishment.
Caesar has a tendency to make his presence felt. ”
“You consider him a member of the household?”
“He considers himself one. I have merely agreed to his terms.”
Elizabeth laughed. “That is very gracious of you.”
“It is entirely practical. He is probably the most loyal creature in my acquaintance, Marsh and Bingley aside.”
They walked on in companionable silence, Darcy lifting his face slightly to the open air. Bingley’s and Jane’s laughter carried back toward them from some distance ahead, easy and unguarded.
“How much of Meryton have you actually seen?” Elizabeth asked after a while. “Beyond the roads and paths that brought you to Hertfordshire and the journey to Longbourn this morning?”
Darcy appeared to consider the question honestly. “The road between Netherfield and the two balls I have attended, both of which occurred at night. That is the extent of it.”
“Then you have seen very little.”
“I have seen enough to form some impressions.”
“And what are they?”
His gaze moved across the open ground before him with unhurried consideration. Elizabeth suspected he did not like to offer opinions he had not first examined.
“It is quiet,” he said at last.
Elizabeth tilted her head slightly. “That is a very diplomatic way of putting it.”
“It was intended as an honest one.” He glanced toward her briefly. “I find quiet considerably more appealing than I once did.”
Elizabeth accepted this without comment.
After a short silence Darcy said, with a shift in tone that suggested the remark had been sitting with him for some time, “Bingley first spoke to me of Hertfordshire a little over two years ago. He had identified it as a promising county and wished me to come and see it with him.”
Elizabeth turned to look at him. “Two years ago?”
“About that. I was, at the time, preparing to marry.” He said it plainly, without flinching, though something in the set of his jaw told her the plainness cost him something.
“The accident prevented the visit. Bingley delayed his plans entirely until Netherfield became vacant some four months ago.” He paused for air.
“When he came to Pemberley to collect me, I found I could not refuse him.”
Elizabeth’s attention moved involuntarily toward Bingley, visible ahead of them, entirely absorbed in Jane and entirely unaware of being observed. Then back toward Darcy.
She did not speak immediately.
There was nothing she might say that would not diminish the mood. A man speaking of a friend who had delayed his own plans for two years out of loyalty to one in mourning did not require comment. He required only to be understood.
“He is a very good friend,” she said at last.
“He is,” said Darcy. “The best I have.”
They walked on in silence another moment.
Elizabeth found herself thinking of the several days Bingley had called at Longbourn alone and offered no explanation for Darcy's absence beyond the briefest civility.
She understood now that the loyalty ran in both directions — quietly, consistently, and apparently without either man considering it worthy of particular note.
Darcy glanced toward the far edge of the common. “I confess I had hoped to see the militia drills you mentioned take place here sometime.”
Elizabeth followed his gaze. The far edge of the ground stood empty, no officers, no equipment, no movement beyond a pair of crows investigating something near the hedge line.
“They conduct the drills according to schedule,” she said. “Perhaps you shall see them another time.”
“Perhaps.”
Elizabeth had scarcely nodded at his response when a name surfaced into her thought.
The matter of Mr. Wickham had been sitting at the back of her mind since the Lucas Lodge ball — not pressing, but unresolved. She had not found the right moment then. She was not entirely certain she had found one now, but she suspected a better one was unlikely to present itself.
“Speaking of the militia,” she said carefully, “there is a matter I have been considering for some time. I hope it would not be too forward to raise it now.”
Darcy looked at her directly, a faint line appearing between his brows.
“It is a matter of some privacy,” she added.
Something passed between them that required no words. Without turning his head, Darcy made a brief gesture with one hand. Marsh instantly fell several paces behind, leaving sufficient distance for privacy whilst remaining near enough to resume assisting Darcy whenever required.
Elizabeth appreciated the discretion more than she could properly express.
“There is a gentleman,” Elizabeth began, “who claims acquaintance with you. I met him some weeks ago in Meryton, before Jane’s illness.” She paused. “His name is Mr. Wickham. Mr. George Wickham.”
Darcy’s expression darkened immediately into a frown.
“Here in Hertfordshire?”
“He is an officer with the militia. He introduced himself very particularly and spoke of you at some length.” Elizabeth kept her voice even.
“I confess I was inclined at first to believe what he told me. I have since had my doubts, though I could not entirely dismiss the matter. I wished to hear your account.”
Darcy remained silent for a moment that felt considerably longer than it was.
“What did he tell you?”
Elizabeth repeated the story as plainly and briefly as she could, Wickham’s claims of ill treatment after Darcy’s father’s death, the denied living, and the complete severing of all connection between them. She watched Darcy’s expression throughout.
His countenance remained controlled. She could see the effort of it.
When she finished, the silence that followed was long enough that Elizabeth began to wonder if she had misjudged the moment entirely.
“He is a liar,” said Darcy at last. “He has always lied. He has repeated that particular tale to a considerable number of people and found it useful enough never to abandon it.”
Elizabeth, sensing he had more to say, remained silent.
"Wickham grew up at Pemberley and was loved by everyone there. He was not always what he is now."
Darcy was quiet a moment before continuing.
"After my father's passing, the living was offered to him.
He declined it — his choice entirely — in exchange for a sum of money, which he exhausted within two years.
Separately, I spent those same years settling his gambling debts and paying off moneylenders on his behalf more times than I care to recall.
Not from obligation, but from the memory of what he once was to my family, before I understood what he had become. "
He paused.
"When he returned demanding the living again it had already passed to another man. Since that moment, his grievance has conveniently been my fault."
Elizabeth felt pain shoot through her nerves as he spoke. What? She was still forming words to say, but Darcy was clearly not finished. He looked about him briefly, as though assuring himself no one stood within hearing distance. When he appeared satisfied, he continued.