Chapter Fourteen
“On an affair of importance …”
DARCY, CONSUMED BY WHAT HE MUST DO TO SAVE ELIZABETH, departed early for London.
Riding in the comfort of his favorite carriage, he reflected on how far he was willing to go to “persuade” George Wickham to marry Lydia Bennet or to “persuade” the foolish girl to abandon her folly and return to Longbourn.
What if he found no success in either endeavor?
He loved Pemberley, not just for its beauty but because it held his family’s legacy.
He loved the society to which he was accustomed.
The wealth and his reputation had created a sense of worth, a part of his being.
Previously, he felt willing to sacrifice some of both for Elizabeth’s love; but now, he might also be faced with the Bennet sisters’ loss of respectability or even worse, having George Wickham as a brother.
Which would be harder to overcome? Could he seriously still consider Elizabeth to be a viable mate in either case?
The resolution of the current crisis would not necessarily solve Darcy’s dilemma.
On Monday morning Darcy set off to a seedy part of the city.
Not wanting to attract too much attention, he hired a public cab.
He planned to find Mrs. Younge, Georgiana’s former governess.
Mr. Wickham, as Darcy had warned Elizabeth at the Netherfield Ball, had a reputation for making friends, but keeping friends was a different issue.
Mr. Wickham “used” people, ill-abused them, leaving most in his wake.
In Darcy’s estimation, Mrs. Younge was of the same lot.
If Mr. Wickham were in London, Mrs. Younge would know where he could be found.
Darcy had kept Mrs. Younge’s directions in his London ledger—an address to which the last of her wages had been delivered when Darcy dismissed her for her part in Wickham’s seduction of Georgiana. From what he had ascertained, Mrs. Younge let rooms from her home on Edward Street.
Calling on the house, a dirty-faced child, evidently employed as a servant, admitted Darcy to the sitting room.
When the lady entered to find him there, Mrs. Younge hid her surprise well.
“Mr. Darcy … what brings you to this part of Town? Have you developed less elegant tastes?” Anger laced her sarcasm.
“Mrs. Younge,” he kept his voice calm and steady, “I have come on business.”
She looked him up and down, measuring the merit of his words.
Her training as a governess allowed the woman to maintain an image of a refined lady even in the midst of the squalor in which she now found herself.
She motioned Darcy to a nearby chair and crossed to one to his right.
“I thought any business we might have was settled some time ago. Do not tell me you once more require my services.”
Darcy accepted the double meaning of her words with a slight nod of his head and then said, “I appreciate your offer, Mrs. Younge, but that was not the business I had in mind.”
“Then why have you come, Mr. Darcy?”
“I am seeking news of Mr. Wickham.” Darcy’s reply showed no change in his composure, but the lady’s relayed the information he sought.
“Mr. Wickham? Mr. George Wickham? Why would I know of Mr. Wickham’s whereabouts?” she protested.
“Mr. Wickham is in London. He has with him the daughter of a friend. That friend, knowing of my connection to Mr. Wickham, asked for my assistance in finding his daughter.” The words sounded stilted and a bit ambiguous even to him.
Darcy despised deceit; but at least this was not a total fabrication: He and Elizabeth were assuredly friends.
“It appears you have been misinformed, Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Younge stood to indicate his leave taking. “I have not heard from Mr. Wickham since that unfortunate time at Ramsgate.”
Darcy stood slowly and slipped on his gloves.
“I see,” he began as he walked leisurely around the room.
“This is an interesting place, Mrs. Younge. I must remember this address; it will be an important fact when I tell the constable about … let us see … which tale do you think the constable will most believe? After all, I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, a man of impeccable reputation. I would not want to relate a tale which would be unbelievable.” He could not resist the smirk.
To her credit, Mrs. Younge showed no signs of cracking.
“I am confident your tenants will enjoy having the constable call upon you on a regular basis with a litany of complaints. I also believe I can secure other gentlemen of impeccable reputations to lodge similar complaints to mine. The constable could become so familiar you may wish to let him a room. Farewell, Mrs. Younge.” Darcy tipped his hat and started towards the door.
As anticipated, Mrs. Younge’s voice halted his exit. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Yes, Mrs. Younge,” he turned.
“If I could remember where Mr. Wickham might be, would it stop the visits from the constable?”
“It would, indeed, Mrs. Younge.”
“Call tomorrow. I will discover something of merit.”
Darcy said no more but returned to his waiting cab. A sense of satisfaction rested on his features.
The following day, he came again to Edward Street.
Mrs. Younge’s information was not easy to come by, but for a promise of no visits from the constable and thirty shillings as a bonus, the woman provided Darcy with an address for George Wickham.
When he returned to the let carriage, the driver said, “Be you confident, sir? This be the address you seek?” The driver appeared confused.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but a man of your standin’ wouldn’t regularly be found at such an establishment. ”
Darcy simply nodded his agreement. Inside the carriage, his contempt for the situation nearly had him telling the driver to turn around, but the memory of the misery found on Elizabeth’s face forced him to push onward.
George Wickham had let a room above a tavern on a bustling, inner city street frequented by a diverse clientele.
Having asked the proprietor for a private table, a bottle of brandy, and two glasses, he paid the man extra to inform Mr. Wickham that “Mr. Darcy” awaited him in the common room.
In a matter of minutes, George Wickham strolled into the public room. “Well, Darcy, what a happy occasion this must be to bring us together.”
“Have a seat, Mr. Wickham.” His reply had the intonation of a command rather than a request.
Wickham slid casually into the seat. “May I?” he indicated the brandy.
Darcy did not change his disapproving countenance nor did he agree, but Wickham poured himself two fingers of brandy from the decanter, tossed it off, and quickly poured another before he turned his attention to Darcy.
“I seriously doubt this to be a pleasure call, but I am confused as to why of all people you have come, Darcy.”
“I have come for the girl, Mr. Wickham.”
“What girl? Can you not find your own girl, Darcy? With all your money, do you require my assistance in winning over a woman?” Wickham snickered at his attempt at humor.
“I have come to see Lydia Bennet.” Darcy’s voice led Mr. Wickham to realize he meant business.
“Oh, her! You are welcome to her. She has lost her usefulness, if you know what I mean,” Wickham snickered again.
Under the table, Darcy flexed and released his fists several times, and although Wickham’s words disgusted him, Darcy never flinched. “Then I am to assume you have no intention of marrying Miss Lydia.” He measured each word carefully.
“Why would I want to marry such a silly girl as is Lydia Bennet?”
Darcy’s contempt grew by the second, but he kept his anger in check. Wickham had no intention of doing the honest thing by Lydia Bennet; that much was guaranteed. “May I see the girl?”
“Most assuredly,” Wickham replied, “once you tell me how you became involved in this matter. Why is the great Fitzwilliam Darcy in this less than pristine establishment and asking about an insignificant girl? Do you fancy her for yourself? No, she is not for you, but I cannot decipher your connection.”
Although it possessed holes in it, Darcy hoped the story he had practiced would be believable.
If Mr. Wickham knew Darcy’s real motivation, his former friend would use it against Darcy.
“During my stay in Hertfordshire, I became an intimate with Mr. Bennet. We share common interests—love of the land and, of course, books. His cousin, upon whom Longbourn is entailed, is my aunt’s cleric, a man whom she respects.
By your own words, your connection to Pemberley was known to anyone in Hertfordshire who would listen.
Such permitted Mr. Bennet to swallow his pride and to ask for my assistance in this matter.
He has no sons to aid him, and he is not familiar with London.
I am the most logical person. Mr. Bennet simply wants a resolution to this nightmare. ”
“I am not confident I believe you, Darcy,” Wickham began, “but I will send the girl to speak to you.”
Darcy commanded, “We must speak again after I have time with Miss Lydia.”
Wickham said nothing, but one could easily tell he enjoyed the drama of Darcy’s request. He left the table, and, shortly, Lydia Bennet replaced him.
She flounced to the table like a spoiled child being sent to stand in a corner.
“Mr. Darcy,” she did not offer the courtesy of a bow, “my dear Wickham says you wish to speak to me.”
“Please have a seat, Miss Lydia.” He used the voice he had perfected when Georgiana did not wish to practice her music or to complete her studies.
Miss Lydia sat, but she let him know by her actions that she did not do so willingly.
“Miss Lydia, I have been asked to escort you to the safety of your family,” he began softly.
“Why, lordy, would anyone in my family ask you to act in his place? You snubbed Lizzy. No one in Hertfordshire likes you.” Her words stung Darcy’s pride, but he relied on the restraint of his emotions.