Chapter 19
When the curricle jolted forward, Elizabeth grasped the edges of her seat to steady herself, her mind struggling to join Mr. Wickham when she still felt the pull to look back at Robinson.
“How long has Mr. Robinson been in your father’s employ?” Mr. Wickham asked before she was ready for conversation.
“Two weeks,” she replied breathlessly. Good heavens, had it only been a fortnight?
“If he is as capable at arranging your father’s affairs as he is at chopping wood for the fire, I dare say he will have Longbourn running ship-shape in no time!
” While Mr. Wickham meant the words as a compliment, they irritated Elizabeth.
She managed Longbourn, and it was in fine working order without any help from a gentleman.
Her vanity wished to correct Mr. Wickham’s wrong assumption, but she had promised to be cautious.
She had no other good reason to tell him about the business difficulties Robinson was helping her family sort through.
No, if she was to have Mr. Wickham’s conversation for the next few minutes, she wished to learn what she could about Mr. Darcy without any listening ears. “Mr. Robinson has been a godsend to us, but it is not him I wish to discuss.”
Mr. Wickham chuckled. “You get straight to the point. You wish to hear about Darcy?” He glanced at her, eyebrows arched in question marks.
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Your wish is my command. But before I regale you with tales of growing up at Pemberley, pray allow me to make a confession.” Elizabeth was all attention.
“I realize how it must look to you, and to others, for me to single out your notice.” He watched her for a reaction.
She raised an eyebrow. Why should she speak when he seemed to know her thoughts already?
With a somber nod, he added, “I wish to reassure you that my intentions are honorable. You see, having grown up at Pemberley and being aware of the agreement forced upon both you and Darcy, I feel honor-bound to determine your character on behalf of my old friend since he is not present to discern your true nature for himself.”
He questioned her character? His motive surprised Elizabeth so much, she laughed. “You act to protect Mr. Darcy’s happiness?” How delightful! It spoke well of young Mr. Darcy’s character that a friend he had not seen in a decade would act in his interest.
“As I mentioned before, we were as close as brothers.” He frowned, tightening his grip around the reins and very clearly wrestling with the words he wished to say.
Elizabeth waited, not wanting to do anything to turn the topic away.
She desperately wanted Wickham to explain away Robinson’s concern and prove himself trustworthy.
Mr. Wickham’s jaw clenched, and he looked away, his thoughts clearly tormenting him.
When he finally did speak, his voice was a tremulous whisper.
“His father loved me more than he loved his own son.” An unexpected admission.
Elizabeth sensed his sadness, his guilt.
Feeling guilty herself for doubting his motive, she imagined what that must have been like for a devoted friend to experience.
Her heart sympathized with young Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“Mind you, this was through no fault of Darcy’s. He was a quick student, intelligent, capable in any pursuit to which he applied himself. But he did not know how to please his father. He got little praise, if any. He was sent away to a strict school infamous for its discipline and rigor.”
The picture Mr. Wickham painted of Mr. Darcy stunned her into silence. This was quite different from the privileged existence Elizabeth had assumed he lived . She shook her head, mouth agape, unable to express her deepening distress.
“As a result, he was much closer to his mother than his father. Lady Anne was a gracious woman and a devoted mother. She attempted to soothe the relationship between father and son. Sadly, it was not possible. Mr. Darcy was so determined that Darcy meet or exceed his demanding expectations that he was blind to his son’s advancement.
He saved his compliments for me. I had not done a fraction of what Darcy had done, and I know I did not deserve them as he did.
” Mr. Wickham bowed his head, his breath shaky.
The horse slowed. “Not a day goes by that I do not wish I might have helped Darcy in some way, that I might have done something”—he waved one hand in the air, as though he might capture a remedy of the past—”anything to encourage him to stay. ”
“Why did he leave?” Elizabeth asked, wishing the horses would stop altogether so that she had more time to learn.
“Darcy doted on his little sister, Georgiana. Georgie. She was a happy child, secure in the affection of her family and the servants. She was the apple of her father’s eye.
” Mr. Wickham paused, took a deep breath.
“She was so young when the fever took her. It came on her quickly, and then she was gone.” Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her torso.
The thought of losing any one of her sisters made her ache inside.
“The family physician implored Lady Anne to stay away, advised the whole family to keep their distance and allow him and the nurse to care for Georgie. But Lady Anne was firm. She was the child’s mother, and her place was at her daughter’s side.
” Elizabeth clutched the collar of her redingote, her heartbeat in her throat.
“Mr. Darcy tried to entice her to get more rest, to take more nourishment, to allow him to take her place so she could rest. But she was adamant that her daughter needed her.”
“Was Fitz—” It felt strange to say his given name. “Was he at home?”
Mr. Wickham shook his head. “He was at school. By the time he reached Pemberley, they were both gone.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard. “He must have been heartbroken.”
“It broke all of our hearts.” His voice cracked and he reached for his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief.
“My apologies,” he said, sniffing and wiping his eyes.
“It was the worst time for all of us. Nothing we could say would comfort her. When she took to her bed, Mr. Darcy sat with her, held her hand every day.” Another dab to his cheeks.
“She was too weak to fight the fever off. It took her within the week.” Elizabeth reached for her own handkerchief, swiping at her eyes.
“I realize how it must seem to you, an intelligent young lady, to have a gentleman convince your father to agree to his vision of the future with his son, but you must understand how difficult it was for Darcy. He was not yet of age, and the matrons of society positioned their daughters to gain his notice. They tried to force friendships with their sons so that he might notice their sisters. Leeches, the lot of them!”
It must have been tiresome to be so relentlessly pursued.
However, even with this knowledge into their background, she could not contemplate the senior Mr. Darcy’s presumption without some bitterness.
Of all the young ladies from whom he might have chosen, why had he selected her?
She did not see anything remarkable in what she had done—calling out a “gentleman” for mistreating an elderly woman trying to sell bread in the park—certainly nothing worthy of the distinction with which he shackled her.
In that, she and Fitzwilliam Darcy were equals.
Both were affected by the presumption of a man who believed he could arrange their futures better than they could.
“His own aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh was the worst of them!” Mr. Wickham exclaimed with a humorous scoff.
Elizabeth laughed, grateful for this lighter turn in a conversation that was heavy with sadness.
She was beginning to sympathize with Mr. Darcy, a man with whom she had been mostly angry for many years.
It was such a drastic shift in her view that she hesitated to release her poor opinion completely.
“Come, Mr. Wickham, you cannot say such a thing and deprive me of the rest of the story. How was she the worst?”
“She had decided that her only daughter—Anne is her name—must marry Darcy. She was determined, insisting that she and Lady Anne had agreed on it when the children were yet in the cradle. Mr. Darcy did not particularly like his wife’s elder sister, so he never considered such an arrangement.
Lady Anne, of course, denied ever entering such a negotiation.
She loved her husband, and she wished for her son to marry for love. ”
“They were a love match?” Elizabeth asked, shocked.
“Yes, I suppose they were. Eventually. Mr. Darcy was much older than his wife. He wished for the prominence her title would grant him in the first circles, and the Earl of Matlock needed his daughter to marry into a fortune. Each got what he sought. And by the time Darcy was born, the couple was as happy as any union can be.” Elizabeth was glad they had found happiness with one another.
She, however, would rather know that she loved and respected the man whose name she would take as her own before she married him.
They turned on the road heading back to Longbourn, their time for conversation winding down to an end. “Thank you for explaining Mr. Darcy’s history. It is much more than I would have known otherwise.”
Mr. Wickham turned to her with a friendly smile.
“I hope that you might come to consider me your friend, Miss Elizabeth. I think you are a genuinely good person. You will make a fine wife for my old friend, if I may presume to share my opinion. He was often considered haughty and aloof in the past, but if the last ten years have not improved his character, I am certain a lady such as you can inspire him to change.”
Elizabeth returned his smile. While she felt reassured about Mr. Wickham’s character, she did not believe she would ever wish to marry a haughty, aloof man even if she could change him—which, from her observations, generally did not happen.
If Mr. Wickham had more to say, he did not show it. She was grateful for the silence, having a great deal to contemplate. When considering Mr. Wickham’s motive for revealing what he had, she concluded he had spoken like a concerned friend.
He leaned closer, his shoulder nudging against her, a roguish smile curling his lips. “If there is one thing I know for certain, it is that if Darcy were here, he would be waiting to hand you down from the curricle. He might even act jealous for the time I got to spend with you.”
Elizabeth responded playfully. “A lady can only hope. Our vanity is fragile and must be indulged on occasion.”
When they pulled into the drive, Robinson was waiting, his coat on and his expression as dark as a storm cloud.