Chapter 27
Elizabeth sat by the window for a long time after Miss Lucas left.
Darcy wanted to go to her and ask what troubled her, but her older sister had interfered.
It was a pattern he had especially noticed over the last three days.
Darcy already compared Miss Bennet to a dragon in his mind, and every time she sent him on some pointless errand for her father confirmed his comparison.
Unable to comfort Elizabeth and growing increasingly frustrated, Darcy sought out his favorite exercise of late. Whoever stayed on at Longbourn would have an impressive pile of chopped wood and kindling. Darcy’s hands blistered and bled, and still he chopped.
The exertion had just begun to warm him enough to take off his coat when he saw Mr. Wickham ride up the path to Longbourn with another rider. Darcy imagined a flutter of activity inside the drawing room—cheeks being pinched, skirts smoothed, ribbons adjusted, curls patted into place…
He looked back up at the approaching riders, his heart stopping as he identified the second man. It was Richard. Devoid of his usual smile, he appeared angry, thunderous. And scared.
Good God, what had happened? Why was he here? Darcy blinked at him, receiving a hard look in response. A warning. For what? Darcy did not know what game he was trapped in, much less the rules, yet he must not make any mistakes in this strange situation.
Wickham tipped his hat jovially at Darcy, handing the reins to Johnny, who ran out to take them.
What was the villain so happy about? Darcy wished he knew, but he could not allow Wickham to sense his curiosity.
Best to suggest indifference, aloofness rather than what Wickham would expect.
Setting down his ax, Darcy tossed the last pieces of wood onto the pile, smacked his hands together, and turned to the house, going in through the kitchen door at the back rather than entering through the front entrance with Wickham.
“We have company,” Darcy informed the cook, who was standing over a steaming pot of something that smelled delicious.
Without looking up, she snapped at the maid, “Ready the tea tray.” To Darcy, she inquired, “Lady guests or gentlemen?”
“Two gentlemen. Wickham—” Cook grimaced slightly at the name, giving him pause.
Servants typically caught on to the true character of their masters, and word would spread to the servants in other households.
Darcy doubted Wickham treated his kindly.
He continued, “The other is a gentleman I have known for many years, a colonel in His Majesty’s Army, a good man.
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.” Darcy prayed Wickham would not use Richard’s presence to expose him, but he refused to pretend he did not know his cousin.
She peeked up at him then. “A friend of yours?” At Darcy’s nod, she smiled.
“And a colonel! Such a distinction warrants a hearty repast. Betsy, make space for rolls, cold cuts, and cheese besides the cake cooling on the table. There are preserves in the pantry and biscuits besides. Make sure to shave off a bit more sugar than usual. We cannot allow the colonel to leave Longbourn with an empty stomach.” Her generosity made Darcy smile.
“Make sure you eat enough, Mr. Robinson. You are too thin, and I will not have that Wickham fella eating all my hard work.”
“I will do my best,” he promised, leaving the kitchen for the drawing room, where the two youngest Bennet sisters surrounded Richard.
Darcy slipped inside the room, bowing when Elizabeth saw him and taking a seat by the door.
Wickham was explaining how he was dear old friends with the colonel—a declaration Richard neither confirmed nor denied.
He wasted no time mentioning Richard’s father, the Earl of Matlock, whose property was a short distance from Pemberley, where Wickham grew up.
This news pleased Mrs. Bennet very much, and she immediately sent for her husband so that he might also have the privilege of making the acquaintance of the second son of an aristocrat.
Darcy kept his eyes on Wickham, searching for clues, trying to prepare himself.
Richard took in the scene with good humor, careful to divide his attention equally between all the ladies in the room and not just the two giggling bookends at either side of him.
“Lydia! Kitty!” Miss Bennet hissed, widening her eyes at her sisters in a warning glare that straightened their spines and calmed their outbursts.
Mr. Bennet entered the room, a smile erupting over his features once he saw who had interrupted his reading. “Mr. Wickham! This is a pleasant surprise! And I see you brought a friend?”
“A mutual friend,” stated Darcy, wishing to establish what truth he could while he had the opportunity. “Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam has been a friend of mine since we were children.”
Richard guffawed. “Yes, we were at Eton together for a year.”
A good year it had been. Just before his father had sent him off to that other school. “Was it only a year?”
Another guffaw. “We packed enough mischief into that year! I am certain our professors thought it would never end.”
Darcy smiled fully. “It is good to see you again.”
“I bet it is,” the colonel replied with a roguish grin that made Elizabeth smile. Darcy was glad. He wanted her to like Richard. She would need a friend when she was surrounded by greedy, self-indulgent strangers at Pemberley.
If Darcy’s intrusion was unwelcome, Wickham gave no indication of displeasure.
He completed introductions, exchanged polite remarks with all, and allowed everyone to believe he was a long-time friend with the colonel despite never having met Robinson.
It was almost too much for Darcy, whose conscience swayed in favor of revealing the truth of his identity as soon as their callers departed.
Mr. Bennet sat beside his wife by the fire.
“What news do you bring back from London?” For their benefit, he added, “Mr. Wickham offered to speak on my behalf to the Collector of Customs, Sir Bradley Headstone. Apparently they belong to the same club, and he suggested he might use the association to our benefit.”
The same club? It was not White’s, nor any other reputable club on St. James’s—if, indeed, any of those houses could be considered respectable.
Darcy could only suppose Wickham had met the man at one of the gambling hells he frequented, which bore ill for the Bennets.
It was even possible Wickham might have used whatever acquaintance he had with Sir Bradley to hurry things along toward the family’s ruin, a horrifying thought.
For now, why would Mr. Bennet involve Wickham when Darcy and Elizabeth had already sent the appropriate correspondence to the appropriate agents?
Darcy cast Richard a look, but his cousin’s stare remained fixed on Wickham. Whatever the wretch was up to, it worried Richard… which worried Darcy.
“Ah, yes, I have good news to report on that front,” Wickham said, scooting forward in his seat and securing the attention of every individual in the room, most of all Darcy’s and Elizabeth’s.
She cast him a worried look as though to ask what Wickham was about.
He could only shrug and watch Wickham. “I met with Sir Bradley—a fine chap, if I do say so. I explained your situation, how you are a victim of a dishonest company’s crime.
He was most sympathetic. He suggested that if you were to give him a reasonable sum, he would be willing to delay the process, thus allowing you more time to come up with the balance. ”
Darcy could not believe his ears. Sir Bradley’s demand for money was no surprise after reading Richard’s account of his meetings with the man, but to hear it so blatantly expressed and openly admitted to in a gentleman’s drawing room was appalling.
Yet Wickham did not seem ashamed to mention it, even in front of the ladies, which was shocking.
Richard recovered first. “He expressed willingness to accept a bribe?”
Wickham clucked his tongue. “Not a bribe, per se. Merely a little incentive to look over the evidence presented to him—evidence which I saw on his desk with my own eyes. However, a gentleman such as Sir Bradley has a great deal to oversee and a monumental number of cases under his care. I can see why he would require a little encouragement.”
“How much incentive does he require?” Elizabeth asked, her tone clipped.
Wickham shrugged. “He suggested one hundred pounds.” Gasps echoed through the room, and he quickly added, “Which is a trifling amount, considering the full amount of the debt.”
“One hundred pounds is a little encouragement?” whispered Miss Mary, clearly disapproving of the distasteful subject.
Wickham smiled. “Quite. Of course, I felt it only appropriate to meet his conditions.”
Darcy’s head buzzed. What did Wickham mean by putting forth his own money? How did it benefit him? Mr. Bennet snapped to attention, but it was Mrs. Bennet who achieved speech first. “Mr. Wickham! You are an angel! We are saved!”
He preened under her praise. “You are innocent, of course, and Sir Bradley will see fit to acknowledge as much once he reads through the evidence you have produced. It is only a matter of time before your case is excused and any accusation against you erased from their records.”
“Did he give you a receipt, or are we to accept no more than his word?” Elizabeth asked, the edge in her tone sharper.
Wickham’s personal involvement in their business would only complicate matters rather than improve them.
“He gave me his word as a gentleman.” That might be enough for Wickham, but Darcy had known too many gentlemen who did not deserve the word to give it any credit. From the look on Elizabeth’s face, her feelings were similar.