Chapter 31
Darcy hated to admit defeat, but short of tracking Wickham all the way to London — leaving Elizabeth without his protection, and thus as repulsive a prospect as giving up his pursuit — it was time to turn back to Longbourn.
“We will find him, Darcy,” Bingley said, his unflagging faith and perpetual optimism annoying when nothing had gone right that day and so much had gone wrong in the days prior.
“Thank you, Bingley.” The terseness in his clipped tone, when his friend had meant to encourage, moved Darcy to add, “This can hardly be how you had wished to spend your first week of matrimony.”
Bingley grinned. “My wife treats me like a hero for forgoing our wedding tour to help her sister. I would say the delay is well worth my while.” He blushed furiously, making Darcy regret he had said anything at all beyond a simple expression of gratitude.
Richard chuckled. “Well played, Bingley. It is my observation that the more firmly a husband establishes himself in his wife’s good graces, the easier it is for her to forgive him when he inevitably bumbles awry.”
Darcy grumbled, tapping his heels at his horse’s side. He was in no mood to speak of matrimonial felicity when he was regrettably … miserably … unmarried.
“Come, Darcy,” called his jolly cousin. “We are merely attempting to extract you from your brown study before you return to your lady love.”
Richard was correct, but the afternoon had been replete with frustrations.
First, the empty hovel with no clues other than a few boot prints which could have belonged to anybody.
Then, they had gone to Lucas Lodge to secure more help, and Sir William’s offer of Mr. Collins’ assistance meant that the clergyman had not departed as Darcy had incited him to do the day before.
What was Sir William thinking, offering his useless son-in-law’s help?
Mr. Collins could not open his mouth without giving offense or lulling his audience into a stupor.
But that was not the extent of Darcy’s grievances.
He had made the mistake of calling at the inn where his aunt informed him she had followed through on her threat to write to the director of Bethlem Hospital.
Her interest, she claimed, was to do her duty by “that girl” in securing her the treatment necessary for her recovery.
In reality, she held no qualms in having Elizabeth committed to Bedlam to be poked at and experimented on and studied like one of Galvani’s frogs.
Lady Catherine’s moral obligation extended also to him and Anne, whose interests she boldly defended.
Darcy had objected.
She had retaliated with spite. “Are you so ungrateful when my only consideration is for your peace and prosperity? Do you really believe you could be happy attached to a woman doomed to insanity? I swore to your mother on her deathbed that I would watch over you in her stead.”
Bringing his mother into the argument had been too much. “With such delusions you suffer, you will be hard put to direct the doctor’s attention to Elizabeth. He would sooner have you committed.”
It had been necessary to point out the presumptuousness of her interference, but he ought to have done so with less threat and venom. His harsh words haunted him.
Lastly, and worse of all, Wickham had escaped. Darcy had sacrificed a day of wooing to chase after that ingrate for naught.
Elizabeth met them where the drive to Longbourn met the road. She smiled, and even as Darcy slid to the ground, his heart soared, his disappointments assuaged.
“Did you leave Wickham with the constable?” she asked, looking between him and his companions.
“No. He could be hiding in London by now,” Darcy replied.
She took his arm. “No matter. We will find him, and when we do, not even Wickham will be able to worm his way out of the consequences of his actions. The evidence is irrefutable.” She told her audience about Wickham’s indiscretions (no great surprise there), Lydia’s injuries (deplorable, but again, not entirely unexpected), her faked pregnancy (what a relief!), and then, of Lydia’s poisoned tonic. Horrifying.
“So, you see,” Elizabeth concluded, leading her dazed audience into the house where the rest of her family and Dr. Sculthorpe were huddled together, “Wickham is the only one who would have poisoned Lydia’s tonic, and when that did not work, he filched Father’s beehive.
And since his preferred hiding place was behind the carriage house, it is reasonable to assume he also sabotaged the carriage. ”
Richard flicked his coat tails aside, taking a seat. “The proof is there, but something does not quite ring true. Wickham is lazy. He is the first one to take advantage of an opportunity, but he has never been one to do the dirty work when he could get someone else to do it for him.”
Darcy agreed. But a desperate man might go to desperate means. How desperate had Wickham been?
Dr. Sculthorpe drummed his fingers on top of his belly. “This Wickham — does he, by chance, possess a grandiose sense of his own self-importance?”
“Absolutely,” Darcy and Richard answered in unison, Darcy adding, “He presumes to have been the favorite of my father, a better son than I was.”
The doctor nodded gravely. “Does he suffer delusions of grandeur, believing himself entitled and thus shamelessly exploiting others?”
“Yes.” Darcy said nothing of Wickham’s attempt to elope with Georgiana for her dowry, nor his many means of extracting money from the Darcys over the years.
Looking at Lydia, the doctor asked, “Did he constantly require praise and expressions of admiration?”
She shrugged. “Of course, but is that not normal? I quite like being praised and admired.”
Dr. Sculthorpe smiled at her. “Of course, to a degree. Your father will have to recall our Greek studies, but I am certain he recalls a certain hunter renown for his beauty.”
Mr. Bennet fiddled with his spectacles. “You refer to Narkissos?” After a confirming nod, he added, “He fell in love with his own reflection and was turned into a flower, the narcissus, for his vanity.”
Dr. Sculthorpe tap tap tapped his fingers against his stomach.
“Narkissos has since been used as a figure to represent the dangers of an exaggerated love of self. People possessed of such a character, if left unchecked, become so absorbed in themselves, so thoroughly selfish in their pursuits, they become callous and often lash out against anyone and anything depriving them of what they feel is their rightful due.”
Darcy exchanged a look with Richard. The doctor had not met Wickham, and yet he had described him perfectly. “What can we expect from such a man? Is he truly capable of evil?” he asked.
“What can you tell me about your past dealings with this Mr. Wickham?” Sculthorpe asked, the drumming of his fingers slowing as he listened intently for a good half of an hour to the various accounts Darcy, Richard, and Mr. Bennet narrated. There were many from which to choose.
Several times, Darcy’s gaze flickered to Elizabeth, praying their stories might restore some of her memories and fearing what she might add to their conversation if she did. Georgiana’s greatest mistake was unknown to the majority in the room, and Darcy meant to keep it that way.
But, if Elizabeth remembered, she gave no evidence of it. She remained quiet, soaking in the conversation, only asking the occasional question.
“What do you make of him?” she finally asked. “Is he a danger still?”
The doctor clasped his hands together and sighed.
“I am afraid this is only the beginning.
He possesses the same peculiarities of some of the accused criminals I interviewed in one study.
My aim was to discover if there was a connection — a family trait or characteristic, innate or learned — which could predict whether a man was more likely to commit a violent crime or not. I saw many of his kind.
“Years, or as I understand from your account, a lifetime of cultivated grandiosity and entitlement, of hiding his true nature behind a facade of charm… Most fell into two groups. One was proud, even boastful of their crimes. The others insisted on their innocence, convinced of their own lie until the rope dropped at the gallows. They were so accomplished at deceiving others, they deluded themselves into believing they were not responsible for their own actions, persuaded by their own twisted minds that their crime was nothing more than an unfortunate accident. They felt no guilt, no remorse, because they had committed no wrong. They would have been better off at an asylum — and I do not say that lightly.”
Richard rubbed his side whiskers. “It is possible. If it is true, it makes Wickham a greater threat than we had supposed.”
Elizabeth stood. “Not if we allow him to think he succeeded.” Far from defeated, she sounded excited. There was a glint in her eye Darcy was familiar with, and had Wickham seen it, he would have been afraid.
“What do you suggest?” he asked, winning him a sparkling smile.
“We have already allowed the villagers to believe something dreadful has transpired at Longbourn. I say we use it to our advantage. We dress in mourning. We act as though Lydia has died and allow the gossip to spread.”
“But he is pretending to have returned to the militia in the north. How will news reach him?”
“We pretend as though we have accepted his story and send a messenger to his regiment.”
“That will take days. Up to a week,” protested the colonel.
Darcy shook his head. “Wickham is impatient. He could not wait for the tonic to effect its course after one night, exposing himself to the dangerous task of transporting hundreds of bees in order to make another attempt. He will approach us sooner with a credible excuse.”
“I will write to his commanding officer, detailing what we know so he can send an envoy to deal with him,” Richard said.
“I sent a letter detailing the proofs over an hour ago,” Mr. Bennet added.