Chapter 7
Elizabeth closed the door of her chamber behind her and remained standing for a moment, half-wondering whether she had truly returned to the same house she had left only a short time before.
The quiet of the room felt strange after the intensity of the conversation she had just endured, and the familiar arrangement of the furniture offered little comfort to a mind that refused to grow calm.
She removed her gloves slowly and laid them on the small table near the door before crossing the room toward the window.
The afternoon light had grown pale and thin, and the winter garden beyond the glass appeared entirely still.
From that height, she could see the gravel walk where she had only recently walked beside Mr Darcy. The path now lay empty.
Elizabeth rested one hand lightly against the window frame while she allowed herself at last to consider the conversation and its full consequences.
What Mr Darcy had told her could not easily be dismissed.
At first she had listened with a degree of reluctance which she had not attempted to conceal.
Indeed, she had been fully prepared to hear nothing more than another instance of his well-known dislike of Mr Wickham.
That Mr Darcy’s dislike might be justified had not crossed her mind.
Mr Wickham’s manners had recommended him strongly to everyone in the neighbourhood, and Elizabeth herself had never doubted the sincerity with which he spoke of his past misfortunes.
Yet the account Mr Darcy had given could not be a simple effort to injure a rival. Little as she liked Mr Darcy, she had always thought him an honest man. Proud, harsh, and superior, yes, but honest. She could not imagine him inventing such a lie.
Most especially, there was the matter of Miss Darcy’s narrow escape.
Elizabeth turned from the window and moved slowly toward the chair beside the writing desk, seating herself with her hands folded quietly in her lap.
She could not imagine any circumstance in which a brother would invent such a history concerning a sister whose reputation he was plainly so anxious to preserve.
The delicacy of the situation had been evident in every word Mr Darcy spoke.
Even while explaining Wickham’s conduct, he had seemed less eager to condemn the man than anxious to prevent further harm.
The recollection troubled her more than she wished to admit.
Elizabeth had always considered herself an excellent judge of character, and Mr Wickham’s openness had made a strong impression on her from the beginning.
His account of his disappointments had appeared reasonable.
His resentment had been expressed with moderation.
Everything in his manner had suggested honesty.
And yet Mr Darcy had spoken with a seriousness, a sincerity she could not dismiss.
Elizabeth rose from her chair and walked slowly across the room, her thoughts gaining urgency as she reflected on the implications of what she had heard.
If Mr Wickham had truly attempted to persuade Miss Darcy to elope with him for the sake of her fortune, his conduct could not be regarded with anything approaching indulgence. She was scarcely more than a girl; the blame must be entirely his.
Nor was it difficult to understand the strength of Mr Darcy’s resentment. Elizabeth paused near the hearth and folded her arms loosely as she considered what must now be done.
The danger did not lie merely in her own acquaintance with Mr Wickham.
The militia remained in the neighbourhood, and Lydia and Kitty had already shown themselves far too eager to seek the company of its officers.
It required very little imagination to foresee how easily an unscrupulous man might take advantage of such circumstances.
Mr Darcy had chosen to confide in her rather than speak to her father.
At first, the choice had surprised her. Perhaps she had even felt a momentary irritation that he should presume to judge Mr Bennet’s attentiveness to his daughters.
Yet the explanation he had offered could not be dismissed lightly.
He trusted her discretion. He believed she would understand the delicacy of the situation.
Elizabeth drew a steady breath. Mr Darcy’s judgment of her father was one thing; her own was another.
Something must be done, and her father was the logical choice to do it.
Of course, Mr Bennet could not be told everything.
Some of what Mr Darcy had revealed was for her ears alone.
But her father loved her; he would listen to her even without knowing the extent of the danger.
She moved toward the small desk near the window and rested her hand on its polished surface as her thoughts settled into a clearer resolution.
Whatever his habitual indifference to minor concerns, her father would not knowingly expose his daughters to danger.
If she explained the matter calmly and with proper restraint, leaving aside any mention of Miss Darcy’s name, he must surely see the necessity of acting.
At the very least, he could make some quiet inquiries regarding Mr Wickham’s conduct. Even a small investigation among his acquaintances could reveal whether Wickham had contracted debts or behaved improperly elsewhere.
Elizabeth straightened, nodding a little to herself. If such suspicions proved well founded, it would then be perfectly reasonable to discourage Lydia and Kitty from forming any close acquaintance with him. The plan was sensible and just; her father must see that.
Elizabeth gathered her shawl from the back of the chair and wrapped it about her shoulders.
The action seemed to settle her determination completely.
Mr Darcy had honoured her with his trust. He had undergone considerable embarrassment to see to it that she was not unwittingly exposed to danger.
She could do no less than ensure the warning was properly considered.
With that resolution firmly established, Elizabeth left her room and made her way toward her father’s study.
As she had expected, Mr Bennet was there.
The door stood slightly open, and she paused only long enough to steady herself before knocking gently on the frame and entering.
Her father sat at his writing table with a book open before him, though the clutter of manuscripts pushed to the side suggested that his attention had wandered considerably.
Mr Bennet looked up as she entered and regarded her with mild curiosity. “Well, Lizzy,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “you appear very serious this afternoon. Have you come to recommend another novel, or to inform me that the world is ending?”
Closing the door behind her, Elizabeth took a deep breath.
Her father’s wit had rarely been worse timed or less welcome to her, but it would not do to let herself be teased.
She must persuade him of the importance of what she had come to say.
“Neither, Papa,” Elizabeth said. “I wished to speak with you about a matter that has caused me much concern.”
Mr Bennet raised his brows slightly. “That is a formidable introduction. Pray, sit down and relieve my suspense.”
Elizabeth drew a chair toward the desk and seated herself opposite him.
For a moment she hesitated, considering how best to present the subject without revealing more than she was entitled to disclose.
She had already determined that Miss Darcy’s name must not be mentioned, yet even without that part of the history, the warning she intended to give could not be softened.
“I have lately heard something concerning Mr Wickham,” she said at last, “which makes me fear that his character may not be entirely what it appears.”
Mr Bennet’s expression altered only enough to show a faint amusement. “Indeed. That is a grave discovery. Has he failed to admire one of my daughters sufficiently, or admired one of them too much?”
Elizabeth could not help smiling faintly, though she quickly resumed her seriousness. “I am quite in earnest, Papa.”
He regarded her for a moment longer before closing his book and placing it on the table beside him. “Very well. Let us be serious together. What is it that troubles you?”
Elizabeth folded her hands on her lap and spoke with deliberate care. “I have reason to believe that Mr Wickham has not always conducted himself honourably. I do not know every particular of the circumstances, but I have heard enough to make me uneasy about the attention he receives here.”
Mr Bennet tilted his head slightly. “Uneasy in what way?”
Elizabeth met his gaze steadily. “I think it possible that he has behaved imprudently in the past. Perhaps even dishonourably. And if that is the case, I cannot help fearing that his acquaintance with our family may not be entirely safe.”
Mr Bennet studied her for a moment with an expression that hovered somewhere between curiosity and amusement. “My dear Lizzy,” he said at last, “this is a very alarming suggestion. You appear to suspect Mr Wickham of being a scoundrel.”
Elizabeth hesitated only briefly. “I believe it possible.”
He leaned back in his chair again and folded his arms. “And what would you have me do with this possibility?”
Elizabeth had anticipated the question, yet hearing it spoken aloud made the difficulty of her task suddenly clearer.
“I thought,” she said carefully, “that perhaps you might make some quiet inquiries. Much might be discovered by talking to our neighbours and to the tradespeople. Then, too, surely Mr Wickham has acquaintances beyond our neighbourhood. It may not be difficult to discover whether his conduct elsewhere has been entirely respectable.”
Mr Bennet’s mouth curved slightly. “You propose that I investigate him.”
“Only discreetly,” Elizabeth said quickly. “If there is nothing to discover, no harm will have been done. But if there is reason for concern, it would surely be better to know it sooner rather than later.”