Chapter 25
Darcy had been in his study for more than an hour. In that time, he had accomplished almost nothing.
The house was quiet, with Georgiana quietly reading in her bedchamber and Mrs Annesley likely doing the same.
It ought to have been an ideal situation in which to work.
Papers lay open before him which required only ordinary attention, but his mind would not remain fixed on them.
Another subject occupied all his attention.
Elizabeth.
As the days and then weeks had passed, Darcy had come no closer to accepting her choice.
If she had been swayed by the threat of his connections’ disapproval, Elizabeth was not the woman he had thought her.
Yet love remained, even when the facts said it ought to go.
Elizabeth had given him up, had taken a bribe to do so; he ought to rejoice at his lucky escape.
Darcy could not. The impression of her presence and the clear honesty of her eyes remained stronger even than the apparent facts. Logic dictated that he must accept the conclusion to which the facts led, but his heart refused to do so.
He rose from the table, crossed the room, and returned with no clearer conclusion than before.
Elizabeth’s name had not been spoken in that house since the Bingleys’ visit, yet she was nowhere absent from his thoughts.
Every attempt to direct his attention elsewhere ended in the same defeat, and even the silence of the room, which might once have aided his concentration, only made the disorder of his reflections more obvious.
He stood at the hearth, his hands loosely joined behind him and his mind no nearer rest than when he had entered, when a knock sounded at the door.
The knock lacked its usual regularity. It came quickly, then again, hesitant — suggesting agitation rather than urgency. When Darcy called for admission, the footman entered with visible disquiet.
“Sir,” he said, “there is a gentleman below who insists on seeing you.”
Darcy looked at him in surprise at so mysterious a beginning. “His name?”
“Mr Wickham, sir.”
The footman’s hesitation required no further explanation.
Darcy took care to keep his voice even. “He cannot be admitted. He has no business in this house.”
The servant, who plainly wished to be rid of the message and yet did not know how to withdraw it, hesitated. “He says, sir, that the matter is of consequence, and that he must speak with you tonight. The urgency of his manner was considerable.”
Darcy regarded him for a moment, then moved toward the door.
“Very well. I will see him.”
He descended at once, not hurriedly, but walking with a purposeful step.
When he reached the hall, he found Wickham waiting there with an ease which, under the circumstances, might have appeared remarkable to anyone less acquainted with his character.
A footman glowered at him, as though to say he had better not so much as think of going further into the house, but Wickham acted as though he did not even notice he was being guarded.
He stood as though no impropriety attached to his presence, and turned toward Darcy with an air of careless civility that, in another setting, might almost have passed for confidence.
Darcy did not waste time on pleasantries. “You have no right to present yourself here,” he said, “nor can you expect to be received in a house where my sister resides. Whatever you have to say, you may say it elsewhere. You will not remain here.”
Wickham inclined his head with a politeness that did not disguise the insolence beneath it. “I am perfectly sensible of the impropriety, and should not have ventured it, had the matter not been of some importance.”
“I am not disposed to hear it under this roof.”
“I had imagined as much.”
There was something in his tone which arrested Darcy’s attention more closely. “If you have business with me,” he said, “you will come outside.”
Wickham gave a slight smile. “As you please.”
There was nothing to be gained from further discussion. Darcy shrugged into his coat and went out. To his relief, Wickham followed him without hesitation.
They proceeded some distance without speaking.
The streets were quieter now than earlier in the evening, and the little traffic that remained offered no interruption to the silence between them.
Wickham appeared entirely at his ease, as though he walked in the company of a friend rather than a man who had every reason to despise him.
Darcy, who neither trusted his temper nor wished the business heard by chance observers, continued onward until a tavern at some distance offered the privacy he required.
A room was secured, and when the door had closed behind them, Darcy turned to face him with a countenance no longer moderated by the necessity of public restraint.
“You will now explain yourself.”
Wickham, who sprawled casually in his seat as though he expected nothing more than an evening of drinking with an old friend, looked up with an expression meant to suggest composure. “Willingly. It concerns a lady in whom, I think, you take some interest.”
“I do not take your meaning.”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he pronounced slyly, emphasizing each syllable of her name as though to create the greatest effect.
Knowing it was folly to betray any weakness to Wickham, Darcy kept any reaction from his face, though it cost him a considerable effort to do so. “I am acquainted with the lady. What of her?”
Wickham smirked unpleasantly at him. “I have reason to believe that her departure from Kent was not, as some might suppose, entirely voluntary.”
Darcy’s expression changed then, in a manner that would have discouraged any man less bent on his purpose. “You will explain what you mean.”
“That she was sent away,” Wickham said, “and in such a manner as might, if properly represented, excite a degree of curiosity not altogether favourable to her.”
Darcy started despite himself, the composure he had maintained giving way for a moment before he could recover it. “This cannot be true,” he said; the steadiness of his tone did not fully conceal the force of the impression. “You will confine yourself to facts.”
“I have every intention of doing so. Miss Bennet, as I understand it, was dismissed abruptly. She did not remain to complete her visit. She did not even remain long enough to make proper arrangements for leaving. Indeed, she was sent off in such haste that she had no opportunity, I believe, of collecting her things before she went.”
Darcy’s attention sharpened into something like pain. “She was sent away? Against her will? You are certain of this?”
“I would not repeat it if I were not.”
Darcy drew a breath, but did not permit himself to speak too soon. “Proceed.”
Wickham, encouraged by what he chose to interpret as alarm, settled more comfortably in his chair.
“It is not difficult to imagine how such circumstances might be received. A young woman staying with relations is dismissed without warning and sent away almost immediately, and without even the common preparation which such a departure must naturally require. It is the sort of story that invites inquiry before it invites charity.”
“What inquiry?”
Wickham looked at him with a faint expression of amusement.
“Any that may best answer the purpose of those who repeat it. Some might suppose she had given offence. Others, that her conduct had attracted a degree of notice which could not be overlooked. There are always minds willing to suspect more than they know.”
Darcy’s hand, resting on the table, tightened once and was still. “You will not proceed further in that vein.”
“On the contrary, I think I must, for the matter is not without delicacy. A story of this sort, once started, is not easily contained. It requires very little to give it life, and less still to preserve it. One hint produces another. A suggestion of impropriety may become, in the mouths of others, a certainty. A circumstance imperfectly understood may be repeated until it is received as established fact.”
Wickham paused, watching Darcy closely.
“It might be said,” he continued, “that she had attracted attention which she ought to have avoided, or that something had been discovered at Rosings which could not be passed over in silence. One need not even specify the charge. Indeed, it is often better not to do so. Vagueness serves such matters far better than precision.”
Darcy’s eyes did not leave him. “You speak of slander with great familiarity.”
Wickham inclined his head slightly. “Only with the familiarity of observation. Society has always shown itself willing to improve on the truth.”
“And you propose to assist it.”
Wickham wagged his finger in reproof. “Not at all, Darcy, not at all! I merely propose to prevent the most tragic and irreparable damage to Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s good name — provided I am given a reason to remain silent.”
Though the words were expected, they were not less contemptible for being so. “What do you require?” Darcy asked in disgust.
Wickham smiled then, for the first time without disguise. “Nothing, I think, that can appear unreasonable to a man of your fortune. My situation is not what might be hoped. Certain obligations press upon me. With your assistance, they might be very easily removed.”
Darcy regarded him without speaking.
“If you choose to satisfy those claims,” Wickham continued, “and perhaps give me a little something more for my trouble, I see no reason why Miss Elizabeth’s name need be exposed to any very disagreeable speculation. The whole business may remain where it is, and nothing further need be said.”
“You wish me to discharge your debts, and pay you into the bargain.”
“Yes, if you must say it so plainly.”
“And in return?”
“I remain silent.”
There was a pause, not from any wavering of purpose, but because Darcy had a great deal to consider and plan. Elizabeth’s safety and honour could not be left to chance.