Chapter 8 The Truth About Mr Wickham
THE TRUTH ABOUT MR WICKHAM
Elizabeth’s aunt Philips, being as fond of society and amusement as she was, was eager to welcome her nieces back home by having the young people of the district for supper and cards. Elizabeth was no less eager to greet the friends she had not seen for so many weeks.
Jane, alas, was far less than eager, sinking onto her bed with her head bowed while Elizabeth was getting dressed. “It is still very difficult for me to pretend cheer I do not possess. I am also very tired from the journey.”
“Tired from our journey?” Elizabeth stared at her. “We have been home three days now, and our journey was but a few hours on good roads in pleasant weather. Hardly fatiguing at all!”
“Perhaps I am getting a cold.”
“You are not tired, Jane. Stop behaving like an old woman.”
Jane shot her an injured look. “I have no wish to play cards.”
Elizabeth summoned a patient smile. It would not do to try and harass Jane into moving past her infatuation with Mr Bingley. It would require tact and kindness. In a softer voice, she said, “You do not have to play cards, but I daresay the time in company will do you well.”
It took some doing, more persuading and cajoling, but finally, Jane acquiesced, and the ladies were off.
Elizabeth eschewed the card tables at her aunt’s house, preferring instead to greet her friends.
All were curious about the home of Mrs Collins, and the infamous Lady Catherine de Bourgh of whom they had heard much from Sir William Lucas.
Elizabeth was happy to relate the charming domestic situation the former Miss Lucas had gained, as well as her general state of comfort.
She even managed to be generous in her opinions of Rosings Park, Mr Collins, and Lady Catherine and avoided saying that Charlotte behaved as if she had aged a decade in the short months of her absence.
Elizabeth had always been well-liked in her home district, and thus the company at the party was loath to leave her for a minute, with one friend after the next coming to greet her and welcome her home.
It was an altogether enjoyable evening, and Elizabeth was exceedingly gratified by her friends’ displays of regard.
Jane too was well-liked, and many approached her for greetings and welcomes as well, but her low spirits and general reticence made many a conversation flounder.
Elizabeth at last found herself relieved from conversation, and looked about for some tea, and a place to sit down. Walking over to the coffee table, she happened to notice Miss King, sitting alone in a corner, silently regarding her own teacup.
Elizabeth had never spent much time with the lady and knew little of her.
Miss King was an orphan, Elizabeth knew, who had come to live with her aunt and uncle King a little over a year ago.
Mrs King was not a pleasant woman, and rarely mingled with the other ladies of Hertfordshire; their home was at such a remove that made visits to town infrequent.
Many in Meryton believed Mrs King regarded the town as beneath her patronage, although Elizabeth had no idea if it was true.
But none of that was anything to do with Miss King, and according to Mrs Bennet, she lived with a different aunt and uncle now.
The creature Elizabeth beheld stirred her sympathy; she was pale and quiet, staring out at nothing in a way that indicated absence of thought.
Having spent the last months worrying over Jane, it was no great feat for Elizabeth to diagnose heartbreak in Miss King. She resolved at once to befriend her.
With a pleasant smile on her face, she walked to where the girl sat. “May I join you?”
“By all means.” Miss King managed a wan smile.
The two ladies made polite small talk for several minutes, commenting on Elizabeth’s travels, the recent weather, and Miss King’s time in Liverpool.
There was, at first, no mention of Mr Wickham, but at length, the girl confided, “My trip to Liverpool, alas, was not entirely pleasant. I suppose you might have already heard, but in case you did not, I am no longer engaged to Mr Wickham.”
Elizabeth briefly laid one hand atop Miss King’s. “I am very sorry to hear it. That must be very difficult for you.”
Miss King nodded, her eyes fixed on the spot where Elizabeth had touched.
“Mr Wickham is not all he appears to be. I suppose, in many ways, I am fortunate.” She took a drink of her tea and squared her shoulders.
“He only wanted my fortune. He is deep in debt to the merchants over every town in which he sets foot, and he has too many debts of honour to even be counted.”
Elizabeth gasped. “How did you—”
“My uncles learnt of it. They believe he would have taken my fortune and abandoned me. They did not tell me the truth of it at first. I fought them, told them they were being unreasonable and unfair. So Mr Wickham found me in Liverpool and attempted to persuade me, most urgently, to go to Gretna Green with him. I was to pack some things and meet him the next night just before nightfall, at the edge of my uncle’s property, where it met the road. As in love as I was…”
Elizabeth saw her swallow hard.
“Something in me revolted against it. So I went to my aunt, who is much more sympathetic to notions of young love than my uncles are. She told me everything they had heard of his debts, the ladies he has ruined…the hints that he has more than one by-blow.”
Elizabeth’s mouth fell open, but she managed to restrain a second gasp.
“My uncle also said—” Miss King darted a glance around her.
“—there are rumours Mr Wickham has done this before, just last summer, before he joined the militia here in Hertfordshire. He attempted to seduce the daughter of someone with whom his father had once been associated, a wealthy girl, very young, from somewhere in the northern counties. The girl’s older brother discovered the scheme at the very last moment and stopped it. ”
Elizabeth straightened with a jolt. Mr Wickham, she knew, was the son of Mr Darcy’s father’s steward. Could the girl have been Miss Darcy? Could the brother have been Mr Darcy? It was unimaginable, but every fact seemed to align with it.
At once the meeting in Meryton last autumn, the icy hauteur on Mr Darcy’s face, made absolute sense. It was their first meeting since the thwarted elopement! Elizabeth wondered that Mr Darcy had not leapt from his horse and beaten Mr Wickham into the ground!
“Do you know the girl’s name?” she asked as circumspectly as she could.
“No. I should imagine it was kept as hidden as possible to protect her reputation.”
Elizabeth resolved to ponder it later and turned her attention back to Miss King. “You have had a fortunate escape.”
Miss King smiled sadly. “Facing the gossip has been very difficult. I thank you for not thinking too ill of me.”
Elizabeth again touched her hand. “No one speaks of these things, do they? They wish to protect young ladies but, in so doing, leave us vulnerable to them. We ought to know when someone has such evil doings lurking behind them.”
The two ladies remained in conversation for some time.
Elizabeth learnt Miss King was no longer living with her aunt and uncle King because her aunt King, disappointed and displeased by her foolishness with Mr Wickham, refused to take her in again.
Instead, she had gone to live with another aunt and uncle in the area, Mr and Mrs Goddard of Ashworth.
Mrs Goddard was relatively unknown to Elizabeth, as Ashworth was not their only home. She knew they had at least two daughters, reportedly very beautiful, and at least one son.
“The air of London does not suit my uncle now,” Miss King told her. “They mean to be in Hertfordshire for at least the whole of the summer.”
Mr and Mrs Goddard were more amiable than her aunt King, and their house was closer to Meryton, allowing her to meet more frequently with other young people in the district than she had been permitted to before.
Furthermore, her cousin Mr Robert Goddard also wished to be in the country for a while, and she expected a very merry time when he was at home.
As the conversation progressed, Elizabeth began to realise she genuinely liked Miss King; once one could get her to speak, she was all ease and friendliness. “I wonder if I might prevail upon you to call on us one afternoon soon?”
The invitation was quickly reciprocated, and each promised to send the other a note to make plans.
Later that night, with Jane in fitful slumber across the room, Elizabeth considered what she had learnt.
Mr Wickham, a man who had seemed everything charming and good, was in truth the very opposite.
Miss King had been greatly deceived as to his character, and Elizabeth herself had as well.
I who have always prided myself on studying character!
With discomfort that made her blush in her bed, she began to think of the other lies Mr Wickham had told her, such as vehemently proclaiming that Mr Darcy should avoid the Netherfield ball, not himself—and then failing to appear.
Telling her, gallantly, he did not wish to spread tales about Mr Darcy, and then doing just that, among a neighbourhood of persons who scarcely knew either man.
Both her father and Jane had cautioned her against so eagerly embracing Mr Wickham’s testimony, and yet she had foolishly blundered on, entirely too agreeable to the man’s cause.
Now she was forced to own that all of those tales were designed to discredit Mr Darcy and based on spite that matched her own.
That and, of course, the fact that the attentions of such a handsome and charming man had quite gratified her vanity. How small that made her feel!
Hard on the heels of that thought was this: if she revised her understanding of Mr Wickham, did she not need to revise her opinion of Mr Darcy along with it?
Mr Darcy had shown great restraint in not having the man ruined; at the very least, he could have had him banished from his position in Forster’s regiment.
Were he truly black-hearted, he could have done any manner of things to Mr Wickham—wealthy gentlemen did hold that power—and yet he had allowed him to go on.
Elizabeth briefly raised a hand to cover her face, recollecting last November when she had danced with Mr Darcy at Mr Bingley’s ball at Netherfield.
She had not been a pleasing dance partner, teasing and challenging him regarding his association with Mr Wickham.
He singled you out, and you repaid him by being prodigiously uncivil.
Mr Darcy had gracefully and graciously deflected her thinly veiled barbs.
She groaned, realising he had spared her additional mortification, as she would likely have humiliated herself further had she continued speaking, defending the indefensible.
What a fool I have been! I suppose my only consolation must be that I am unlikely to see Mr Darcy or Mr Wickham ever again.