Chapter 9 #2
“I think this would be best,” Darcy said in conclusion.
“The plan has a considerable number of advantages. We would show London our mutual disinterest in a manner beyond any misinterpretation, and without either being placed at a disadvantage. Invitations to my aunt’s parties are given only to an exclusive circle.
By extending her hospitality to you, it will be made perfectly clear that, despite the rumours being utter nonsense, you are a friend to my family.
And if we both attend in company with another guest, the rumours cannot continue. ”
Elizabeth hesitated a little before speaking. “You would have me attend escorted by another gentleman, then.”
“Yes,” Darcy said, stuffing down his private distaste for the idea. “It would make the point clear to all of London’s wagging tongues.” It was too obviously the solution. His own dislike for the idea of seeing Elizabeth on another man’s arm could not be allowed to interfere.
Surprisingly, Elizabeth herself seemed a little ill at ease with the idea — but no, likely it was only his imagination, and what he wished to see. She could have no reason for feeling so.
No reason other than the one he hoped for too much to believe it true.
She nodded then. “Perhaps you are correct. In any case, I thank you for the invitation. And for caring so much about my reputation. I believe you have done more than anyone could have expected of you.”
“But no more than I expected of myself,” Darcy returned.
Elizabeth smiled, sudden and brilliant. “Then you have high expectations. I should have expected nothing less.”
They spoke then of practicalities, of who might serve as her escort, of how the invitation should be sent. Elizabeth was sensible, precise, and unromantic in her considerations, and Darcy found himself admiring her clarity even as it unsettled him.
At last, the matter was settled as far as it could be.
Darcy looked at Elizabeth for a long moment, weighing a number of considerations.
He could speak, or he could remain silent.
On one side of the scales was the reluctance to drag painful memories into the light, and on the other — the impossibility of allowing Elizabeth to continue thinking undeserved ill of him.
“There is something more on your mind, is there not, Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth asked him, her clear, dark eyes meeting his steadily.
Darcy nodded slowly, his decision made. “If you will allow me, I should like to speak to you about George Wickham.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose, though her surprise was restrained. “Now?”
“If you prefer not to,” he added at once, “I will not press it.”
She considered him carefully. “You believe I have been misled.”
“Yes.”
“And you believe,” she said slowly, “that you can convince me otherwise.”
“I believe you deserve to know the truth,” Darcy replied.
Elizabeth studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
“I will listen,” she said. “But understand this, Mr Darcy. I will not be persuaded by resentment or self-justification.”
“I would expect nothing less,” he said.
Elizabeth folded her hands more tightly in her lap, as though she required added steadiness.
“Mr Wickham told me,” she said evenly, “that he was raised at Pemberley, and that he was a particular favourite of your late father. He said your father intended him for the church, and promised him a valuable living when it became vacant.”
Darcy watched her intently, forcing down a protest. It would not do to interrupt. He would be wiser by far to know exactly what lies Wickham had told.
“And when that living became available,” Elizabeth continued, watching him carefully, “Mr Wickham claimed you refused him the appointment without explanation. He spoke of it as a betrayal, and of himself as a man ruined by another’s caprice.”
Darcy felt heat rise behind his eyes, sharp and unwelcome.
“And did he say anything,” he asked, his voice controlled with effort, “of my sister?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “Only that he found she had grown too much like you: too proud. He did not speak of her at length.”
Darcy exhaled slowly. That omission, at least, had spared Georgiana further injury.
“Then he has told you only what served him,” Darcy said. “And nothing of what condemns him.”
Elizabeth did not interrupt.
“When my father died,” Darcy continued, “Mr Wickham declared he had no desire to enter the church. He requested money instead, claiming he wished to study law. I did not believe him sincere, but I honoured my father’s generosity. I gave him three thousand pounds.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened despite her composure. “Three thousand?”
“Yes,” Darcy said. “It was a considerable sum. He squandered it within the year.”
She said nothing, but the appalled look on her face told him she had understood the implication.
“I hesitate to speak of what came next,” Darcy said, his voice harsh in his own ears. “Nor would I, if I did not trust you to tell no one of what I shall relate.”
“I thank you for your confidence,” Elizabeth said softly. “Indeed, you may count on me.”
Darcy nodded. “The following summer, he sought out my sister while she was staying at Ramsgate with a companion. He attempted to persuade her to elope with him.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught audibly.
“His object,” Darcy said, his voice tightening despite himself, “was her dowry, a fortune of thirty thousand pounds. There was no question of genuine feeling in the case, as you can well imagine of a man who intended to take a girl of sixteen away from her family. Had he succeeded, Georgiana would have been attached to a husband without sense, judgement, or honour, without even affection for her. And had anyone learned of the intended elopement, her reputation would have been ruined.”
Elizabeth pressed her hand to her mouth, too much overcome to speak.
“I came upon the situation by chance,” Darcy continued. “I was only just in time. Georgiana confessed everything to me. I removed her at once and ensured the matter was kept quiet.”
He paused, then added more softly, “I have never spoken of it beyond my family. You will now understand why I asked for your assurance of secrecy. My sister has already endured enough.”
Elizabeth nodded immediately. “Of course.”
Her expression had changed entirely. Where suspicion had once lived, there was now something else. Horror, certainly. Compassion, unmistakably. And beneath both, a resolute belief that steadied Darcy more than he had expected.
“I am so sorry,” she said quietly. “For her. And for you.”
Darcy looked at her, truly looked at her, and felt something settle within him with unmistakable clarity.
She believed him. Not grudgingly. Not provisionally. She believed him because she trusted the truth when she heard it, regardless of what she had once thought of the man who spoke it.
In that moment, Darcy knew himself undone.
He had admired Elizabeth Bennet long before this.
He had been drawn to her wit, her liveliness, her independence of mind.
But admiration was not love, and fascination was not devotion.
What he felt now was neither light nor transient.
It was the deep, unyielding certainty that his happiness had become inseparable from hers.
He did not want to correct the gossip of London society and see Elizabeth Bennet safely indifferent to him.
He wanted to marry her.
The thought came unbidden and did not go. It stayed there, firmly in the centre of his heart, solid and undeniable. And yet, even as it took shape, it was followed by a certainty just as sharp.
It was too late.
He had just proposed a plan designed to separate them in the eyes of the world. He had watched her agree without hesitation. She had accepted the idea of another escort with composure and good sense, and every evidence of approval.
Everything pointed to the same conclusion: she did not wish to be his.
Darcy forced his expression into steadiness as Elizabeth lowered her hand and met his gaze.
“I believe you,” she said simply. “And I thank you for trusting me with something so painful.”
He inclined his head, unable to trust his voice.
“There is nothing more,” she continued, with gentle firmness, “that Mr Wickham could say to alter my opinion now.”
Relief washed through him, mingled with something sharper and far more dangerous. It was enough that she believed him. It would have to be. Because he had already chosen duty over desire, and honour over hope. There was nothing left to do but see the plan through, however much it cost him.
Darcy rose when she did, because it was what propriety required and because stillness felt dangerous.
He saw her to the door, exchanged the necessary civilities in Mr Gardiner’s hearing, and watched her depart as though she had taken the air from the room with her.
After exchanging a few more pleasantries with Mr Gardiner, Darcy did likewise, setting off in his carriage through the bustling streets.
The carriage seemed smaller than it had that morning, as though the walls might collapse in on him. He had told her the truth. She had believed him. He ought to have felt restored. Instead, he felt only the sharp restraint of a man who has glimpsed happiness and must deliberately turn away from it.
The plan remained. It must. He had set it in motion with his own lips, and she had agreed with a composure that left no space for hope. There was nothing to do now but to follow through, to do what was required, and to carry the cost of doing it in silence.