Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
THE WICKHAM ENCOUNTER
Darcy’s morning had begun with such promise.
A solitary ride across Netherfield’s modest parkland, a breakfast mercifully free of Caroline Bingley’s attentions, and the prospect of estate business that would provide a respectable excuse to avoid social obligations for the remainder of the day.
Such small mercies were becoming increasingly precious during his stay in Hertfordshire.
Now, as he reluctantly accompanied Bingley toward Meryton, that hopeful start lay in ruins.
His friend, displaying the infuriating social enthusiasm that defined his character, had insisted Darcy join him for business in town.
No amount of pointed references to correspondence or tenant matters had deterred him.
“I tell you, Darcy,” Bingley said cheerfully as they walked along the high street, “you cannot remain entombed at Netherfield every day. A gentleman must show himself in society, particularly in a neighborhood where he is new.”
“An admirable sentiment,” Darcy replied dryly, “though I believe one gentleman showing himself is quite sufficient. Your sisters remain at home, after all.”
“Only because Caroline’s new bonnet has not yet arrived from London,” Bingley laughed. “I assure you, once properly equipped, she will demonstrate her neighborly virtues with remarkable diligence. Particularly where you are concerned.”
Darcy suppressed a grimace. Caroline’s ‘neighborly virtues’ were precisely what he hoped to avoid. Her increasing attempts to secure his attention had grown from tedious to nearly unbearable.
“I must order these agricultural treatises,” Darcy said, gesturing to the small bookshop ahead. “Perhaps you would prefer to conduct your business at the haberdashery while I attend to mine.”
“Nonsense! We shall visit both establishments together, and then perhaps stop at the inn. Sir William mentioned an excellent ale brewed locally.”
Darcy sighed internally. Bingley’s sociable nature was his greatest charm and his most exhausting quality. His inability to comprehend how anyone might prefer solitude meant that Darcy was perpetually dragged into social situations from which he derived no pleasure whatsoever.
Now, walking along Meryton’s main thoroughfare while Bingley greeted every shopkeeper and tradesman within a mile radius, Darcy reflected that his instincts had been entirely correct. The bustling market day atmosphere only served to remind him why he preferred the ordered isolation of Pemberley.
“Such a charming town,” Bingley observed, pausing to examine a display of autumn vegetables with the keen interest typically reserved for fine art. “And the people are so very welcoming. I do believe we shall be quite happy here, Darcy.”
Darcy’s response was forestalled by the approach of what appeared to be a military patrol. Bingley immediately brightened at the sight, his natural gregariousness extending to anyone in possession of a uniform.
It was then that Darcy saw him.
George Wickham.
Darcy instinctively slowed his pace, his mind racing through options for avoidance.
“I say, is that Wickham?” Bingley’s voice carried entirely too far, effectively eliminating any hope of discreet retreat. “It is! George Wickham, of all people!”
Wickham turned, his expression shifting from mild inquiry to pleased recognition at the sight of Bingley—and then to something far more complex when his gaze settled on Darcy.
The flash of calculation in those familiar eyes lasted only an instant before being replaced by a smile of such apparent warmth and sincerity that anyone who did not know him would be thoroughly deceived.
“Charles Bingley!” Wickham exclaimed, breaking away from his companions to approach them. “What a delightful surprise. And Darcy too—how remarkable to encounter you both in such an out-of-the-way place.”
Darcy clenched his teeth. The memory of Ramsgate surged unbidden—Georgiana’s tear-stained face, her devastation when she realized her “beloved” had been interested only in her fortune.
The urge to seize Wickham by his regimental collar and demand an accounting for that betrayal nearly overwhelmed his rigid self-control.
“Wickham.” He offered the barest nod that civility could permit.
Bingley clasped Wickham’s hand. “Indeed, what extraordinary luck! We were at Cambridge together,” he explained to the officers who had followed Wickham. “Though I confess I expected you in the law, Wickham, not the militia. The red coat becomes you, however.”
“The law proved less enticing than I had hoped,” Wickham replied with a self-deprecating smile. “The militia offers excellent company and the opportunity to serve one’s country. Colonel Forster has been most welcoming—I have found a true home in the regiment.”
A true home indeed, Darcy thought bitterly. After squandering your inheritance, failing at every legitimate pursuit, and nearly destroying my sister.
“You must have only recently joined,” Bingley continued. “The regiment arrived in Meryton but a few weeks ago, I understand.”
“Indeed. I had the good fortune to encounter Colonel Forster in London. When he mentioned Hertfordshire, I thought a change of scenery might prove beneficial. I am, indeed, Lieutenant Wickham, at your service.” He punctuated his address with a smooth bow.
The falsehood grated on Darcy’s nerves. A few weeks ago, Wickham had been plotting at a coaching inn with Georgiana’s companion, Mrs. Younge, on trapping his young, fifteen-year-old sister into a compromising situation.
One that would have resulted in social death for his sister and a forced marriage to the scoundrel who only cared for her dowry.
No doubt his debts had caught up with him, and he must have escaped to the militia here in Hertfordshire. What a stroke of bad luck for him and Bingley.
“Hertfordshire has much to recommend it,” Bingley enthused. “Fine countryside, friendly neighbors, and charming society. I have taken a lease at Netherfield Park and find myself increasingly content with the decision.”
“Have you indeed?” Wickham’s gaze flickered briefly to Darcy. “How fortuitous that old friends should find themselves in such proximity. Are you similarly settled, Darcy, or merely visiting?”
“Merely visiting,” Darcy replied, keeping his tone neutral despite the tension coiling through him. “I expect to return to Pemberley shortly.”
“Ah, Pemberley.” Something shifted in Wickham’s expression—a hunger quickly masked. “Still as magnificent as ever, I imagine. I often think of it with great fondness.”
The audacity of this statement nearly caused Darcy to forget his resolve to maintain civility. That Wickham should speak of Pemberley with “fondness” after attempting to secure it through his manipulation of Georgiana was beyond offensive.
Bingley, oblivious to Darcy’s mounting anger, filled the awkward silence. “How is your family, Wickham? Your father was steward at Pemberley, was he not? A position of considerable responsibility, I recall.”
“My father, yes.” Wickham’s countenance assumed an expression of practiced grief. “I regret to inform you that he passed away some years ago. A sudden illness—quite unexpected.”
“My dear fellow, I am so very sorry. I had no idea,” Bingley said with sympathy in his voice. “My father would have been quite distressed to learn of Ralph’s passing. They maintained such a warm correspondence over the years. Unfortunately, he, too, passed about a year ago.”
Darcy’s attention sharpened at this intelligence. While Bingley’s father maintained business ties with Pemberley, he had not known that his father’s steward had maintained a relationship with them.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Indeed, your father’s kindness to our family has never been forgotten.” Wickham’s gratitude appeared sincere. “Is your mother well?”
“As well as can be,” Bingley replied. “She is still settling her affairs.”
“I know my mother would be delighted to renew their acquaintance when circumstances permit,” Wickham replied. “She speaks so fondly of their friendship during my father’s years at Pemberley.”
“I trust your mother is comfortably settled?” Bingley inquired with his usual concern.
“At Pemberley still, in fact,” Wickham said, his gaze fixed deliberately on Darcy. “In the dower house—Rose Cottage. Darcy was kind enough to honor my father’s long service by allowing her to remain. A gesture of remarkable generosity.”
“How kind indeed,” Bingley said warmly. “Exactly what one would expect from Darcy—a man of great integrity where family obligations are concerned.”
Wickham’s smile remained fixed, though something cold flickered in his eyes. “Quite so. Darcy has always been most particular about family matters. My mother enjoys the isolation of Rose Cottage.”
Rose Cottage. The scene of his uncle’s murder. Darcy was too young to remember much. His mother refused to speak of his uncle’s family, other than that he’d married beneath his station.
Of course, he wasn’t cruel enough to remove Mrs. Wickham from Pemberley after her husband’s death.
Ralph Wickham was Pemberley’s trusted steward, and Darcy’s father was George Wickham’s godfather.
The previous generation maintained friendly ties, and indeed, Darcy had once treated George as a brother—before the younger Wickham showed his avarice and dissolution.
Within a few months of his father’s death, George had wasted away the settlement from Darcy’s father’s will, refused the living provided at Klympton, and squandered a law degree.
The last straw was that sordid affair with Georgiana.
A situation Darcy would do anything to keep private.
The conversation had taken a direction that made Darcy deeply uncomfortable. Wickham began inquiring into the local families and their daughters.
“I’m eager to make the acquaintance of local families, especially the gentlemen of consequence,” Wickham was saying. “I find myself always drawn to good society and pleasant conversation.”