Chapter 15 Seeds of Doubt
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SEEDS OF DOUBT
Considering that Darcy was in the neighbourhood, Wickham judged it prudent to absent himself from the Netherfield ball.
It was better to avoid his old acquaintance and the risk of unwelcome scrutiny.
But if the ball held no profit for him, the inn at Meryton did.
While most of the county’s gentry were at Netherfield, the village still bustled with tradesmen, travellers, and idlers ready to share a tale or two.
Gossip was Wickham’s favourite currency, and he was eager to collect.
He claimed a corner table and ordered a pint of ale. His purse would not stretch to anything finer. Grimacing at the bitterness, he reminded himself that at least ale was cheap enough to keep his head clear and his wits sharp enough to turn others’ chatter to his advantage.
It did not take long for useful talk to reach him.
A shopkeeper boasted items the gentlemen had purchased in the village over the last few days, some for that evening’s ball, but some which clearly indicated the gentlemen were courting.
Another patron muttered that Miss Bingley had been sent off to Scarborough.
“Good riddance, I say,” the man laughed, “for she never looked pleased at anything.”
Most tantalising, however, was one man’s account.
He swore that not only was Mr Bingley courting Miss Bennet, but it seemed Mr Darcy himself had begun to find Miss Elizabeth more than tolerable.
“They were at Netherfield for three or four nights,” the fellow said knowingly.
“Miss Bennet fell ill—her shrew of a mother pushed her to ride out in the rain, no doubt—and Miss Elizabeth followed, to nurse her. Two finer girls I never knew, and it seems these new neighbours have come to appreciate them at last. Mark me, there’ll be a double wedding before long. ”
Others agreed, praising the two eldest Bennet sisters with warmth while speaking less charitably of the rest of the family.
The younger girls were dismissed as frivolous, the mother as foolish, and the father as negligent—judgements Wickham found all too easy to accept, based on his limited acquaintance with them.
Wickham leant back in his chair, ale in hand, his mind racing.
So—Darcy and Bingley had taken up residence at Netherfield, the single sister had been bundled away, and whispers abounded about the Bennet sisters’ stay at the house.
Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth might be admired, but admiration could easily turn to envy or suspicion.
The soil was already rich with half-truths and idle talk; it only needed the right hand to sow a seed.
Fertile ground for mischief indeed—all it required was the deftest touch to flower into scandal.
A thin smile curled his lips. By all accounts, Elizabeth Bennet was clever, spirited, not easily deceived.
But her sister Miss Bennet—such a gentle, trusting soul—was another matter.
According to reports, that lady was inclined to see the best in everyone, and Wickham recalled that she had listened with sympathy to his tale of Darcy’s supposed cruelty.
A little reinforcement, another warning that Darcy’s wealth and influence might overwhelm Elizabeth’s judgement, and Miss Bennet would believe him.
Once that good lady was convinced, she would try to protect her sister.
The angel is my way in, Wickham thought darkly. She will never doubt me. If she warns her sister against Darcy, so much the better. Let her suspicion take root; if I am not mistaken, she is already jealous of her sister.
He drained the rest of his pint with a grimace.
The ale was sour, but it matched the bitterness curling through him.
Darcy may think himself secure, he considered, a thin smile touching his mouth, but I still hold a weapon.
Miss Bennet’s goodness would serve him well enough.
Through her, he would pull her clever sister down—and in doing so, strike at Darcy once again.
His mind sharpened as he considered how best to act.
Miss Bennet was gentle, almost painfully so, and far too ready to believe the best of everyone.
If he spoke to her in tones of regret, with a little sigh here and a well-placed hesitation there, she would accept every word.
He would need only to plant a suggestion—no accusations, nothing bold enough to be denied outright.
She would not believe her sister mercenary, so he must be careful about his hints.
Yes, Miss Bennet would believe him. She would see herself as Elizabeth’s protector and urge her sister to be cautious, to question, perhaps even to withdraw from Darcy.
Once suspicion took root, it would grow quickly.
Elizabeth was spirited, but she was also proud.
A hint of doubt could become a quarrel, and quarrels, Wickham knew, were the death of affection.
He leant back, smiling to himself now. “The beauty of it is that no one will suspect me. I need only play the injured friend, the concerned admirer, and let Miss Bennet carry my words where they will do the most harm.” He set down his empty tankard, satisfaction flickering across his face.
“Darcy may have his fortune and his pride, but I still have my tongue—and that, well used, is sharper than any blade.”
His chance came sooner than he hoped. The morning after the ball, Darcy departed with Bingley to attend to business in London.
Both men assured their particular Miss Bennet that they would return within a se’nnight.
However, it had only been Darcy who had spoken directly to Mr Bennet, promising to return the following Monday with or without his host. On that same morning, Mr Collins likewise quitted Longbourn—having, to universal relief, made no proposals to any of the Bennet daughters.
Although both ladies were disappointed in at least some of the departures from the area, Elizabeth noted a peculiar air of resignation in her sister.
Jane repeatedly referred to Miss Bingley’s assertions that her brother was inconstant.
Elizabeth had not heard of this before, but apparently Miss Bingley had made the claim more than once during the shortened dinner at Netherfield when Jane fell ill.
At some point, the lady had visited Jane in her room while Jane was in bed and made similar claims. Before the ball, Jane had received her first letter from Miss Bingley and in it that lady had boldly declared that her brother was destined to marry Georgiana Darcy when the young lady entered society.
Elizabeth dismissed it as falsehood and attempted to convince Jane of as much, but her sister would not be persuaded.
To Jane, Mr Darcy’s new civility to Elizabeth was no proof at all; if anything, it only confirmed her belief that he was trifling with Elizabeth’s affections while planning another match for himself, one more suited to his status in the ton.
It was in this unsettled state that Jane chanced to meet Mr Wickham in Meryton that same afternoon. Elizabeth and Jane had parted with some tension between them, and when Kitty and Lydia proposed a walk into the village, Jane, eager for distraction, agreed to accompany them.
They had not gone far along the High Street before Lydia gave an unladylike squeal of delight. “There is Mr Wickham!” she cried, tugging at Kitty’s arm. The two younger girls hurried forward, leaving Jane a few paces behind when Wickham turned and greeted them all with his usual easy charm.
“Miss Bennet,” he said warmly, bowing with just the right mixture of respect and intimacy, “what a pleasure to encounter you. I trust you enjoyed the ball at Netherfield?”
“It was… a fine evening,” Jane replied softly, her tone lacking conviction.
“I am glad to hear it,” Wickham said, his eyes lingering on her with a sympathetic air. “I confess, I feared it might have been less so for you and your sisters. Darcy and Bingley—” He broke off with a sigh, shaking his head as if reproving himself. “Forgive me. I should not speak of such matters.”
“Oh, pray do!” Lydia cried, leaning eagerly closer.
“You have the best stories about Mr Darcy. He really is a disagreeable and formal man, barely speaking to either Kitty or me, and will purchase us nothing that we ask for. It is so difficult to be in his company when he calls at Longbourn. I suppose he only does so because he would be bored otherwise, but please do not hold back on our account.”
Unwilling to admit that she rather liked Mr Darcy, Kitty still giggled at her younger sister’s words, but Jane frowned faintly at hearing that Mr Wickham had confided his tale in others as well.
Something rang false about that, but she pushed the thought away nearly as quickly as it occurred to her.
“If something is upon your mind, Mr Wickham, you may speak it,” she said in her gentle way.
“I know you mean only to protect others from harm.”
Wickham gave her a pained smile, lowering his voice just enough that Lydia and Kitty, distracted by the window of a nearby milliner’s shop, did not catch every word.
“You are too good, Miss Bennet. I cannot but admire your generosity of spirit. Yet I would be remiss if I did not warn you—Darcy is a man of great wealth and greater influence. He does not always scruple how he uses either. Your sister—clever and spirited though she is—may find herself persuaded against her better judgement if he presses his attentions. I only wish her safeguarded from sorrow. I have heard he has left, so perhaps she is safe.”
Jane’s brow furrowed, the words striking too near her own private fears. “Do you truly think he would—?”
“I think only this,” Wickham interrupted softly, his tone heavy with false sincerity.
“Darcy’s pride runs deep, and his alliances are made carefully.
He is expected to marry very well; in fact, he is often connected with his cousin, Miss Anne de Bourgh.
I know that you, Miss Bennet, must know how dangerous it is when status and affections are unequal.
I trust you will forgive my frankness, but I hope you will watch over your sister and protect her.
Recall what I told you at our first meeting about his cruelty in denying me the living I was promised. ”
Before Jane could reply, Lydia skipped back, demanding his attention, and the moment was broken. Wickham turned his charm upon the younger girls easily, but as he bowed his farewell a few minutes later, his glance lingered on Jane. His expression was all regret and concern, but inwardly he smiled.
The seed was planted. If Miss Bennet carried his warning to her sister, doubt and discord would do the rest and that lady would throw Darcy over, making the man miserable.
When the sisters were alone together later that evening, Jane sat quietly for some time, her work in her lap untouched. At length, she spoke, her voice low and hesitant.
“Lizzy… may I speak to you about something that has been troubling me?”
Elizabeth looked up in surprise. “Of course, dearest. What is it?”
Jane hesitated, then pressed on. “I happened upon Mr Wickham in Meryton this afternoon. He—he enquired after us with his usual kindness, but…” She faltered, then admitted, “He spoke of Mr Darcy. Not unkindly, exactly, but with concern regarding his own experiences with the man. He fears that Mr Darcy’s wealth and position might—well—overbear your judgement. ”
Elizabeth stiffened, her cheeks warming. “And you believed him?”
“No—at least, I do not wish to,” Jane replied quickly. “But you know how candid Mr Wickham always seems. He spoke as though he only desired to protect you from sorrow. I thought… perhaps he knows something I do not. Even you admitted that he and Mr Darcy were once friends.”
Elizabeth rose and crossed the room, then returned to sit by her sister, taking her hand firmly.
“Jane, you must not let him poison your mind. Whatever his motives, Mr Wickham has wronged Mr Darcy grievously. Do you not remember what I told you? I cannot explain all—some of it is not mine to tell—but I beg you, do not let his words cast a shadow where none belongs.”
Jane searched her sister’s face, torn between her habitual trust in Mr Wickham and her growing unease. “Then you are certain? Quite certain, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth squeezed her hand, her voice steady though her heart pounded. “I am. Trust me, Jane. Mr Wickham’s concern is not for me—but for himself. I cannot say what his aim is, but it is not to protect me.”
Although she nodded, Jane was not convinced by her sister’s assurances of Mr Darcy’s overall goodness and particular innocence in Mr Wickham’s case.
Elizabeth always spoke with such confidence, always so certain she knew better than others—but what if, in this instance, she was mistaken?
Her opinion of Mr Darcy had shifted with startling suddenness; surely some event must have prompted such a change.
He was widely known to be proud, even haughty—so what could have moved Elizabeth to regard him now with such favour?
Jane’s heart resisted the thought that her sister might be mercenary, yet the question troubled her all the same.
Could Elizabeth have been swayed, not by affection, but by consequence and fortune?
It seemed impossible that Lizzy would ever permit her virtue to be compromised, and yet…
something must have passed between her and Mr Darcy, something Jane did not understand—and something her sister had not been forthcoming about.
Her thoughts turned uneasily to Mr Wickham’s words in Meryton.
He had spoken with such apparent reluctance, as though loath to cast suspicion, yet compelled by conscience.
His warning—that Mr Darcy’s pride was deep, his alliances carefully managed—had echoed her own misgivings.
Mr Wickham, after all, had never courted Elizabeth himself nor spoken of her with anything but admiration.
Surely such candour must have been sincere.
Had Jane herself not contributed to Elizabeth’s reticence?
She recalled that moment on the stairs at Netherfield when she had spoken with uncharacteristic sharpness.
Perhaps that quarrel had driven Elizabeth nearer to Mr Darcy instead.
If so, was not Jane partly to blame? The thought made her wince, yet it only strengthened her resolve.
One thing was clear: she must act to assist her sister. If Mr Darcy’s influence over Elizabeth grew unchecked—if Elizabeth mistook admiration for affection—it could end in heartbreak, or worse. Jane determined she would speak to her sister again, gently but firmly.