Chapter 19 #3
“When I was seventeen, just as I was to enter university, Father took Wickham and me to Cambridge to settle in for the semester.
He took us both to a… a brothel that catered to the wealthier students.
The girls were supposed to be clean and better cared for than some of the seedier, less expensive places.
Regardless, Father paid and sent Wickham and me into different rooms with women he had selected for us.
It was… it was incredibly awkward, and I had no desire to just…
begin. I tried speaking to her first, asking her questions about her life and interests, and just attempting to get to know her.
She humoured me for a time, however after a while, she decided to, um, move things along.
She began touching me, and, well, I was young and inexperienced, and I… I… well, I… spilt in my trousers.
“I was terribly embarrassed, and she attempted to make me feel better by trying again.
I was too mortified by then to continue and refused to allow her to help me out of any more of my clothing—I had only removed my coat and cravat, and she had opened my trousers enough to…
to touch me. We spoke a while longer since my father had paid for the whole evening with her, and I think she was a little more honest with me after that.
All we did that night was speak, and while she might have been disappointed in some ways, she was content as she had already been paid.
“I confess, Elizabeth, I occasionally went back to her during that school year. We had formed a… a friendship of sorts in those hours. I think… perhaps… I was a friend to her, someone she could be herself with. When I would go, she would touch me and help me find my completion, but I never… we never…” he sighed deeply.
“Of course, I paid her for the time, and she may have only pretended friendship because I always gave her more than was expected since when I went, I took her entire evening.”
Elizabeth squeezed his hand, the tenderness of his confession touching her in a way she had not expected. There was no shame in his tone now, only regret and honesty.
He continued, voice low and raw. “We returned home for the summer, and Wickham teased me about her, claiming I had fallen in love with a courtesan, telling my father that I went only to her and teasing me about the infrequency of my visits. He went far more often, but he also took advantage of any willing female and, I think, a few who were less willing. That year, I used my allowance to pay off a couple of those less willing women, to keep them silent, and even took care of one bastard that resulted from his actions. I tried telling my father about these situations, but he waved them off as inconsequential and as the typical actions of a young gentleman.”
She felt him shake his head, bitterness in his tone, and her own heart clenched at the pain in his voice.
“When the next term was to begin, Father allowed Wickham and me to make our own way to Cambridge.
I visited a friend along the way and arrived a day or two after him.
I decided to pay a visit to the brothel —over the summer, I had decided I felt comfortable enough with the idea actually to complete the act—and when I arrived, I encountered Wickham leaving.
He winked at me and gave me a wave before striding away.
I went in and asked for her, and the madam gave me an odd look.
I thought nothing of it and made my way to her room and found her lying on the bed, in obvious pain.
“He had beaten her. He had taken his pleasure from her—forcefully—and hit her a few times both during and after. I did all I could to assist her, but she was in tremendous pain. She let me know that he told her he wanted to ruin her in my eyes. My father believed I had come to care for her too much and told Wickham to remind me of what she was. I do not think he intended for Wickham to injure her—that was all Wickham’s idea—but he wanted to separate me from her and knew that having Wickham use her would do that.
Wickham believed that he could hurt me by hurting her.
I gave her money, most of my allowance for that quarter, and I hope it was enough for her to find another place.
I never went back to that house or any like it.
I have spent most of my life attempting to avoid being anything like Wickham.
Knowing how he used women, I never wanted to behave that way, and I avoided all the vices that Wickham sought.
“I lost respect for my father that day. He was an excellent master of Pemberley, but that is the only part of life in which I ever wanted to emulate him. In all other aspects of my life, I have attempted to be different. Unfortunately, I allowed myself to think meanly of others, which almost cost me your good opinion, but you helped me overcome that. You, my dearest Elizabeth, have helped me become the man I should have always been.”
She turned to look at him for several moments and finally kissed his cheek. “You have always been a good man, William. Perhaps you lost sight of what mattered for a time, but you have found your way back. You are a good man.”
He kissed her temple. “I love you, Elizabeth.”
“And I love you, William.”
They remained snuggled together, watching the sunrise, until Elizabeth shivered. He said, “Dearest, you are freezing. I must return you to Longbourn before you catch a chill.”
“I am well, William. I will warm up when we walk, but I truly adore being here with you. For now, I am warm enough.”
As they descended the slope hand in hand, Darcy stole a glance at Elizabeth.
The sunlight caught the chestnut strands of her hair, turning them to gold, and her breath clouded faintly in the cold air.
A smile touched his lips despite the mortification that lingered over his confession.
He could not have imagined having that conversation with anyone else; not even his cousin Richard knew the whole of it, having never wanted to admit even to his cousin that he had never had the nerve to complete the act.
As always, he marvelled again at her courage—the quiet fortitude with which she had faced truths that would have embarrassed most ladies beyond endurance. She had not flinched, nor condemned, but simply listened, offering compassion where he had half-expected disapproval.
For so long, he had believed love to be an indulgence of poets and dreamers—a weakness his father would have mocked. Yet as Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around his, he felt instead that it was strength, solid and steady as the earth beneath them.
She had given him grace, forgiveness, and faith in himself—and he would spend the rest of his life proving himself worthy of all three.