Chapter 15 #2
“Well, that settles it. I cannot take Jane. She would be frightfully bored. And Mary would likely not mind spending the time reading on her own, but I cannot think that would be good for her. And of course she would be made uncomfortable by sitting every evening in the drawing room while you watch me play and make that face you make when you are being so frightfully serious.” She sighed and looked about casually.
“No, I cannot subject my poor sisters to such treatment. We shall have to go alone.”
He suddenly gripped her arm and turned her to him a little too strongly. “Are you sure, Elizabeth? You are not teasing or making one of your jokes?”
She shook her head while smiling coyly.
“It is cruel to toy with a man in such a way. Now tell me clearly. Are you saying you will go The Lakes with me alone? No companions, no sisters, just the two of us?”
“And a small army of servants, yes,” she replied.
He pulled her to him and planted a swift kiss to her lips, then just as quickly pulled back and placed her hand on his arm and continued walking as if nothing had happened. She smiled and saw his mouth tick out of the corner of her eye.
“You have made me very happy, Elizabeth,” he said quietly, squeezing her hand on his arm.
She placed her other hand on his arm in response, bringing her closer to him. “I would like to make a request.”
“Anything, my love.”
“I would like for Jane and possibly Mary to come to Pemberley when we return. My family will just be returning from the seaside and father must stay at Longbourn through the harvest and mother with him, but he said they might come in the autumn. I propose that my sisters come in August, then return with my family.”
He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it gently, holding it to his lips for several moments. “Consider it done.”
Though Elizabeth felt apprehensive about having agreed to the unaccompanied wedding tour, she felt a sweet, warm sensation at Fitzwilliam’s happiness in the scheme.
She was not blind to the affection of such a man.
His was not the calculated flattery or imagined attachment of Mr. Collins.
He was a man of sense and education, who had lived in the world.
He was intelligent and, as far as she could see, a decent man.
She was beginning to think she had a chance at happiness, and she sat at the pianoforte the next morning feeling more hopeful than ever.
“Lizzy! I’ve a letter from Maria! Would you like to read it?” Lydia bounded into the room, waving the paper in the air.
“Read it to me, dear. I must continue my practice.”
Lydia settled herself on the chair next to her sister and read over Elizabeth’s playing as her fingers moved up and down the scales.
There was news of Meryton and all its goings-on.
Who had hosted a dinner party, who had worn an ugly dress to the party, who had flirted with whom at the party.
The milliner had gotten in some particularly ugly bonnets and the pig had escaped into the rose garden again.
Then Maria described in minute detail every moment of the assembly where she had danced every dance and several of them with officers, including Mr. Wickham.
He had been engaged briefly to Miss Mary King, an orphan living with an uncle.
Miss King had come into an inheritance of ten thousand pounds, become engaged to Mr. Wickham, and then whisked away to Liverpool by yet another uncle, the engagement broken.
Wickham had seemingly moved on without any signs of heartbreak or disappointment.
No one was terribly surprised; Mary King was a freckled little thing and while Elizabeth and Jane had often said they thought her face fresh and youthful, they knew such was not the fashion.
Maria’s letter told of her dance with Mr. Wickham and how gentlemanly he had been. How he had smiled and complimented and charmed her thoroughly and how everyone would miss him now that the militia had gone to Brighton.
Elizabeth felt decidedly unsettled. Mr. Wickham had been her friend.
They were not family and she had not seen him overmuch since his engagement to Miss King, but still, he had been a friend.
She knew her father’s points had merit and that was why she had listened to him.
She had been willing to give her betrothed the benefit of the doubt, but now, realizing how neatly she had put Mr. Wickham out of her mind while being courted by the man who had taken away his living, she felt slightly disgusted with herself.
It was one thing to give Mr. Darcy the benefit of the doubt, it was another to turn her back on a friend.
When Mr. Darcy arrived a half hour later, she was just finishing up a song.
She relinquished the instrument to her sister and joined Mr. Darcy and her family outside.
They sat in the shade, Mr. Bennet reading a book while his wife and eldest daughter embroidered handkerchiefs.
Darcy and Elizabeth sat some distance from them.
Far enough for private conversation, but close enough to be properly chaperoned.
“How are you today, my dear?” he asked.
“I am well. And you?”
“Very well.”
He looked at her in that dark way he had looked at her in Hunsford, only now she knew finding fault was the last thing on his mind. She did not know how to respond and looked away. He took her hand where it lay on the bench between them and stroked his thumb over her bare knuckles.
He seemed content to sit and watch the flowers bloom while Elizabeth was growing more anxious by the minute.
She was dreading the questions she had to ask but knew it must be done.
They had been getting along so well the last two days and she was fairly certain what she wished to ask would make him angry.
Why was he not speaking! This is Mr. Darcy.
Of course he will not begin the conversation.
She was debating whether it was better to have the conversation here where there was a quick retreat inside, or if they should go for a walk where they would have more privacy should things become heated.
Before she could decide, Mr. Darcy rose and asked her parents if they would mind if they went for a stroll along the water.
Mrs. Bennet smiled and agreed happily while her father nodded absently, clearly engrossed in his book.
They had been along the shore some minutes before Elizabeth spoke.
“Mr. Darcy, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Miss Bennet,” he said her name pointedly and she smiled.
“Fitzwilliam, there is something I wish to ask you about.” He nodded and she continued nervously.
“When we were in Hertfordshire, we met on the street in Meryton once. Do you remember?” He nodded, his brow lowered and his eyes suspicious.
She swallowed and continued on. “I had just met a new officer in the militia. The two of you had a strong reaction to each other and, well, I’m ashamed to admit it, but Mr. Wickham told me about it later, and I encouraged him.
At my aunt’s card party, he related a history to me, involving you, and, well, much of it seemed rather, ahem, rather audacious, and I wondered if you might tell me your side of the story?
” She finished rapidly, her stunted question leaving her embarrassed and awkward.
She snuck a glance at Darcy, but he was looking directly ahead, his profile impossibly straight and perfect.
“What did Mr. Wickham tell you?” he bit out, his tone barely civil.
She looked around nervously, then said in a quiet but steady voice, “He said that he had been a favorite of your father’s and that the two of you had been childhood friends.
You had gone to school together and your father had promised him a living.
He said it was done in such an informal way so that when your father passed, you were able to deny him the living and leave him penniless. ”
They walked on in tense silence for some time until Darcy spoke. “Did you believe him?”
Elizabeth chastised herself. She was well and truly trapped now and could not avoid an answer to the question she had most wished not to discuss.
“At first, I found it hard to believe,” she said hesitantly, “I had not thought you would do such a thing, but then he had such information and was so vehement.” She trailed off, her eyes on the sand.
“So you believed him.”
Feeling utterly wretched and not entirely sure why, she nodded.
Darcy sighed. She felt his whole body tighten through her hand on his arm.
“Will I never be free of that man!” he finally exclaimed quietly.
Stealing a glance at his face, Elizabeth was alarmed by what she saw.
He was red and tense, his brows low over his eyes and his mouth set tightly.
His jaw clenched so hard she could see it flexing.
She had the sudden urge to touch his face, to relieve him of whatever pain he was in and offer what comfort she could.
Before she knew what she was about, she had stepped halfway in front of him and her hand was caressing his jaw.
His eyes opened wide in surprise and then softened as he looked upon her.
“Tell me what troubles you, Fitzwilliam. Do not carry this burden alone.”
He sighed again, resumed their walk, now with her hand clasped tightly under his on his arm, and began.
“Wickham was the son of my father’s steward, an excellent man.
He and my father had grown up together, his father had been steward before him, and their relationship was a steady one.
My father was Wickham’s godfather. George was always getting into scrapes but when we were children, it was harmless.
As we got older, he became more and more unruly, less scrupulous.
My father refused to see him for what he was.
Old Mr. Wickham had died and my father promised to care for George.
He felt loyal to his friend and he was fond of young Wickham.