CHAPTER 57 #3
Jenkins did not ask whether he should be admitted. The question had already been answered by the fact of Wickham’s step in the outer room, light, assured, and too familiar with thresholds that did not belong to him.
“Show him in,” Darcy said.
Wickham entered as if the room had been waiting for him.
He was well dressed, though not with his former ease. His cravat sat too carefully. The mark near one eye had faded but not vanished, and the smile with which he came forward had the bright surface of a polished thing laid over a crack.
“Darcy.”
Darcy did not rise. “Mr. Wickham.”
The correction touched him. Only lightly, but it touched.
“I am glad to find you here,” Wickham said. “You are not always so easy to discover.”
“I am here by appointment to those who have business with me.”
“Then perhaps I should be honoured.”
Darcy looked at him in silence.
Wickham’s smile sharpened. “There is anxiety at Darcy House.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“Miss Darcy is not where she ought to be.”
Darcy let no part of himself move.
“That is a grave matter.”
Wickham watched him closely. Too closely. “If you know anything of her direction, you had better say so.”
“I have no information to give you.”
It was not a denial. He would not waste a lie upon Wickham when refusal would serve better.
“No information,” Wickham repeated. “Or none you choose to give?”
Darcy laid down the pen. “You have no claim upon my confidence.”
“I have a claim upon concern for an old friend’s family.”
“No.”
The single word altered the room more effectively than anger could have done.
Wickham’s colour rose a little, then settled. “You forget yourself. Your father has not placed Miss Darcy in your charge. He has not placed anything in your charge for many years, if I understand the matter correctly.”
Darcy looked at him.
“There are persons,” Wickham continued, “who might think it a serious impropriety if a young lady were encouraged away from her proper home by those who have no authority over her. A fortunate marriage may improve a man’s comfort, but it does not restore standing where his own family has withdrawn it. ”
The words were chosen well. Darcy could give him that. Wickham had always known where old wounds lay, and had never mistaken delicacy for mercy.
“My marriage is not your concern,” Darcy said.
“Miss Darcy’s welfare—”
“Is not yours.”
Wickham’s eyes changed.
Darcy rose then, not quickly, not in anger, but because the interview was over and Wickham should have the benefit of seeing it.
“As far as I am aware, Mr. Wickham, you are neither Miss Darcy’s guardian, nor her brother, nor any person appointed to direct her conduct. If Darcy House has concerns, Darcy House may address them through those entitled to speak. You will not use my chambers to pursue a young lady.”
“To pursue?” Wickham repeated, softly offended. “That is an ugly word.”
“You have earned no prettier one.”
For a moment the polish slipped.
Then Wickham smiled again. “You take a very high tone for a man whose position depends upon a rich wife’s indulgence.”
Darcy reached for the bell.
Wickham’s smile vanished.
Mr. Jenkins appeared almost immediately.
“Mr. Wickham is leaving,” Darcy said.
Jenkins stood aside with perfect office gravity.
Wickham did not move at once. “Your father will hear of this.”
“He may hear whatever you are able to tell him.”
There was a pause.
Wickham had come for certainty. Darcy had given him none.
At last Wickham inclined his head with a civility too thin to cover hatred.
“This is not finished.”
“No,” Darcy said. “But this interview is.”
Wickham left.
Darcy remained standing until the outer door had closed and the sound of his step had gone from the passage.
Only then did he sit. The room was unchanged: papers in their piles, ink drying where he had left it, afternoon light reaching the edge of the desk.
Nothing had been overturned. No voice had been raised enough to draw attention from the neighbouring rooms.
He took a clean sheet and wrote with care.
My dear Elizabeth,
Mr. Wickham has been here. He sought information concerning my sister and received none. I think him uncertain, but active.
He stopped there.
The sentence was small, but smallness was necessary. Wickham had come for certainty and received none. He had pressed the old claim — that Darcy had no authority, no place, no standing — and had left with nothing he could use.
Darcy dipped the pen again.
I shall come home directly.
He sanded the note, folded it, and sealed it before thought could enlarge what action had already settled.
There was little more to be done. Portman Square was shut against the wrong people and watched against the doubtful ones.
Georgiana had company, quiet, shoes, slippers, and all the small articles by which a young lady might begin to feel less like a fugitive.
Elizabeth had made concealment into order, and order into something almost like comfort.
What remained was his father.
Darcy gave the note to Jenkins with instructions that it be carried at once, then turned back to the desk. The papers still waited, patient and useless.
For the first time all day, he did not try to read them.