16. Past and Present #2
Darcy bowed his head. “I will endeavor to do so.”
“I hope you will do more than endeavor. Endeavor is a useful word when one expects difficulty.”
“I expect difficulty,” Darcy admitted.
Mr. Bennet’s amusement faded somewhat. “So do I. Word has reached me of your reaction yesterday to Mr. Wickham.”
Darcy’s shoulders stiffened.
Mr. Bennet noticed. Of course he did. The man might play indolent before his family, but there was little indolence in his eyes when he chose to use them.
“I do not ask from curiosity alone,” Mr. Bennet continued. “The young man is often in my house. He is attached to Lydia, and I have not discouraged it. If an untrustworthy man sits at my table, I should like to know it.”
Darcy chose each word with care. “I have known Mr. Wickham for many years. We were raised in some proximity. My father was his patron.”
“And?”
“And I have grave reason to distrust him.”
“That is a broad statement.”
“It is the broadest statement I may honorably make without bringing another person’s private distress into public view.”
Mr. Bennet watched him, fingers now still upon the chair. “Has he wronged you?”
“Yes.”
“Financially?”
“In part.”
“Morally?”
Darcy looked directly at him. “Yes.”
That answer had an effect. Mr. Bennet’s brow furrowed, and the light humor that ordinarily guarded him vanished.
“You believe my daughter in danger from him.”
“I believe every family should be cautious where Wickham is received.”
“Yet you will not give particulars.”
“Not without permission that is not mine to grant.”
Mr. Bennet was silent long enough that the sounds from the parlor became audible: Mrs. Bennet speaking too quickly, Bingley answering with warmth, Lydia laughing at something, Elizabeth’s lower reply.
At last Mr. Bennet said, “I will be vigilant.”
Darcy inclined his head. “That is all I can ask.”
“No, Mr. Darcy. It is not all you can ask. You can ask that I trust your warning despite your withholding the very facts that would justify it.”
Darcy accepted the rebuke. “Yes.”
Mr. Bennet’s mouth twisted slightly. “A difficult position for us both.”
“I know.”
“I shall make inquiries of my own. Mr. Philips thinks highly of the young man.”
“I am aware.”
“And you think poorly of him.”
“Very.”
“Then we shall see which judgment holds.” Mr. Bennet rose, signaling the interview at an end, though his expression remained contemplative. “As for Lizzy, you may court her. As for Wickham, I shall watch him.”
Darcy stood. “Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Bennet walked him to the door. Before opening it, he paused.
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“If you wound my daughter through pride or carelessness, I shall be very disappointed in you.”
Darcy met his gaze. “So shall I.”
Mr. Bennet gave a short nod and opened the door.
The voices from the drawing room reached Darcy before he crossed the threshold.
Mrs. Bennet was recounting, with considerable animation, an unfortunate incident involving a goose, a wheelbarrow, and one of Mrs. Long’s nephews.
Bingley laughed in precisely the right places, whether from genuine amusement or generous instinct Darcy could not have said.
Jane listened with patient attention. Lydia and Kitty occasionally supplied corrections that complicated the tale further.
Elizabeth stood near the window.
She glanced toward the doorway the instant he entered.
It was the briefest meeting of eyes, but something in her expression had evolved since the previous day. She was searching his face.
He wondered whether his own betrayed equal curiosity.
Mrs. Bennet rose.
“There you are, Mr. Darcy! Mr. Bennet has not detained you too severely, I hope. My husband has a dreadful habit of discussing books when perfectly pleasant company is available.”
“I fear I have escaped that fate, madam.”
Mr. Bennet entered moments later.
“Darcy has survived the ordeal admirably.”
“I told you Papa would not devour him,” Lydia declared.
“I reserve the right to do so another day,” Mr. Bennet replied.
The room laughed.
Conversation resumed naturally.
Bingley soon found himself beside Jane once more. They were discussing Netherfield’s neglected gardens with remarkable seriousness considering neither possessed much practical knowledge upon the subject.
Mrs. Bennet drifted toward them.
Kitty followed.
Lydia intercepted Mary with questions about a piece she had lately begun upon the pianoforte.
The room shifted without anyone intending it.
Darcy discovered Elizabeth standing beside a small table upon which rested a vase of late roses.
“You appear relieved,” she observed.
“Do I?”
“A little.”
“I have received your father’s permission to court you.”
Color brightened her face.
“So that is what Papa wished to discuss.”
“It was.”
“And?”
“And he was kinder than I deserved.”
She smiled.
“Papa generally is.”
“He warned me against wounding you.”
Elizabeth laughed.
“Then he knows me very well.”
“I assured him disappointment would be mutual.”
Her amusement faded into something gentler.
“I am glad.”
“So am I.”
She touched one of the roses with a fingertip.
“It feels strange.”
“What does?”
“Yesterday we were disagreeing over Mr. Wickham.”
“We still are.”
“True.”
“And today...”
She looked back toward the others.
“...today we are courting.”
“There is no contradiction.”
“No?”
“My regard for you is independent of my opinion of George Wickham.”
“I am not certain mine can remain wholly independent.”
The honesty stung.
Darcy accepted it because he preferred honesty to comfort.
She continued. “I know you are keeping something from me.”
He held her gaze.
“I am.”
“I thought so.”
“It is not because I doubt you.”
“I know.”
“I would tell you here if I could.”
Elizabeth glanced toward her mother, who had begun explaining to Bingley precisely why Netherfield’s poultry must be improved.
“We are hardly private.”
“No.”
He hesitated a moment.
“Would you walk with me in the garden?”
Her answer came without visible ambivalence. “Yes.”
Mrs. Bennet scarcely noticed their departure, being fully occupied in recommending several local families whom Mr. Bingley absolutely must know.
The late summer garden still held much of its color.
Roses climbed warm brick walls.
Michaelmas daisies had begun to bloom.
Bees drifted lazily among the flowers, paying little attention to gentlemen burdened by impossible conversations.
They walked several yards before either spoke.
Elizabeth folded her hands behind her back.
“I dislike secrets.”
“So do I.”
“You carry them badly.”
“I have had little practice.”
She smiled faintly.
“I do not believe that.”
“No?”
“No. I think you have spent your entire life carrying responsibilities no one else saw.”
He regarded her in surprise.
She had arrived nearer the truth than she could possibly know.
“I promised honesty,” he said.
“You did.”
He stopped beside an old stone bench shaded by an elm.
“What occurred this summer concerned my sister.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened. “You need not tell me anything that would violate her confidence.”
“I believe she would rather you knew than continue thinking me unreasonable.”
He gathered his thoughts carefully.
“My sister was in Ramsgate with her companion while I remained briefly in London on business.”
Elizabeth nodded.