18. A Possibility of Error #2
The addition struck him harder.
Elizabeth continued. “My uncle says Mr. Wickham is diligent, useful, and honest in business. My father finds no cause to withdraw his approval. Jane urges charity. Lydia—” She paused, her eyes moving briefly toward the house.
“Lydia made a better argument than any of us expected. Until Mr. Wickham proves himself unworthy of our regard, we will not treat him as though he has done so.”
Darcy looked toward the orchard, where fallen apples lay in the grass. “I cannot blame your family.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose slightly.
“You have known him longer than you have known me,” he said. “You have received him in your home. Your uncle employs him. Your sister is attached to him. Loyalty is not a vice.”
“Thank you.”
“But that does not excuse your support of a scoundrel.”
Her face closed. “There it is.”
“I will not soften the truth merely because it displeases you.”
“And I will not abandon a man whose behavior has given every indication of reform merely because your resentment is more established than my acquaintance.”
“Resentment?” Darcy repeated.
“Yes. Resentment. You told me yourself your good opinion, once lost, is lost forever. I begin to wonder whether you consider that a virtue.”
He drew back. “You think me unjust.”
“I think you are certain. Those are sometimes different things.”
“Wickham earned my trust.”
“And has done nothing here to confirm it.”
“Because he wishes to deceive you.”
“Or because he wishes to be better.”
Darcy’s temper stirred again, unwelcome and familiar. “How do you explain Ramsgate?”
“I cannot.”
“Then—”
“But I do believe we are missing some vital bit of information.”
He gave a sharp breath. “You cling to that hope because the alternative displeases you.”
“And you cling to guilt because innocence would require you to reconsider too much.”
The words struck cleanly.
Darcy stared at her.
Elizabeth’s face flushed, but she did not retreat. “Speak to him.”
“No.”
“Civilly.”
“No.”
“Mr. Darcy—”
“I will not sit with George Wickham and be poisoned by his lies.”
“You need not believe him. You need only listen.”
“I have listened to him before. He has an answer for every charge and a smile for every person he means to use.”
“Then test him. Ask him questions. Let him account for himself.”
“He already attempted that performance.”
“He asked you to name the man you believe guilty, did he not?”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”
“Mr. Wickham told Lydia that you spoke of a summer misunderstanding. Lydia told me. I inferred the rest badly, perhaps, but you have given me little else.”
“I owe Wickham nothing.”
“No.” Elizabeth’s voice shook now, not with fear but strain. “But do you owe me so little?”
The question checked him.
She drew a breath and lowered her eyes. “Will this be the wedge that drives us apart?”
His answer came too quickly.
“If you allow it.”
The hurt in her face was instant and undeniable.
Darcy would have given much to call the words back, but pride held him motionless.
Elizabeth nodded once. “I see.”
“Elizabeth—”
“No. I have taken enough of your morning.” She stepped back, gathering her dignity with visible effort. “Good day, Mr. Darcy.”
She walked toward the house without waiting for his bow.
Darcy stood in the garden until the door closed behind her.
Darcy mounted with more force than elegance.
His horse tossed its head at the abrupt movement before settling into an easy walk down the lane. The hedgerows stood beneath a pale autumn sky, their leaves beginning to surrender to the season. A pair of crows lifted from a nearby field, complaining noisily as they crossed overhead.
Ordinarily, such familiar sights restored him.
Today they merely accompanied his thoughts.
If you allow it.
The words echoed with painful clarity.
He had spoken them as if the matter admitted one reasonable conclusion. As if Elizabeth’s reluctance to condemn Wickham amounted to disloyalty toward him.
His hands twisted the reins.
What else was I to say?
She believed Wickham.
No—not believed. She believed her own judgment. There was a distinction, however slight.
Elizabeth had never claimed Wickham incapable of deceit. She had claimed that the man before her bore little resemblance to the villain Darcy described. Again and again she thought of the same point: conduct, consistency, observation.
His own accusation rested upon history.
History, and Georgiana.
His thoughts circled the same ground until the horse slowed of its own accord.
He urged it forward.
Three years.
He had not spoken more than a handful of words to Wickham in that time.
Their lives had diverged completely after the exchange of the living.
Darcy had believed the matter concluded.
Wickham had accepted four thousand pounds between the legacy and the living, declared his intention of entering the law, and vanished.
Darcy had expected to hear, in time, that the money was gone.
Instead...
He had found him precisely where Elizabeth claimed.
Working.
Studying.
Keeping regular hours.
If it were an elaborate deception, it was one maintained with remarkable perseverance.
His jaw hardened.
Wickham possessed perseverance enough whenever profit required it.
That much had not changed.
Yet another thought intruded, unwelcome and persistent.
How many men of five-and-twenty willingly become solicitors’ clerks merely to preserve a disguise?
The profession demanded patience. Endless copying. Endless reading. Endless hours bent over deeds and leases and conveyances. It was not the life Wickham had once desired. He had wanted ease. Fashion. Cards. Officers’ messes. Admiration purchased upon credit.
The image of him carefully arranging papers outside the stationer’s shop returned with irritating vividness.
Darcy gave an impatient shake of his head.
“No.”
The word escaped aloud.
A passing farmer glanced curiously toward him before continuing with his wagon.
Darcy removed his hat in apology.
The horse carried him onward.
By the time Netherfield appeared between the trees, the argument within his own mind had grown louder.
One part of him demanded consistency.
Georgiana had nearly been ruined.
Mrs. Younge had betrayed them.
Wickham had been named.
The letter.
The nod.
Everything pointed in one direction.
Another part, quieter but increasingly difficult to silence, asked uncomfortable questions.
If Wickham truly meant to deceive the Bennets, why attach himself to Lydia?
He had always sought wealth.
Miss Lydia possessed spirits enough for three women, but scarcely a fortune.
If he wished to entrap an heiress, Hertfordshire offered richer opportunities than the fourth daughter of an untitled gentleman.
Unless...
Darcy stopped himself.
Unless he was materially different. He almost laughed. The notion remained absurd.
Men did not reform so completely.
Did they?
His father had believed they could.
Old Mr. Darcy had never ceased hoping for Wickham’s improvement. Even after schoolmasters complained. Even after Cambridge. Even after one disappointment yielded another.
“He has excellent abilities, Fitzwilliam,” his father had once said. “Abilities are a gift. Character must be cultivated.”