23. The Measure of a Man
twenty-three
The Measure of a Man
By the evening of the second day, fatigue had reduced the journey to horses, changing roads, hurried questions, and the repeated fear that every delay had carried Georgiana farther beyond their reach.
By then Darcy had ceased to think in hours.
Time had become horses changed at posting inns, names entered into inn books, servants questioned, coins pressed into hands, directions contradicted, and every mile measured against the possibility of arriving too late.
Wickham rode beside him with a determination Darcy had not expected and had no leisure to examine.
If he tired, he did not complain. If old injuries made the journey awkward, he did not mention them.
When Darcy’s temper sharpened from exhaustion, Wickham answered what was necessary and saved his breath for the road.
They had followed the trail northward, though not with the frantic speed of two lovers desperate to outrun pursuit. That, in the end, saved them.
“They are too easy to trace,” Wickham said at the yard of a small posting inn where a sleepy ostler confirmed that a fair gentleman, an older woman, and a young lady with a veil had stopped the previous evening. “He does not know we are so near.”
“Because he believes the letter will delay me.”
“Yes. And because men like Wycombe always think themselves cleverer than the servants they deceive.”
Darcy looked sharply at him.
“You are certain now?”
Wickham’s lips formed a thin line on his face. “Yes.”
He did not elaborate until they had remounted. The road beyond the inn rose through bare-limbed trees and low stone walls, the countryside growing harsher as they pushed north. Autumn wind cut across the fields, carrying the smell of damp earth and smoke from distant cottages.
“I ought to have named him sooner,” Wickham said.
Darcy kept his eyes upon the road. “You said you did not wish to accuse without evidence.”
“I said it because it was partly true.” Wickham leaned low over his horse as they took a long stretch of road.
“The other part was cowardice. Wycombe used my name once, made me appear a villain in matters where I was not guilty, and I knew the taste of it. When I began again, I determined I would not do to another man what had been done to me.”
“A generous scruple.”
“A convenient one as well. I did not want to drag old filth into daylight when I could not prove whose hands had touched it.”
Darcy said nothing.
Wickham continued after a moment. “I am sorry. If I had spoken plainly when the Ramsgate bill came, perhaps we might have reached this conclusion earlier.”
“I would not have listened.”
The admission came more easily now, though no less painfully. Darcy fought to keep his teeth from grinding once more. “You know it. I know it. Let us not spend the road pretending otherwise.”
Wickham gave a short, humorless breath. “Very well.”
They rode on until late afternoon, when the sky had begun to dull and the first lights of an inn appeared ahead. It stood at a crossroads, low-roofed, with a stable yard half full and a sign swinging in the wind. Darcy might have passed it had Wickham not pulled his horse hard to the left.
“There.”
A chaise stood near the far side of the yard.
Darcy knew it before he had any proof. The sight struck him with such force that for one second he could not move.
The door to the inn opened.
Georgiana came out first.
She wore a traveling cloak and bonnet, her face pale from cold and fatigue, but she did not appear frightened. Beside her stood a fair gentleman of fashionable dress, smiling down at her with easy assurance. An older woman followed, muffled in a dark pelisse.
Mrs. Younge.
Darcy dismounted before his horse had fully stopped.
“Georgiana.”
His sister froze.
All color left her face.
The gentleman beside her stiffened. Wickham swung down from his horse and took two steps forward.
Wickham stopped short. The last of his uncertainty vanished. “It is Wycombe.”
The man’s gaze shifted to him. Surprise flashed first; then irritation; then a practiced look of careless amusement.
“Wickham. How unfortunate.”
Georgiana looked between them. “You know one another?”
“We do,” Wickham said.
Darcy scarcely heard him. He was looking at his sister.
“Get inside.”
Georgiana’s chin rose. “No.”
The word struck him nearly as hard as the letter had done.
“Georgiana.”
“I will not be ordered like a child in the inn yard.”
“You will obey me at once.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Wycombe said smoothly, stepping nearer, “perhaps a calmer discussion—”
Darcy rounded to face him. “You will not address me.”
Wycombe’s expression cooled.
Mrs. Younge moved toward Georgiana. “My dear, you are overset. Come, let us—”
“Do not touch her,” Darcy said.
Mrs. Younge drew back, affronted or pretending it.
Georgiana’s eyes filled—not with repentance as Darcy might have expected. Rather, it was outraged humiliation. “Fitzwilliam, you are making a spectacle.”
“I am preventing one.”
“A spectacle,” Wickham muttered, “would be kinder than Gretna.”
Georgiana’s gaze flew to him. “Mr. Wickham, I do not know why you are here, but this is none of your concern.”
“It became my concern when your brother thought I had tried to elope with you last summer.”
She flushed deeply.
Darcy saw it then. Guilt.
A sickened silence fell over him.
“You knew.”
Georgiana looked away.
Darcy took one step toward her. “You knew I believed it was Wickham.”
“I thought you understood.”
“No.”
“You said the name. I merely—”
“You nodded.”
Her mouth trembled. “I was frightened.”
“And afterward? In every letter? In every opportunity you had to correct me?”
Her eyes flashed through tears. “Your letters made it perfectly clear you would not be moved. You thought me foolish. You thought me deceived. You would have dragged me through a season I despised, watched every gentleman measure my fortune, and then called it protection.”
Darcy stared at her.
He had expected shame. Terror. Collapse.
He had not expected accusation.
Wycombe placed a hand lightly near Georgiana’s elbow, not touching, but close enough to claim. “Miss Darcy has acted with courage.”
Wickham gave a low sound of disgust.
Darcy ignored both of them. “Who is this man?”
Georgiana’s mouth tightened. “Mr. George Wycombe.”
“Not George Wickham.”
“No.”
The simplicity of the answer nearly undid him.
All these months.
Elizabeth’s doubts. Wickham’s bewilderment. His own conviction, wielded like law.
“Why did you not tell me?”
“I was going to. At Ramsgate. Then you came in angry and dreadful and said Mr. Wickham’s name before I could explain. After that...” She swallowed. “After that, you dismissed Mrs. Younge, and I knew you would never hear me. You had already decided everything.”
Mrs. Younge lifted her chin. “Miss Darcy is of age enough to know her own mind.”
“She is fifteen,” Darcy snapped.
“Nearly sixteen,” Georgiana cried.
Wickham closed his eyes briefly, as if the distinction pained him.
Darcy looked at Mrs. Younge. “Your role?”
Her expression faltered.
Wycombe answered for her, with a smile that never warmed. “Mrs. Younge is my godmother. She has been a most devoted friend to Georgiana.”
“Devoted,” Wickham said, “to her fortune.”
Wycombe laughed. “You always did resent another man’s success.”
Wickham stepped nearer, and for the first time Darcy saw the anger he had expected all along. “I resented your using my name. I resent it more now.”
“Your name was already of little value.”
“Enough value that you borrowed it.”
The words struck. Wycombe’s mouth hardened.
Darcy’s hand closed around Georgiana’s letter inside his coat. “We will continue this inside.”
“No,” Georgiana said.
“Yes.” Darcy lowered his voice. “You have risked your reputation in every way possible. You will not add a public quarrel in an inn yard to the account.”
That reached her where affection had not. Her face crumpled briefly before pride restored it.
They entered a private parlor after Darcy paid the landlord enough to remove curiosity from the passage. Mrs. Younge attempted to sit near Georgiana; Darcy placed himself between them. Wickham remained by the door, hat in hand, muddy from the road and grim as a witness at trial.
Wycombe stood by the mantel with practiced ease.
Georgiana sat rigidly upon a chair, hands clasped too tightly in her lap.
“Begin,” Darcy said.
No one did.
At last Georgiana spoke, the words hurried, rehearsed, and defensive.
“I never wished for a season. You knew that. Everyone knew that. I do not wish to be presented and stared at and taught how to speak to gentlemen who care for my dowry. George loves me. He understands. By marrying him, I may avoid all of that.”
“By eloping with him, you invite ruin.”
“We were to marry.”
“With whose consent?”
“I do not need—”
“You do.” Darcy cut across her before she could complete the childish defiance. “The terms of your fortune require the consent of both your guardians before your dowry is paid. Mine and Richard’s.”
Wycombe went utterly still.
Georgiana blinked. “What?”
“Your thirty thousand pounds cannot be released to any man without our approval. If you marry without it, the money may be withheld.”
Mrs. Younge’s face drained.
Wycombe recovered first, though not well. “That is nonsense.”
“It is my father’s will.”
“You cannot mean to deprive your sister of her fortune.”
“I mean to prevent it from becoming prey.”
Georgiana stood. “Fitzwilliam!”
Darcy looked at her, heartsore and furious. “Did he not tell you he loved you without fortune?”
“He does.”
“Then let him say so now.”
Wycombe’s pleasant mask fractured. “This is an absurd ambush.”
Wickham folded his arms. “Not an answer.”
Wycombe rounded on him. “You hold your tongue.”
“No.”
Darcy had no desire to admire George Wickham in that moment. Unfortunately, he did.
Georgiana turned toward Wycombe, confusion beginning to disturb her certainty. “George?”
Wycombe dragged a hand through his hair. “My dear, your brother is attempting to frighten you.”
“Then say it does not matter.”
He said nothing.
The silence did what Darcy’s warnings never had.