Chapter 52
Chapter Fifty-Two
Goulding approached Darcy, who could not bring himself to leave his corner. “You are bearing up well, my friend.”
Darcy attempted a smile, but feared it appeared as more of a grimace.
“Let us get a drink.”
“Here?” Darcy looked at the doorway that would bring them into the taproom and shook his head. “I must return to Netherfield. Georgiana will be anxious for news.”
Goulding clapped Darcy on the shoulder. “The way you appear, you ought not to see her quite yet. Fortify yourself first. A drink will do you good. And if not, it will give us time to speak.”
Darcy suspected that Goulding was correct.
He was so exhausted that he could hardly lift his feet, and so shuffled behind his friend into the taproom.
The prior night had been spent sitting at his desk staring out 0f the window with worry, imagining he might see Longbourn through the darkness, and perhaps catch a glimpse of Elizabeth at the window lit by candlelight.
She would be so beautiful, hair braided or carelessly tousled, in her gown or, dare he imagine, a nightdress.
Would it have lace? Be plain? Would she be writing letters?
Reading a book? Or staring, wishing she might see him across the distance?
He desired to go to her, speak to her, to have her reassure him that all would be well, to have her wrap her arms around him and hold him.
Her warmth might convince him not to lose hope.
There were no available tables, for many had come to enjoy—what a sickening reality—the proceedings, but one group, realising who they were, rose to give him and Goulding their place before patting Darcy on the shoulder and wishing him luck with the inquest. He could not muster a smile, but murmured his thanks.
Two of the jurors walked over, bringing him an ale and another for Goulding. The shorter one asked, “Mr Darcy, is it true that Mr Wickham lived on your family estate throughout your youth?”
Darcy nodded. He did not wish to speak of his life, but knew he must if he wished to save himself, and more importantly, his connexion with Elizabeth.
He would never tell of how Wickham attempted to defile his beloved sister, but he would speak of other matters.
“Mr. Wickham was the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates. George Wickham was my father’s godson. ”
The two jurors looked at one another before the shorter one asked, “So your father helped the lad?”
“My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge. He hoped the church would be Wickham’s profession, and intended to provide for him in it.”
“So your father liked this Wickham?"
Darcy clenched his fists under the table.
His forbidding father found a space in his heart for the worst of young men, preferring Wickham, it seemed, to his own blood because Wickham knew how to ingratiate himself, to appear to be all his own father would have wanted in a son.
Darcy said none of this, but added, “My father found Mr Wickham’s manners engaging and held the highest opinion of him.
As for myself, I was aware before anyone of the man’s vicious propensities. ”
“Vicious? Do explain,” asked the taller juror, eyes wide at the prospect of gossip.
Darcy could be discreet, but why? Wickham deserved to have his name dragged through the mud.
Even if Darcy’s life had not potentially hinged on the telling of this tale in a way that made Wickham out to be the villain that he was, he would relish, for once, revealing the truth.
“He was unprincipled, frivolous, and cruel, even from a young age. My father was blinded by his charms, as were so many others, but I knew the truth.”
The men glanced at one another, but Darcy could not read the meaning.
Goulding urged, “Tell them what he was like after your father’s death.”
He had to continue, knowing this story might help the jurors to understand.
But how much to share? He sipped at his ale, then decided definitively to offer less than the full account.
“He spent the subsequent years proving himself to be all that I suspected. Whatever ills you can imagine, his behaviour was worse.”
The taller man asked, “Why did he come to Hertfordshire?”
“He came here to provoke me, and while he did just that, I was not so beyond control that I murdered the man.”
The jurors nodded at one another, and the taller of the men said, “You ought to share this and more tomorrow at the inquest.”
Goulding nodded at Darcy, and Darcy rose, shook the man’s hand, and said he would. “There is much more to tell, sir. I will endeavour to make clear why he was an enemy, though I say again, I am no murderer.”
The shorter man said, “If Miss Elizabeth Bennet thinks well of you, we are inclined to believe you. For while most of the fairer sex are easily fooled, that one is as clear-eyed as any man.”
“Indeed,” said Goulding, holding up his tankard, and Darcy and the others did the same.
Once the other jurors faded into the crowd, Darcy’s mind began racing again. “Goulding, I must make final arrangements in case they find me guilty.”
“Final— Darcy, do not be absurd.”
“It is a hanging offence. If this goes forward and I must appear at the assizes, I suspect it will not go in my favour, for I am known to no one there.”
“Yet those here do know you—”
“Not well. And what is said in a taproom is not the same as at an inquest. And if things take a turn, and no proof of my innocence is found here, then it would be foolish to hope for a different outcome at an assizes.” He lifted the tankard, but was too distracted to drink.
“As such, Georgiana must be cared for. If it becomes necessary, send for my cousin. James shall have to take charge of Georgiana entirely.”
“Let us hope that does not come to pass.”
“Indeed,” said Darcy, attempting to appear the picture of gentlemanly calm when, in fact, he felt his insides had turned to aspic.
Darcy recalled rumours of prison conditions.
Of their filth and privation. Of the constant spread of disease, of body lice, of a lack of sewers or even a clean place to lay one’s head.
As a man of means, he thought it likely he could secure better lodgings and food, but should those in charge take a dislike to him—and he feared the poor initial impression he tended to make on others made this a possibility—they could refuse him the comforts that would make the remaining days of his life bearable. Nay, survivable.
He sipped at his ale, feeling grim.