Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Elizabeth felt something settle within her. He has not told her. The understanding carried both relief and unease. “You will hear of him soon enough,” she said lightly. “He has captured the attention of the ton in a most remarkable way.”
Georgiana smiled faintly. “Then I shall look forward to being introduced.”
Elizabeth returned the smile, though her thoughts had already moved elsewhere. If she does not know…then who does? Am I the only one who sees him? The question lingered, unanswered.
The door opened. A man entered.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She had seen him once before, at Ramsgate, though only briefly. The impression had been indistinct, a passing observation rather than a formed judgment. Now, confronted with him fully, she found herself searching for that earlier image and finding it altered.
He was handsome, in a way that might easily charm those less inclined to look beyond the surface. There was a looseness in his bearing, a modest disarray in his appearance, that spoke of habits less disciplined than they ought to be.
There was also a subsequent concern. A faint scent of spirits wafted toward her.
“Ah,” he said, pausing upon seeing Elizabeth. “We have company.”
Georgiana rose. “Mr. Wickham, this is Miss Bennet.”
He inclined his head, his smile easy. “Miss Bennet. A pleasure.”
Elizabeth curtsied, her expression composed. “Sir.”
“I am just now going to the club,” he said, turning to Georgiana. “I shall be gone the greater part of the day.”
Georgiana’s expression fell. “So soon? I have only just arrived.”
“I have engagements,” he said, the edge in his tone unmistakable.
She flinched.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the sharpness vanished. He smiled again, though it did not reach his eyes. “This evening, then. I shall return early, and we will spend it together.”
Georgiana nodded, though the disappointment remained. “Very well.”
He inclined his head once more and departed. The door closed. Georgiana sank back into her chair, her composure faltering.
Elizabeth reached for her hand. “You must not be troubled,” she said gently.
Georgiana managed a small smile, though it trembled. “I do not wish to be. I love him very much. Even so, he is so often absent. And when he is present, he seems…” She hesitated. “Not quite himself.”
Elizabeth’s heart tightened.
“He avoids me,” Georgiana said. “I cannot think why.”
Elizabeth did not answer. There were too many possibilities, none of them comforting.
“I am sure it will improve,” she said instead, though she could not say she believed it.
Georgiana nodded, though her expression remained uncertain.
They spoke a little longer, of lighter things, though the earlier ease did not fully return. At last, Elizabeth rose, sensing that the visit must come to an end.
“I am very glad to have seen you,” she said.
“And I you,” Georgiana replied.
Elizabeth took her leave, her mind already turning toward what she must say upon her return.
As she stepped back into the street, the air felt sharper than before. She did not look back at the house. Her course was set. She would return to Matlock House. And she would tell the family everything.
The club was more crowded than on Darcy’s previous visits, though the atmosphere remained much the same—low voices, muted laughter, the continuous clink of glassware, and the ever-present haze of smoke that obscured the edges of everything it touched.
It was a place where men came not merely to pass the time, but to avoid it, to lose themselves in habits that required little thought and less accountability.
Darcy moved through the room with purpose, his attention fixed upon a single figure.
Wickham sat as he always did, slouched in a chair near the far wall, one arm draped carelessly over the back, the other loosely holding a glass that had long since ceased to interest him.
His coat was unfastened, his cravat askew, and though his posture suggested ease, there was nothing truly relaxed in it.
His movements were uneven, his gaze unfocused, his expression bearing the unmistakable signs of a man who had been drinking too long and too freely.
Darcy approached without haste.
“Mr. Wickham.”
Wickham lifted his head with some effort, his eyes taking a moment to settle upon Darcy’s face. “Ah,” he said, after a pause, a crooked smile forming. “My foreign friend. Come to observe my decline?”
Darcy took the chair opposite him. “I had thought to find you in better spirits.”
Wickham gave a short laugh, though it held little amusement. “Then you have chosen your moment poorly.”
Darcy’s gaze moved briefly to the untouched decanter at Wickham’s side, then back again. “It would seem so.”
Wickham lifted his glass, stared at it as though uncertain how it had come to be there, then set it aside without drinking. “Tell me,” he said, leaning forward, his voice lowering, “do you ever find yourself haunted?”
Darcy regarded him steadily. “In what sense?”
“In the sense,” Wickham said, his words beginning to blur at the edges, “that no matter where you go, or how far you run, something follows. Not a person. Not precisely. Something…less forgiving.”
Darcy did not immediately answer.
Wickham smiled again, though it was a hollow thing. “I see I have lost you already. Forgive me. I am not at my most coherent.”
“You are troubled,” Darcy said.
Wickham let out a breath that might almost have been a laugh. “Troubled. Yes. That is a polite way of putting it.” He leaned back again, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling. “My wife has come to Town.”
Darcy stilled. He had not expected to hear it so plainly. “I had thought you would be pleased,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.
Wickham’s head turned sharply. “Pleased?” He laughed then, more openly this time, though there was a note in it that bordered on something far less pleasant. “Yes, of course. A husband should be pleased to see his wife. That is the proper sentiment, is it not?”
Darcy said nothing.
“She is everything good,” Wickham went on, his voice dropping.
“Everything that is gentle. Everything I am not.” The words came more easily now, loosened by drink, unguarded in a way that would have been impossible in sobriety.
“She looks at me,” he said, his expression shifting, “and there is no accusation in it. No reproach. Only…kindness. Can you imagine it? To be regarded with such—such undeserved regard?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened.
“It is intolerable,” Wickham said.
Darcy’s gaze sharpened. “You find her goodness intolerable?”
“I find myself intolerable,” Wickham corrected, with a faint, bitter smile.
“She merely reminds me of it.” He rubbed a hand over his face, trying unsuccessfully to clear his thoughts.
“She speaks to me like a man still worthy of her affection. Like one who has done nothing to forfeit it. It is…exhausting.”
Darcy’s voice was gentle. “You might endeavor to become what she believes you to be.”
Wickham’s head snapped toward him, his expression briefly alert.
Thereafter, it assumed a tone akin to weary amusement once again.
“My dear sir,” he said, “that would require a degree of effort to which I am no longer inclined.” He leaned forward again, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“Besides, my very name testifies against me. Wickham. Wicked. It is all there, if one cares to see it.”
Darcy did not smile. “You jest,” he said.
“Do I?” Wickham replied. A fleeting but distinct moment of lucidity appeared in his gaze. Then it was gone.
Darcy studied him in silence. “You will take her into society,” he said after a moment.
Wickham gave a small, dismissive wave of his hand. “I shall be compelled to, no doubt. Appearances must be maintained. One cannot neglect one’s duties entirely, however tiresome they may be.”
Before Darcy could respond, a figure approached.
Hargrave.
He did no more than glance at Darcy as he came to a stop beside Wickham’s chair, though the awareness of his presence was unmistakable. “Mr. Wickham,” he said smoothly. “Might I have a word?”