Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
That evening, dinner had been uncomfortable, and once she was alone with her aunt and uncle, away from servants, they had discussed Mr. Wickham.
She confessed she had reluctantly accepted a gift from him and that she had tried more than once to return it without success.
Her uncle took charge of the item and promised to return it himself, which relieved her greatly. She had no desire to see the man again.
Elizabeth was surprised to learn that after Mr. Bingley had spoken with her uncle at the Emporium, they had both traveled to Mr. Darcy’s townhouse for further information and proof.
“Mr. Darcy was most gracious. He was eager to lay out all the facts and had only this morning retrieved documents from his solicitor that showed Mr. Wickham’s signature to give up any claim to a Kympton living in Derbyshire and in receipt of three thousand pounds.
Another page showed he earlier accepted one thousand pounds as part of his godfather’s will. ”
“It is all true then,” Elizabeth whispered. She had by then thought it possible, but she had not truly believed Mr. Wickham had so thoroughly lied to her.
“It is all true. Mr. Darcy also showed me documents of Mr. Wickham’s collected debts in the amount of about fourteen hundred pounds.
He had no physical proof of the man’s unsavory dealings with women, but he said he could get sworn statements if needed from several fathers whose daughters Wickham had ruined and abandoned.
Mr. Darcy said he personally supports more than one of Wickham’s children financially. ”
Elizabeth inhaled sharply. When Mr. Bingley had said Mr. Wickham used women ill, how had she not immediately considered illegitimate children? The lying scoundrel!
“I am sorry, Lizzy. This blow must be doubly hard for you…considering your work at the hospital.”
She nodded, hearing what he had not said: he had not brought up her own illegitimacy. Neither he nor her aunt had ever spoken of it, to her relief.
“I am well, Uncle. I feel foolish, of course. May I retire now?”
“Of course. Get some rest.”
Aside from helping at the Foundling Hospital the next morning, Elizabeth stayed home for the next few days.
It rained Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and she found she did not at all mind being stuck inside.
She turned over every look and word and touch in her mind.
She felt ill. Mr. Wickham had been calling on her for only a week.
He first called on a Tuesday, and the following Tuesday was the ball at which he had abandoned her.
She was now grateful he had left town, but she worried he would seek her out when he returned, as he had promised.
One week had been more than enough time in his company.
What would have happened had Mr. Darcy not come to town when he did?
Why was he in town so early? She had listened enough to Jane to know he had not spent a great deal of time in London over the past few years.
He was likely bringing his sister to school, but they had arrived at least a week before term began.
Whatever reason he had come, Elizabeth owed him much.
By Sunday, Elizabeth had begun to wonder whether she would see Mr. Darcy again.
Surely, he would attend Mr. Bingley’s wedding in the autumn.
That was a long way off, but she knew it was for the best. She had allowed herself to sketch him as he had appeared at Mrs. Humphrey’s ball.
She had not felt it at the time, but as she played the scene back in her head—using her artistic skills of observation—she was sure he had a kinder look about him, a gentler demeanor than she had seen in years.
He must have known he was delivering a blow to her ego—and her feelings, he must have thought—so he had tried to deliver the news compassionately. But Mr. Darcy was not compassionate, was he? Not the Mr. Darcy of the past two years.
She could not focus on the sermon at St. Helen’s because she had to remember everything from the ball.
What had Mr. Darcy’s goal been in speaking to her?
He had not gone after Mr. Wickham to harass him but had stayed to protect her.
Tears pricked the back of her eyes as she was forced to accept that Mr. Darcy still had goodness in him. And he had used it on her behalf.
She walked in the rain with the Gardiners to return home after the church service and then begged to be excused for the afternoon. She once again let the tears fall while she clutched her mother’s portrait. And she fell into an unrefreshing sleep.
The next morning, Elizabeth and her trusty companions went to the Foundling Hospital.
She had talked to Matthew and Dinah on Friday, and they were obviously overjoyed by her decision to cease seeing Mr. Wickham.
She still observed them exchanging wary glances, however, and knew her downcast mood was concerning them.
The sun had come out the previous afternoon while Elizabeth slept, drying most of the puddles. Elizabeth hoped the lighter skies would give her the strength she needed today. After this, she could retreat into herself once again.
She thought of the painting she had completed Saturday afternoon.
It sat in the attic unseen by anyone else.
A dark, rainy nondescript London street.
She thought now she would make a series of similar paintings.
She recalled telling Mr. Darcy once that she wished to someday visit the seaside so she could paint a scene of the majestic ocean.
Although she had not yet seen the enormous mass of water for herself, she had often of late felt she could understand its crushing power.
Perhaps it was time to paint it before it pulled her under.
Elizabeth felt she was drifting between the Foundling Hospital and her attic and the meal table with little thought for where she was or what she was doing.
Her aunt and uncle let her grieve, likely thinking she was heartbroken over Mr. Wickham even though she told them she did not love him and never wanted to see him again.
By the end of that second week, he had still not returned.
She hoped he would call when she was at the hospital, but painting in the attic also gave her a way to avoid him.
She knew everything Mr. Darcy had said at the ball and through Mr. Bingley had been true. Mr. Wickham had lied about Mr. Darcy. Had she lied to herself about him, as well?
He had insulted her twice. The first time, he had clearly been sorry, and it had been easy for her to forgive him.
The second time, she had not seen that he was sorry, but apparently, he had been.
He had gone to Pemberley for a year believing she had forgiven him and they were still friends.
Then she had been the one to be cruel to him when he had asked her to dance last year.
She had been so cruel that he had not dared ask her to dance at Mrs. Humphrey’s ball.
He had not sounded as though he was trying to avoid her wrath.
It had seemed more like he did not wish to impose on her.
It was as if he wanted her to be comfortable.
He knew he had difficult information to deliver, and he had tried to set her at ease.
Had Mr. Darcy really only ever made two mistakes in his dealings with her? She had made more than two, she was sure. She remembered expressing her anger toward him several times.
But Mr. Darcy had ignored her and been proud and haughty and too arrogant to talk to her.
He had stopped smiling in her vicinity and rarely spoke to anyone, at least that she had seen.
Was it her presence that put him in such a taciturn mood?
Perhaps he had always been that way in larger groups, but she had not seen him in such company until after he had ended their friendship.
Or had she ended it? She was so confused.
Going over all these memories was making her head hurt.
She looked at the sketch book on the table in front of her.
Elizabeth was by one of the windows in the attic, but when had she begun to draw?
She had come up here to paint another dark, watery scene, but she had drawn sketch after sketch of Mr. Darcy in all his moods.
Most were dour, some were distant. His glaring eyes tried to bore into her soul.
In every image, he looked like a gentleman.
She had never seen him mistreating other women, sitting too closely to them as Mr. Bingley had with Miss Grantley or holding their hands inappropriately as Mr. Wickham had with her.
She was sure she was not mistaken in his hauteur, but was it possible he had cause?
When she had left him at Mrs. Humphrey’s ball to ask her aunt to take her home, she had walked through a crowd of people whispering about Mr. Darcy.
She had not paid attention to what they had said.
She expected they were surprised to see him there.
At other parties they had both attended, people always tried to gain his notice.
She had scoffed at his self-importance, but had he ever sought the attention, or had it come to him despite his efforts to push people away?
She did not know. All she had really determined after all these days, and she was not even sure of this, was that she wished she had not lost his friendship.