Chapter IV #2
“I apologize to you all,” said Darcy, feeling a little shamefaced. “Miss Bingley may consider herself the obvious candidate to become mistress of Pemberley, but I shall not offer for her.”
“Yes, we understand that,” said Hurst.
“If I had made it clear, perhaps she would move on rather than wasting her time.”
“It would not have made a difference, Darcy,” said Hurst. “She is too committed to her delusion.”
“I must concur,” said Mrs. Hurst.
Darcy studied her. “I must own to some confusion, Mrs. Hurst. Miss Bingley has made her opposition to your brother’s suit clear and will not be happy if she learns you returned first.”
Mrs. Hurst smiled. “I have been guilty of indulging my sister, Mr. Darcy, but I do not concern myself for her displeasure. Caroline must learn that she does not control all our decisions—I have allowed her to continue unchecked for too long.”
“That is my role,” said Bingley, shaking his head.
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Hurst. “But I have some culpability in Caroline’s behavior.”
She shrugged. “Besides, all I have done is allow my brother to choose for himself. I have not pushed him at Miss Bennet.”
“Do you suppose she will appreciate the distinction?” asked Hurst.
“Mayhap she will not. But she must accept it nonetheless.”
That was the end of weighty discussions.
Mrs. Hurst went to the pianoforte to play for a time, while Bingley poked at the fireplace, paced the room, appearing as if he had nothing to do.
Darcy recalled Bingley saying there was no more awful object than Darcy on a Sunday afternoon with nothing to do, but he expected he had found something worse—a lovesick Bingley after a visit with the object of his affections.
Darcy did not make this observation, for his mind was engaged in another direction.
The conversation with Miss Elizabeth today had been the easiest one he could remember, even better than their debates, and Darcy had enjoyed those.
Mrs. Hurst’s assertion that Wickham was a danger to the neighborhood was not something Darcy had misunderstood, nor did he think the danger was insignificant.
Had Darcy thought that Miss Elizabeth would fall to his lying tongue he might feel some concern.
The danger to the youngest Miss Bennets, however, gave him pause, for the ruination of one of them would also bring about Miss Elizabeth’s ruination.
Darcy was not certain what he would do, but the thought of dealing with Wickham forever had occurred to him. Perhaps Mrs. Hurst was correct, but Darcy was not ready to move now; better to wait and choose his course when he had considered every angle.
LOUISA HURST WAS CERTAIN Mr. Darcy was now considering Mr. Wickham in the context of potential danger to Miss Elizabeth. The question was whether he would choose to act.
Though she had no notion that Miss Elizabeth would allow Mr. Wickham to corrupt her, Louisa did not know enough about him to predict his behavior, and that worried her.
Since her return to Hertfordshire, Louisa had grown to esteem the eldest Bennet sisters, and she had no desire to see them ruined by the actions of a libertine.
There were several ways the man could affect them that did not involve direct action against either of them.
The question was what she was to do about it.
Mr. Wickham, by Miss Elizabeth’s testimony and Louisa’s observation, was not much in society of late, engaged as he was in pursuing the other woman whose dowry had caught his eye.
Though he might not be a danger to the Bennets now, Louisa knew that could change in an instant; such a man might take an opportunity if it presented itself.
She could not predict the future, after all.
Inducing Mr. Darcy to act was the trick, and Louisa thought she knew the best way to go about doing that.
It would require some subtlety, but she thought she could do it.
Mr. Darcy did not know that Mr. Wickham was not in society much, but if she handled it properly, he would never know.
The benefits of removing such a societal leech as Mr. Wickham could not be underestimated.
All she needed was the right time to act.
THOUGH IT SHOULD HAVE been a surprise, Mr. Darcy approaching her when next they met was not.
In the moment, Elizabeth could not understand why Mr. Darcy always seemed to find her more agreeable than anyone else, but she did not question his preference for her company.
There was a precedent—after all, he had danced with her alone among the local ladies at Mr. Bingley’s ball.
Their conversation on that occasion was not memorable.
Interspersed with comments about the neighborhood, little doings at Longbourn or Netherfield, Mr. Darcy made a few observations about Mr. Bingley, while Elizabeth spoke a little about Jane.
What he thought of the situation was not apparent, but he was at least resigned to it.
After Jane had told her about Mr. Darcy’s opposition on the grounds of Jane’s supposed disinterest, resignation was perhaps the best Elizabeth could hope for.
As they spoke, Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy and remembered Mr. Wickham, how the mere mention of the man was enough to annoy him.
Then she thought of Mr. Wickham’s assertions, Jane’s contention that they could not judge the matter until Mr. Darcy shared his side of the tale.
It was natural, therefore, that Elizabeth would wish to provoke Mr. Darcy to speak on the subject.
“The officers seem to be much in evidence,” observed Mr. Darcy, glancing about.
There was not precisely a sea of red coats in the room, but several of those gentlemen were about that evening as they were at nearly every function in the neighborhood since the previous October.
“Yes,” replied Elizabeth. “One cannot go anywhere in the vicinity and not meet with at least several officers.”
Mr. Darcy nodded, sipping from the cup he held in his hand. A burst of laughter from another corner of the room drew their attention—Kitty, Lydia, Maria Lucas, and a few other young ladies were holding court with several officers and were, as was their wont, laughing with a little too much abandon.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth,” said the gentleman, turning to her, “but I do not see Miss Lucas here. Is something amiss?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Nothing is amiss, Mr. Darcy. Charlotte is no longer Miss Lucas—she is now Mrs. Collins and lives with her husband in Kent.”
This seemed to take the gentleman by surprise, though he recovered at once. “I beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, his cadence slow as if considering, “but now that I think on it, Mr. Collins’s attention at my friend’s ball was not on your friend.”
The thought of Charlotte and her new position as the wife to her father’s silly cousin still brought a hint of melancholy to Elizabeth’s breast, but she shook away the sensation.
Charlotte had chosen that life for reasons that were important to her—Elizabeth’s agreement was not required, and she would not lament her friend’s current situation as wife to such a man as Mr. Collins, little though Elizabeth could have imagined herself in Charlotte’s place.
“You are not incorrect, Mr. Darcy. When Mr. Collins learned I had no interest in the position he was offering, he turned his attention to her.”
Mr. Darcy regarded her, sensing that she was not telling him all.
Elizabeth was not, of course, though she had no objection to relating the story to him should he wish.
It seemed the answer was not so important that Mr. Darcy thought it necessary to pursue the subject.
Instead, his thoughts proceeded in another direction more aligned to Elizabeth’s current interest.
“I also do not see Wickham among the company.”
“The officers do not all attend every function, Mr. Darcy. I do not know how the colonel ensures all his officers attend a fair number of events, but only a few attend all but the most important events.”
“Such as Bingley’s ball,” said Mr. Darcy with an absence of thought.
“Yes, exactly,” replied Elizabeth. Then, choosing her words with care, Elizabeth ventured: “You prefer not to attend the same events as Mr. Wickham.”
Mr. Darcy turned to regard her. “I do not associate with Wickham, Miss Elizabeth, but I do not need to avoid him.”
The old anger rose like a ghost in her breast, but she suppressed it with far more ease than the last time the subject of Mr. Wickham arose between them. Instead, Elizabeth considered how best to proceed.
“Once, you informed me that Mr. Wickham has difficulty keeping the friends that he makes,” said Elizabeth, deciding on more directness and less accusation. “But you said nothing of the reason for this deficiency.”
The way the gentleman studied her, Elizabeth wondered if he meant to be severe with her. Then he turned away, gazing at nothing in moody silence.
“I suppose it is not surprising that you remain curious about my history with Wickham, for I was not explicit.”
“No, you were not,” agreed Elizabeth. “Someone I trust reminded me that I have heard only Mr. Wickham’s side of your dispute.”
Mr. Darcy sighed and gave his head a rueful shake. “Yes, I should have expected it. Wickham has no qualms at all about sharing his tale of woe wherever he goes. Can I assume he spoke of the family living in Kympton?”
“The existence of it, yes,” replied Elizabeth. “He did not mention the name, but he told me of your father’s wishes and claimed you refused to honor them.”
“Always, just enough truth to paint me the blackest of villains,” murmured Mr. Darcy.
“Then there was no such bequest?” Elizabeth colored. “I offer my apologies, Mr. Darcy—I should not demand an explanation.”
“It is quite all right,” replied the gentleman. “Can I suppose you believed him?”
Elizabeth colored but she did not deflect the question. “I will own that I was not suspicious of his tale, Mr. Darcy.”
“No, I suppose you would not be,” agreed the gentleman. “You could have no reason to suspect him.”
Mr. Darcy turned to face her. “The story Wickham tells is true from a certain point of view, Miss Elizabeth, but it leaves out several facts that make me appear the villain and him the aggrieved party. My father recommended Wickham for the living if he took orders, but it was not a bequest. My father asked me to assist Wickham in obtaining a means of supporting himself, and if the church was his choice, I should offer the living to him.”
“Then he did not take orders,” said Elizabeth, not having considered this before.
“He did not.” Mr. Darcy shook his head. “Wickham scoffed at the very notion. To tell the truth, I am certain he expected much more than this from my father.”
“Then you discharged this duty in some other way?”
Though she could not say why, considering how she had suspected the worst of this man, Elizabeth knew that Mr. Darcy would never renege on fulfilling his duty. The request of his father, a man she knew he revered, must be a most sacred obligation.
“Yes, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Darcy. “At Wickham’s suggestion, I negotiated a sum of money to be paid to him in exchange for resigning all claim to the living. This was in addition to the bequest my father’s will bestowed on him. Once that transaction was complete, Wickham departed Pemberley.”
Mr. Darcy’s expression changed, a wry smile settling on his features.
“In truth, I informed him that I was dissolving all connection between us and warned him against returning. That did not prevent him from writing to me when the incumbent of the living passed away, asking me to prefer him to the position.”
“That is astonishing, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, not knowing what to say.
“Perhaps it is, but his audacity was no surprise,” said Mr. Darcy, shaking his head in disgust.
“I will assume he had not taken orders in the intervening years.”
This time Mr. Darcy’s snort of revulsion spoke of his feelings on the subject with eloquence.
“No, Wickham has never, so far as I know, so much as opened a Bible, let alone studied the tenets of church doctrine. When he wrote to me, he spoke of his poor circumstances, his absolute resolution of taking orders.”
Mr. Darcy shrugged. “As you will no doubt apprehend, I refused any suggestion of it and all subsequent requests, each more desperate than the last. No doubt his denunciation of my character to anyone who would listen was exceeded only by his reproaches to me.”
Elizabeth had not thought she could be any more incredulous. “Poor circumstances? You need not offer me an exact amount, but can I assume the sum he received from you was substantial?”
“It was,” said Mr. Darcy without hesitation.
“Far more than a man of his situation in life could have hoped to obtain. A prudent man would have lived a comfortable life off the interest, or he might have used it to lay the groundwork for future prosperity. Wickham did none of these things, but I was unsurprised. He has always lived a dissipative existence, even when he did not possess the means.”
“Then I apologize, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, feeling contrite. “I should never have listened to him.”
The gentleman nodded. “It is nothing, Miss Elizabeth. Please do not consider it for another moment.”
The gentleman drifted away after that, his thoughts turned inward.
Elizabeth did not blame him, for the discussion had awoken past injuries he likely wished to forget.
All Elizabeth understood was that her judgment had been too hasty and harsh.
For the first time, she understood that Mr. Darcy was not the blackhearted villain that Mr. Wickham had described.
FOR THE REST OF THE evening, Darcy was silent and uncommunicative. He stood to the side of the room, often with a cup in his hand, a muddle of thoughts vying for supremacy.
Contrary to what Miss Elizabeth suspected, thoughts of Wickham and his past with the man, the money that had gone to feed Wickham’s dissipative habits, or even his attempt to seduce Georgiana, were not uppermost in Darcy’s mind.
No, what Darcy considered was that Miss Elizabeth was not only taken in by Wickham, but that she was even now concerned with his welfare.
That she had listened, understood, and believed his account was apparent, but Darcy could not shake the notion that some part of her continued to esteem a man unworthy of her or any other woman of good morals. And that bothered Darcy—it concerned him far more than it should.