Chapter VII
Outlandish tales were the order of the day after Mr. Wickham was exposed. Elizabeth found she could not visit a house in the neighborhood or speak with friends without the subject rising between them. The longer it went on, the more ridiculous the tales became.
“I heard that Mr. Wickham is a French spy,” whispered Mrs. Long to Mrs. Goulding on one occasion when Elizabeth was in the same room. If that comment had escaped the notice of anyone nearby, Elizabeth would eat her bonnet.
“That is shocking!” replied Mrs. Goulding. “Letitia told me just yesterday that Mr. Wickham was spying French movements in Hertfordshire.”
Mrs. Long gasped. “A double agent! Wait until Edna hears about this!”
It was impossible not to look at the situation without feeling all the amusement it provoked, but she could not help the exasperation.
Most of the matrons in Meryton were cut from the same cloth—gossipy, uninformed, and more than a little melodramatic.
But Elizabeth still thought they should possess at least some measure of sense gained by years of life.
Yet they passed stories that were so patently false that even speaking of them brought a person’s acumen into question.
The other thing she noticed was how self-satisfied Mr. Darcy appeared about it all.
It was incongruous to the situation, for Elizabeth had long seen Mr. Darcy as a man without a sense of humor, a man who inspected the world from his lofty perch and deplored what he saw.
The Mr. Darcy before her now, however, was a man who tolerated the tittle tattle, but never spread it or encouraged it.
As the man who had exposed Mr. Wickham to the masses, he spoke when asked, shared his perspective, and never confirmed the accounts spread around town.
“It is quite simple,” said Mr. Darcy when she observed this to him one day. “That Wickham is receiving his just desserts pleases me—he has avoided accountability for so long that I feel the satisfaction for all his victims in their stead.”
Elizabeth regarded the gentleman, amusement mixed with asperity. “That is a little presumptuous of you, is it not?”
“Perhaps it is, Miss Elizabeth,” replied Mr. Darcy. “Yet I do not think those Wickham has hurt in the past would begrudge me of it.”
Mr. Darcy chuckled, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. “Mr. Thompson has been walking about these past few days with his chest puffed out like a peacock, and even my prim and stuffy manservant carries an air of satisfaction.”
“Oh?” asked Elizabeth, curious about his meaning. “Do they have a particular reason to resent Mr. Wickham?”
“Thompson’s wife—then a pretty girl he admired—is a maid at Pemberley. Wickham cornered her one day and was not willing to accept her repeated expressions of disinterest.” Mr. Darcy’s grin became savage. “Until Thompson caught him.”
Elizabeth winced, having seen Mr. Darcy’s burly footman.
“That was not long before my father’s passing,” said Mr. Darcy. “And one of the last times Wickham was at Pemberley. Wickham escaped, though bruised and battered. He had always had a healthy respect for Thompson, but now he is terrified of him.
“As for my manservant . . .” Mr. Darcy shrugged. “Snell has been with me since I was a boy, and was not ignorant of Wickham’s antics.”
“Then Mr. Wickham has been a thorn in your side for many years,” sighed Elizabeth.
“He has,” agreed Mr. Darcy. “I am not unhappy to see his downfall, Miss Elizabeth. It is many years in the making. Had I known how satisfying it would be, I might have done it long ago.”
“Why did you not?”
There was no judgment in Elizabeth’s question—nothing more than simple curiosity. Mr. Darcy recognized it as such, as he became contemplative rather than defensive.
“It is a question I have asked myself many times,” replied he at length.
“My cousin would claim that it is my reverence for my father that stayed my hand, but the truth is more complicated and simpler at the same time. As boys, we were close friends—our association was not entirely built on expedience. Those memories, my father’s esteem for him, and perhaps a vain hope that he would find his way, all had a part in my reluctance. ”
“That shows you are a good man, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, surprising herself by meaning it. Then she shook her head. “My judgment is not so infallible as I always believed.”
“If you thought your judgment infallible, I would be very much surprised.”
Elizabeth offered him a slight smile. “No, I have never been so prideful as that would suggest. Yet I have rarely found myself duped so easily.”
Mr. Darcy paused, considering her, and when he spoke, his tone was gentle.
“Do not blame yourself, Miss Elizabeth. Wickham has had many years to become practiced at what he does. He kept his true self from my father, one of the most discerning men I have ever known. If nothing else, you are in good company.”
A brilliant smile came over Elizabeth’s face unbidden. “That is high praise, Mr. Darcy.”
“It is. But it is not unwarranted.”
IN TRUTH, THE PRATTLE of the matrons was amusing for a time, but Darcy grew tired of it and wished the matter to end expeditiously.
To that end, he wrote a letter to his uncle the very day they exposed Wickham’s true character, and the response came soon after.
Since Wickham’s sins in Meryton had never extended to seduction and Darcy had paid off his debts, Colonel Forster relinquished any claim on him, allowing the fate Darcy had designed to take effect.
It was no surprise when his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, arrived on the appointed day to see Wickham off to London and the ship that awaited him.
Of course Fitzwilliam would wish to be instrumental in “lancing the boil” that had plagued Darcy for years.
If anything, his cousin’s self-satisfaction exceeded Darcy’s own.
Georgiana, who arrived with him, appeared no less gratified, though her feelings also betrayed no little relief.
“So, you have finally done it,” said Fitzwilliam when he arrived that morning.
“Is that your way of saying ‘it is about time?’” asked Darcy.
“Perhaps,” said Fitzwilliam with a shrug. “I had despaired of you ever taking action against him.”
“Let us simply say that Wickham pushed me too far this time.”
Fitzwilliam offered a decisive nod. “However it came about, it is most welcome. The notion of Wickham toiling away on some plantation at the bottom of the world fills me with contentment.”
“As it does me, Fitzwilliam,” agreed Darcy.
The subject of Wickham became unpalatable, having been already settled. The talk turned to Netherfield and the neighborhood, and Bingley, eager to prove to his lady love he was committed to earning her approval, proposed a visit to Longbourn. Darcy was not at all opposed.
“I should be happy to visit a local house,” declared Fitzwilliam. “Something tells me this is not merely a social call, Bingley, my good fellow.”
Bingley’s grin was infectious. “A social call it is, but Longbourn is also the home of a veritable angel in the flesh.”
Fitzwilliam guffawed, slapping Bingley on the back. “We are not close friends like you are with Darcy, but I seem to recall you referring to angels before.”
“Trust me, Fitzwilliam,” replied Bingley, “I only had an imprecise notion of what constituted an angel. Now I have an example of one.”
“Then I should like to make her acquaintance.”
The three men prepared to depart. Georgiana, feeling both shy and fatigued from the morning’s journey, begged off, speaking of her willingness to make his friends’ acquaintance when the opportunity presented itself. Hurst, never one for much socializing, and Mrs. Hurst agreed to stay behind.
“I shall remain and keep you company.” Mrs. Hurst offered a grin that differed completely from the calculating expression with which Miss Bingley had always regarded his sister. “As the only ladies in residence, we must rely on each other for support and companionship.”
Georgiana appeared to sense the difference in her, replying with a shy smile. “I should like that, Mrs. Hurst.”
As expected, Mrs. Bennet greeted the sight of an earl’s son with enough awe to suppress her natural high spirits, not an unwelcome development. “My cousin has come to Meryton to escort Wickham back to London.”
The Bennets appeared impressed.
“It is easier for me to see to it than my cousin,” explained Fitzwilliam. “As I am a colonel in the regulars and can command a detachment, my men can see Wickham to his ship in London without the possibility of escape.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet. “Well, that is excellent to be certain. Mr. Wickham has used the neighborhood very ill, Colonel Fitzwilliam. The sooner he is gone, the better.”
“Those are my sentiments too, Mrs. Bennet. It pleases me that Darcy has acted against him—he has been far more lenient than George Wickham deserves.”
Fitzwilliam sat in their midst, and soon he was speaking in that agreeable tone he often used, his manners and facility in recommending himself to others not unlike Bingley’s.
The youngest Bennets were interested at once, pestering him with questions about his experiences in battle within moments, their mother looking on with interest. Darcy knew his cousin’s sentiments about young ladies of Kitty and Lydia Bennet’s ilk—he would allow their questions, answer with a few anecdotes to satisfy them, then change the subject to other matters.
“Your cousin appears to be an excellent man, Mr. Darcy,” said Miss Elizabeth after watching them for some moments.
“If you would like to learn for yourself, he would be happy to speak to you.”
Miss Elizabeth replied with an amused grin. “Yes, I have no doubt that he would. Having made my sisters’ acquaintance, you can hardly suppose they will relinquish his company an instant before they must.”
“The truth may surprise you, Miss Elizabeth. Fitzwilliam is adept at handling such ladies.”