Chapter XVII
George Wickham examined his reflection in the cracked looking-glass with growing dissatisfaction.
The mirror itself was scarcely worth examining. Neither, at present, was the gentleman reflected within it.
His coat remained respectable enough at a distance, though the cuffs had begun showing unmistakable signs of wear.
The shirt beneath was no longer truly white, however much he might prefer to think otherwise, and his cravat had not seen a proper laundry in so long that he had abandoned all attempts to remember when it last had.
He adjusted it nevertheless.
Appearances still mattered.
Indeed, they mattered now more than ever. A man deprived of money must rely upon other resources, and Wickham had always considered his appearance among the most dependable of his assets.
The lodging-house offered little encouragement.
The room was narrow, ill-aired, and furnished with a degree of economy which suggested its proprietor regarded comfort as an unnecessary extravagance.
Rain had found its way through the roof often enough to stain the ceiling, while the mattress possessed a remarkable ability to make itself felt through every blanket placed upon it.
Wickham was becoming increasingly tired of the place.
Still, it was inexpensive. And inexpensive lodgings were preferable to no lodgings at all.
He searched his pockets once more before putting on his coat, though the exercise produced no result different from the one obtained ten minutes earlier. His finances remained unimproved.
An unfortunate circumstance, but hardly a novel one.
Only yesterday, however, fortune appeared to have presented a possible remedy.
At a public house near Holborn, he had made the acquaintance of a prosperous tradesman whose conversation improved steadily with every bottle consumed.
The fellow possessed money, vanity, and a gratifying tendency to trust people he had known for less than an hour.
Such qualities had often proved useful in the past and might prove useful again.
Whether the man might be persuaded to lend money, lose money, or just misplace it altogether remained to be determined.
Wickham had not yet decided which possibility he preferred.
He smiled faintly at the thought while reaching for his hat.
Life had certainly become less comfortable during the past two months.
The Bennets had searched for him at first with a persistence he had not entirely expected, and for several weeks, he had been obliged to change lodgings more frequently than convenience recommended.
There had also been creditors, former acquaintances, and one particularly determined gentleman from Brighton whom he had no desire ever to encounter again.
Lately, however, the pressure appeared to have eased.
No new enquiries had reached him for several days. No unpleasant visitor had appeared demanding repayment. Even the rumours seemed less active than before.
People grew tired.
Experience had taught him that much.
Indignation rarely sustained itself indefinitely, and scandal possessed a shorter life than most moralists liked to believe. Families exhausted themselves. Creditors found fresher prey. Society discovered newer subjects for outrage.
The world moved on.
It generally had.
He swore under his breath. Persuading the foolish chit to run away with him had proved easy enough; but once her money was gone, she became nothing but an encumbrance.
He had been obliged to leave her behind, especially as she was not easy.
For a moment, he wondered what might have become of her but dismissed the thought.
He was alone now and must contrive for himself.
The militia, admittedly, was lost to him now. Returning would require explanations he had no wish to provide and settlements he had no means of making. Yet London remained full of possibilities for a man willing to recognise them.
He gave his reflection one final glance.
The clothes were disappointing. The lodgings were worse. Yet the face remained unchanged.
Wickham smiled.
It was astonishing how often people preferred a pleasant face to an honest character.
Taking up his hat, he left the room entirely unaware that elsewhere in London a new search was undertaken by money that would not run out.
***
The house had grown quieter at last. Somewhere above, footsteps still moved faintly from time to time – a maid crossing the passage, a door opening softly and closing again – but the greater agitation of the morning had begun gradually to settle into uneasy order.
Darcy remained alone in the study.
The rain had ceased, though the windows still carried a dim grey cast beneath the London sky, and the air retained that heavy dampness which lingered after summer storms in the city.
Papers lay scattered across the desk before him: names, addresses, unpaid accounts, notes hastily assembled from Lydia’s broken recollections the previous evening.
He had attempted to arrange them methodically, yet the information remained frustratingly incomplete.
Wickham had vanished too often before.
Still, Darcy believed he understood enough of the man’s habits to know one thing with certainty: he would not remain hidden long if money failed him entirely. And money would fail him.
Darcy leant back at last and closed his eyes briefly.
For several moments, he thought of nothing at all. Mere exhaustion overtook even anxiety for a little while.
Then another face rose unwillingly before him.
Miss Bennet.
She, pale with distress, struggling still to hope for her sister while disgrace gathered steadily around the family.
And Bingley.
Darcy’s expression altered slightly.
There had been a time when he would simply have acted for his friend and considered the matter settled. Indeed, he had once done exactly that – with consequences he now understood far too well.
But this was no longer Netherfield a year ago, nor was he himself quite the same man who had interfered so confidently then. If Bingley’s attachment had truly survived the past year, then surely he could not remain indifferent now.
A marriage, honourably maintained despite present circumstances, might do much to soften society’s judgement.
People could be severe about matters of reputation, particularly when misfortune belonged to someone else.
Yet society was often willing to overlook what it had first condemned when those of rank appeared unconcerned by it themselves.
And if Bingley remained steady, perhaps others might gradually do the same.
The thought lingered strangely with him.
For if Bingley married Jane Bennet despite the scandal, what then prevented himself…
Darcy stopped abruptly. He rose from the chair at once and crossed towards the window.
The idea ought to have appeared impossible now.
Every objection once urged against such an attachment had strengthened a hundredfold.
Yet even while he acknowledged it fully, he found himself unable to wish the connection undone.
He discovered, with something very near astonishment, that Miss Lydia’s disgrace had not altered his feelings for Miss Elizabeth in the slightest.
Nor his hopes, not after Lambton.
There had once been a time when family consequence, propriety, and prudence had stood foremost in his mind. Now, against all reason, he could think only that if Elizabeth Bennet were willing still to accept him, he would marry her despite every whisper London might choose to invent.
He returned to the desk and drew a clean sheet of paper towards him. For a few moments, the pen remained motionless in his hand.
What precisely was he asking?
Not merely friendship. Not merely sympathy.
Constancy.
And perhaps more constancy than he himself had once believed Bingley possessed.
At last, he began to write.
The letter remained brief. He requested that Bingley come to London immediately upon receiving the letter. He could not put into writing what had happened. Nothing more. Yet after sealing the letter, Darcy did not immediately ring for it to be sent.
He remained seated for several moments, looking at the folded paper before him. For the first time, he found himself uncertain whether his friend would come willingly towards difficulty – or retreat from it.
A discreet knock interrupted the thought. “Come in.”
Mrs. Reynolds entered. “I beg your pardon, sir, but Miss Darcy wished me to inform you that a modiste has arrived.”
Darcy looked up with slight surprise.
“A modiste?”
“Yes, sir. Miss Lydia possesses very few suitable things at present, and Miss Darcy thought…” Mrs. Reynolds hesitated delicately. “Under the circumstances, it seemed best.”
“Yes. Quite right.”
The housekeeper relaxed almost imperceptibly.
“She has brought materials, and a shoemaker’s assistant is expected later this afternoon. Mrs. Annesley thought perhaps…” Again, she paused diplomatically. “It might restore Miss Lydia’s spirits a little.”
Darcy glanced once towards the ceiling, as though he might somehow picture the scene above: ribbons, fabrics, female consultation, Georgiana attempting kindness where no one quite knew how kindness ought to proceed.
“Yes,” he said quietly after a moment. “Whatever is required.”
Mrs. Reynolds inclined her head. “And sir, Miss Lydia appears considerably calmer today.”
Something in the information eased him more than he expected. “I am glad of it.”
When she withdrew, silence returned once more.
Yet it no longer felt quite so oppressive.
The sound of female voices drifted intermittently from the morning room upstairs for the greater part of an hour.
At first, Lydia had scarcely spoken above a murmur. Georgiana, equally uncertain, had attempted conversation in fragments so cautious that Mrs. Annesley more than once intervened gently to rescue both girls from embarrassment.
But ribbons, colours, lace, and sleeves succeeded where polite sympathy had failed.