Chapter XVIII
Later that evening, after the household had retired, Darcy returned once more to the study.
Several reports awaited him, though none contained anything of consequence. One address had proved false; another lodging-housekeeper remembered Wickham but had not seen him for weeks. Beyond that, there was little.
Darcy laid the papers aside.
There remained one person with whom he had not yet spoken.
Mr. Gardiner.
Darcy knew little of what had passed after they left Lambton – only that weeks had elapsed without success and that Lydia Bennet had remained undiscovered until chance – or Providence – had placed her in his path.
The thought still troubled him.
Wickham was neither careful nor particularly clever. He relied upon charm, audacity, and the remarkable willingness of other people to postpone unpleasant conclusions. Given sufficient time, he invariably left traces behind him.
Yet weeks had passed.
Either the search had failed, or it had never reached the places where Wickham was most likely to hide.
Darcy immediately regretted the unfairness of the thought.
Mr. Bennet and Mr. Gardiner had been strangers to London intrigues of this nature. They could not be expected to know Wickham as he did.
Nor, he admitted reluctantly, could they have anticipated the places to which such a man might descend. Few respectable gentlemen ever needed such knowledge.
Had Miss Lydia not crossed his path by accident, he might never have learnt of the family’s continued misfortune until months later. Perhaps not until spring, at Rosings, when he could have asked Mr. Collins about his relatives.
The possibility was intolerable.
He set the thought aside.
Or, would he have gone to Longbourn before then?
Whatever had been done or left undone, the immediate question remained the same. Mr. Gardiner was family. He would know how matters stood at Longbourn. More importantly, he was one of the very few people with whom Darcy could speak openly regarding Miss Lydia without causing further distress.
Drawing a card towards him, Darcy wrote a brief line beneath his name.
Mr. Darcy presents his compliments to Mr. Gardiner
and hopes to have the honour of calling upon him tomorrow morning,
should it be convenient.
The message was folded and sealed.
When his valet appeared, Darcy handed it over.
“See that this reaches Mr. Gardiner this evening.”
“Yes, sir.”
The servant withdrew.
Darcy turned back towards the scattered papers upon his desk.
***
The following morning brought little improvement in the weather. A fine rain drifted across the streets as Darcy’s carriage made its way towards Mr. Gardiner’s lodgings.
Mr. Gardiner’s residence stood in a respectable part of Gracechurch Street, sufficiently removed from the noise and bustle of Cheapside to satisfy even more fastidious observers.
Though not fashionable in the manner of Grosvenor Square or Berkeley Street, it was plainly the house of a prosperous man.
The windows were well kept, the brass polished, and the quiet efficiency with which Darcy was received suggested not merely prosperity, but the quiet pride of a man who had built it himself.
He was shown to the host’s study almost immediately. Mr. Gardiner rose from his chair as Darcy entered. After the usual greetings had been exchanged, both resumed their seats.
Gardiner found himself studying his visitor with quiet curiosity. Nearly two months had passed since their meeting in Derbyshire.
The acquaintance had been pleasant enough. He retained a favourable impression of Mr. Darcy and frequently recalled the civility with which he and Mrs. Gardiner had been received at Pemberley. Yet the connection had been brief and, so far as he had supposed, concluded.
He had not expected to encounter the gentleman again. Certainly not in Gracechurch Street. A man of Darcy’s consequence did not ordinarily seek out a London merchant without reason.
“I confess, sir,” Gardiner said at last, “that your card occasioned me some surprise.”
“I expected it might.”
The answer, though perfectly polite, offered no explanation whatsoever. For the first time, a smile touched the older gentleman’s face. “Though perhaps I ought not to complain. I am still recovering from the disappointment of that fishing excursion.”
Darcy looked momentarily surprised. “The disappointment?”
“Indeed. Mrs. Gardiner assures me I have mentioned the lost trout at least once a week ever since.” He spread his hands in surrender.
A faint smile appeared at the corner of Darcy’s mouth. “I am very sorry you could not partake in the exercise.”
“Circumstances intervened.” Gardiner shook his head lightly. “Still, I confess I had formed very high expectations of Derbyshire fish.”
The atmosphere eased. Then Darcy said quietly:
“I believe we are engaged in the same pursuit.”
Gardiner’s expression changed at once. “Indeed?”
“Mr. Wickham.”
The effect was immediate. The older gentleman stared at him for several moments without speaking. “Mr. Wickham?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
The humour vanished entirely from his face. “I confess, Mr. Darcy, that I am at a loss.” The words were spoken calmly enough, yet genuine bewilderment lay beneath them. “How can you possibly be acquainted with such a matter?”
Darcy held his gaze. “Because I am acquainted with Mr. Wickham.”
Gardiner frowned. The answer explained very little.
“I have known him for many years.”
Something in Darcy’s tone caused Gardiner to look at him more attentively. There was no hesitation in the statement. No uncertainty. The familiarity appeared genuine.
After a brief silence, Gardiner said carefully, “You know what happened… and you still came.” The older man let out a shaken sigh. He searched his guest’s face.
Darcy inclined his head.
“Then perhaps you know more of him than I do.”
A shadow crossed Darcy’s face. “That is unfortunately very possible.”
The reply carried such quiet conviction that Gardiner found his curiosity increasing rapidly. His niece’s tales at Christmas appeared to him.
“The man did not speak well of you in Hertfordshire.”
Darcy’s expression altered faintly. “No. I would not have expected him to.”
“Yet my niece came to think very differently of him.”
“I am glad of it. Mr. Wickham and I have long differed in our understanding of certain events.”
Gardiner’s eyes widened slightly. He had expected resentment, perhaps, or wounded pride. Such an acknowledgement was something else entirely.
He studied Darcy in silence.
“I must admit,” Gardiner said at last, leaning back slightly, “that I never expected to hear Mr. Wickham’s name mentioned in this room by you.”
“No,” said Darcy. “Nor did I expect to hear it connected with your family.”
For the first time, something very close to understanding stirred in Gardiner’s mind.
Not understanding the facts. Those remained entirely obscure. But understanding that this visit had not been prompted by idle curiosity. Something serious lay beneath it.
“Can you tell me what has been done so far?”
For the first time, genuine fatigue showed itself in Gardiner’s face. “We searched as best we could.” He took out the map of London and showed it to Darcy. All places they visited were marked.
“My brother Bennet came to town almost immediately. For a time, we conducted enquiries together. Lodgings, acquaintances, officers of the regiment, creditors – every avenue that suggested itself.”
“And with what result?”
“Very little.” The answer was delivered without bitterness, though disappointment remained.
“We found traces of him often enough. Men who had seen him. Men who had lent him money. Men who wished they had not. Yet whenever we followed one report, another proved false.”
Darcy was silent for a moment. “And Bow Street?”
Gardiner looked faintly surprised. “No.”
“You employed no runners?”
A slight colour rose in the older gentleman’s face.
“No.” The answer came quietly. “We considered it. But such measures are expensive, and there was never any certainty they would prove more successful than our own enquiries.”
Darcy said nothing. Yet something in his expression altered.
Gardiner noticed it immediately. “You think we ought to have done so.”
“I think,” said Darcy carefully, “that Mr. Wickham has spent many years perfecting the art of disappearing whenever his obligations become inconvenient.”
The restraint of the reply did little to conceal his opinion.
Gardiner studied him for a moment. “Perhaps you are right.”
A brief silence followed.
“My brother remained in town for somewhat more than a week,” he continued. “But the search produced little encouragement. Longbourn required his attention, and there seemed no immediate prospect of success. He returned home.”
“After a week?” Darcy’s gaze lowered briefly towards the papers between them. The answer sat uneasily with him.
A week. He would not have stopped until he found Georgiana. Yet the thought was perhaps unfair. Mr. Bennet had been searching for a missing daughter. He could hardly have been expected to understand the habits of a practised scoundrel.
“And since then?” Darcy asked.
“I remained.” Gardiner gave a faint smile.
“Unlike Mr. Wickham, I possess a business which, unfortunately, continues to demand my attention. I could not devote every hour to the pursuit, however much I wished it. My wife did her own share. She, fearing abandonment, went to shelters, the church – but nothing… My niece knows where we live; surely, she would have come.”
Darcy inclined his head. That, at least, he understood. He leant forward.
“Mr. Gardiner.” He spoke after a brief pause. “I should like to relieve you of the burden of searching for Mr. Wickham.”
Gardiner looked at him in surprise.
“You have already done more than could reasonably be expected. Allow me to continue the search.”
“You are very generous, sir, but I cannot ask…”
“You are not asking.”
The firmness of the reply left Gardiner with no obvious answer.