CHAPTER THREE #3
At Netherfield, Sir Thomas waited in the library. He had permitted the girls to attend the party on condition that he hear how it passed, a habit Lydia called interrogation and secretly enjoyed because it prolonged every outing.
Kitty described the officers. Lydia described them more loudly. Mary praised Charlotte's patience during cards. Elizabeth said little of Wickham until her father asked whether the new lieutenant had been present.
"He told me he was the late Mr Darcy's godson."
Sir Thomas's fingers stilled on the arm of his chair. "Did he?"
"And that Mr Darcy denied him a living intended by his father."
"Did you believe him?"
Elizabeth sat opposite. "I believed that he believes himself injured. I do not know whether the injury is justly described."
"Good."
"You know something of him?"
"Only his name. It appeared in correspondence sent to me two years ago by Lord Melbourne's office concerning army commissions purchased with questionable drafts. Nothing was proven against Wickham then."
Mary had followed Elizabeth into the library and stood near the shelves. "Will you tell Mr Darcy?"
Sir Thomas looked at her. "Would you wish me to?"
"If someone told stories about Lizzy, I would want her warned."
Elizabeth turned, touched by the quiet certainty.
"Then I shall determine whether a warning is needed," Sir Thomas said. "But none of you will repeat Mr Wickham's account. A man's charming face does not make his accusation true, and another man's pride does not make it false."
Lydia, lingering in the doorway, sighed. "Must every handsome officer become a lesson?"
"Only the ones who speak."
The following morning Sir Thomas wrote three letters.
One went to his solicitor. One went to an undersecretary who had dined at Netherfield after the King's recovery.
The third was addressed to Colonel Fitzwilliam, younger son of the Earl of Matlock, whose acquaintance Sir Thomas had made during a royal shooting party.
He did not write to Darcy.
Darcy came to him first.
They met beside the lower lake two days later. Sir Thomas was inspecting damage to a stone culvert when Darcy approached on horseback. He dismounted rather than speak from the saddle.
"Sir Thomas."
"Mr Darcy. Have you come to admire my drainage?"
Darcy looked toward the muddy opening. "Bingley said I would find you here."
"Then my vanity must endure disappointment."
Darcy held his gloves in one hand. Reserve sat upon him like armor, but his jaw was tense.
"I understand Mr Wickham has joined the militia."
"He has."
"He may attempt to impose upon your family."
"In what manner?"
Darcy's silence lengthened.
Sir Thomas waited. Ten years of managing people had taught him what wit never had: silence used patiently was not withdrawal. It was room for another person to decide.
"He is skilled at creating sympathy," Darcy said at last. "His account of our history will not be accurate."
"Then give me an accurate one."
Darcy looked toward the lake. "Some facts are not mine alone to disclose."
"Does the safety of my daughters depend upon them?"
Darcy's head turned sharply. "Potentially."
"Then disclose what is yours, and tell me where the boundary lies."
For several moments Darcy said nothing. Then, in clipped sentences, he described the bequest, the three thousand pounds Wickham accepted instead of the living, his later demand for the church position, and the refusal that followed.
He did not mention Ramsgate. Sir Thomas recognized the boundary and did not press—not yet.
"You have documents?"
"Yes."
"Send copies."
Darcy stiffened. "You doubt me."
"I verify matters that may affect my children. I am doing you the courtesy of verifying Wickham as well."
Pride and reluctant respect struggled across Darcy's face.
"Very well."
Sir Thomas stooped to retrieve his walking stick from the grass. "Mr Darcy."
Darcy waited.
"My daughter told me very little of Wickham's tale. Do not punish her in your mind for listening to what he offered without invitation."
Color rose along Darcy's cheekbones. The accuracy of the rebuke was answer enough.
"I have no claim upon Miss Elizabeth's opinions."
"No. But you appear to value them."
Darcy looked across the water rather than reply.
At Longbourn that evening, Caroline found him standing alone in the library.
"Charles says you rode to Netherfield. Was Miss Eliza at home?"
"I went to see Sir Thomas."
"How disappointing. Though I suppose the father is the better connection. The King's brave little knight and all that."
Darcy closed the book in his hand. "There is nothing little in courage performed while armed men attempt to stop it."
Caroline stared.
"And Sir Thomas is not a connection I am pursuing."
"Of course not."
She smiled, but uncertainty entered it.
Darcy left the room. On the hall table lay a forgotten pair of women's gloves. They were brown, practical, and marked with a faint smear of dried mud.
He knew they were Elizabeth's before the servant confirmed it.
For a moment he touched the stain with his thumb. Then he ordered the gloves wrapped and sent to Netherfield without a note, because every note he imagined revealed more than he intended.