Sixteen
Oakham Mount
Elizabeth
Elizabeth left Longbourn before the rest of the household had begun to stir.
Her refusal of Mr. Collins occasioned her no regret, though the confidence with which he persisted in regarding it as temporary had tried her patience exceedingly.
Her mother had proved no more willing to accept the truth, but Elizabeth had spoken so plainly the evening before that even Mrs. Bennet had been left, for once, without a single useful argument.
The freedom of the morning air was particularly welcome after so disagreeable an evening.
She walked briskly, grateful for the silence and for the prospect of an hour beyond the reach of persuasion, reproach, and Mr. Collins's solemn conviction that a young woman's judgment could not possibly be trusted where matrimony was concerned.
Yet neither her cousin nor her mother occupied her thoughts for long.
It had been six days since she had last met Mr. Darcy upon Oakham Mount.
Their morning conversations had become so settled a part of her days that the interruption seemed far longer.
She had missed the quiet ease of their walks, the unexpected turns of their discourse, and even those silences which, with him, had long since ceased to require explanation.
The recollection brought a smile to her lips, though it faded as Mr. Wickham's account returned to her mind.
She had resolved the previous evening that Mr. Darcy must be told of it.
Whatever had passed between the two gentlemen, Mr. Wickham had spoken with the evident expectation that she should believe him.
To conceal such a conversation from Mr. Darcy, after all the confidence he had shown her, appeared little short of dishonourable.
She quickened her pace as she ascended the mount and had scarcely gained the summit when Mr. Darcy turned towards her.
The pleasure that crossed his countenance was immediate and unmistakable.
Elizabeth felt an answering warmth, heightened by the knowledge that he had made no attempt to conceal his satisfaction.
Before either had spoken, however, she perceived that something in him was altered.
His features were composed, yet the composure seemed deliberate, as though assumed against thoughts which would not readily submit to his command.
"Miss Bennet." He came forward to meet her, and the gravity of his expression softened. "I had begun to fear you would not come again."
"I hope you did not suppose I had abandoned Oakham Mount merely because I had missed a few mornings."
"No." He hesitated, his gaze searching her face. "Though I confess the possibility had occurred to me."
Elizabeth smiled. "Then I am glad to relieve you of that apprehension. My absence was not voluntary."
"I am very glad of it." The words escaped him with such unaffected sincerity that her smile deepened, though his own soon faded. "You are well?"
"Perfectly." She regarded him more closely. "I am not persuaded you can say the same."
Darcy turned his gaze towards the valley. The morning was clear, though a faint mist still lingered over the lower fields, softening the hedgerows and distant farms.
"I have passed several unsettled days," he admitted. "But I would rather hear what has occupied yours."
Elizabeth had intended to introduce Mr. Wickham's name with some caution, but the opening he afforded rendered all artifice unnecessary.
"You saw me in Meryton on Saturday."
His expression hardened almost imperceptibly.
"I did."
"You recognised the gentleman walking beside me?"
"Yes."
The single word confirmed more than any elaborate reply could have done. Elizabeth drew a breath and began walking slowly along the ridge, leaving him either to accompany her or remain behind. He joined her immediately.
"I had met Mr. Wickham only a short while before you passed us," she said.
"He was introduced by Mr. Denny, who knows something of my family through my sister Lydia.
Just before you came upon us, Mr. Wickham informed me that the two of you had long been acquainted.
From what I observed when you met, and from what he afterwards related, I could not suppose the acquaintance had ended upon friendly terms."
She paused, hoping he might offer some explanation, but Mr. Darcy remained silent, his gaze fixed upon the path before them, as though aware she had not yet finished.
"Yesterday, at my aunt Phillips's, I had another opportunity of conversing with him." She lowered her eyes for a moment before continuing. "He spoke of you, sir... and said the most shocking things."
Darcy's step faltered, though only for an instant.
"He spoke of me."
It was not a question.
"He did." Elizabeth clasped her hands before her, uncertain how to proceed without increasing the pain already visible in his countenance. "I believed you ought to know what was said, though I fear the account can afford you little pleasure."
"I should be grateful to hear it."
She related the substance of Mr. Wickham's account without repeating every particular by which he had sought to recommend it.
She spoke of the long connexion between their families, and of the provision which, according to him, had been withheld.
Nor did she conceal the most painful part of his narrative, that he had gone so far as to suggest the late Mr. Darcy himself might not have been the benevolent gentleman the world believed him to be, but had privately encouraged the injustice afterwards laid at his son's door.
Darcy neither interrupted nor attempted to defend himself. Only once, when she spoke of his father, did his composure visibly falter. The alteration was slight, yet unmistakable, and Elizabeth immediately regretted the necessity of repeating words that had so plainly caused him pain.
"There was one thing more," she continued after a moment. "He said he had already heard something of the rumours concerning you before ever he came into Hertfordshire."
Darcy looked at her then.
"He claimed a connexion in London had spoken of the misfortune of dealing with the Darcys.
" She hesitated, unwilling to repeat the last part, yet convinced concealment would now serve no purpose.
"He even ventured the opinion that whatever had occasioned the present rumours perhaps did not begin with you, but had attended your family for many years. "
The colour slowly left Darcy's face.
He turned away so abruptly that Elizabeth could no longer see his expression. For several moments he remained silent, absently turning his hat between his hands, as though steadying his thoughts before trusting himself to speak.
"I see," he said quietly.
Nothing more followed.
Elizabeth watched him with increasing uneasiness. She had expected resentment, perhaps even indignation, but not this profound disturbance. Whatever Mr. Wickham had intended by those insinuations, she suspected they had struck far nearer than she could comprehend.
"And that," she said gently, "is all he told me."
Darcy inclined his head in acknowledgement, though he did not immediately look at her. At length he drew a measured breath.
"I thank you for telling me."
"I thought you ought to know."
"You were right."
His gratitude was sincere, yet it carried none of the relief she had expected. If anything, he appeared more troubled than before, and Elizabeth found herself wondering whether the source of his disquiet truly lay in Mr. Wickham's accusations, or in something else altogether.
She remained silent, unwilling to press him into a confidence he might not yet be prepared to bestow.
At length he spoke, offering it of his own accord.
"My father employed George Wickham's father for many years. He served Pemberley faithfully, and my father rewarded that service with a generosity which often exceeded prudence. Wickham benefited from it throughout his youth."
"That much corresponds with his account."
"As it must. A falsehood is most readily believed when it is supported by sufficient truth.
" Darcy's hand closed briefly at his side before he mastered the movement.
"My father intended him for the church and expressed his wish to present him with a valuable living when it became vacant.
That intention, however, depended entirely upon Wickham's taking orders. "
"And he did not choose to do so?"
"He declared himself unequal to the profession and resolved instead to study the law.
Upon my father's death, he requested the immediate payment of three thousand pounds in lieu of any future claim upon the living.
I consented. He accepted the money, relinquished every expectation of preferment, and wrote in terms which left no doubt that he considered the arrangement entirely satisfactory. "
Elizabeth considered this in silence.
"He accepted money?"
"Yes. What became of every pound I cannot say. I know only that within a year it had all been spent."
"So soon?"
"He had acquired expensive habits long before my father's death. More than once I discharged debts which ought never to have become mine, believing I might yet preserve him from complete ruin. At length I understood that every act of assistance merely encouraged him to expect another."
Elizabeth could not conceal her astonishment.
"What happened afterwards?"
"The living soon became vacant, and he came to demand it with an arrogance I shall never forget, as though no previous agreement had ever existed and the preferment belonged to him by right."
"After accepting three thousand pounds in exchange for relinquishing it?"
"Yes."
"What reason did he have?"
"He declared that he had discovered the law to be uncongenial and had now determined upon ordination.
" Darcy's expression held no trace of amusement.
"I knew too much of his habits to entrust the welfare of a parish to him, even had he retained any claim upon my father's intention.
I refused. He answered me with abuse, and our connexion became strained. "