Page 42 of Elizabeth and Caroline
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “So, Mr. Wickham did not wish to be a parson?”
“He thought he could just have the value of the position.”
“Just pay him for not working at all?”
“We settled on three thousand pounds,” said Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Really. And he still resents you so. I don’t rightly understand that.”
“He must blame someone. He never blamed my father, of course,” said Mr. Darcy. “So, he blames me. But what he says I have done, it’s almost never true. He lies quite a lot.”
“Yes, I could sort of sense that,” said Elizabeth. And sense something else, though, something that she was ashamed of, because she had been drawn to Mr. Wickham as well, despite the fact he seemed dangerous. Perhaps because of it.
“Could you?” Mr. Darcy arched an eyebrow. “Sensed he was lying, Lizzy?”
“Well, I don’t know what I sensed,” she said. “But something about him… Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I don’t see why he’d go after your sister, then. Were they desperately in love or something? She seems young for it.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Darcy. “He spent all that money I gave him.”
“All three thousand pounds?” said Elizabeth. “Truly?”
“Well, that is what he said, anyway,” said Mr. Darcy. “And I think it must have been true or why else would he be taking on someone’s commission in the regiment?”
“Oh, true, I suppose he must be in need of an occupation,” she said. “He thought to have your sister’s dowry, you think, then? He was motivated by money.”
“There could be nothing else to motivate him.”
No, Mr. Wickham was not motivated by money, and this she knew somehow, deep down. What he was motivated by, she could not say, entirely, but it was something other than money. “It sounds to me as if your sister was taken advantage of,” said Elizabeth. “One must only have aconversation with Mr. Wickham to understand what he is like. She cannot be blamed for it, I don’t think.”
“What is he like? What do you mean?”
She shrugged, picking up her fork and poking through food on her plate. “He has a certain… I don’t know. A charisma, I suppose.”
Nothing from her husband.
She looked up at him.
His face was white, that white, drawn expression she’d seen every time Mr. Wickham was mentioned.
She set her fork down with a clatter, surprised. “He was correct. You are jealous of him.”
Mr. Darcy let out a disbelieving noise. “Ought I be?”
“Ought you…?”
“How do you know him, anyway? What happened between the two of you?”
“I had one conversation with him, one conversation only.”
“During which he accused me of jealousy?”
“Amongst other things,” she said. “He doesn’t like you either, but I’m sure you know that. What I can’t determine is why. I think you’re telling me the truth, and that he was lying, and he doesn’t seem to have any reason not to like you, so it’s all a puzzle. He’s very puzzling. I can’t make sense of him.”
“You spend timethinkingabout him?”
“See?” She gestured. “You are jealous. But I don’t think it’s as he said. I don’t think it’s about your father. You seem to have a different opinion of your father than he did. He was quite admiring of your father, and you seem…” On the other hand, maybe her husband had grown angry with his father over the favoritism shown to the son of a servant. It seemed too petty for Mr. Darcy, who was so willing to forgive her so many things, who was so concerned with nobility, however.
“Trust me when I tell you that I was never jealous of the way my father treated him,” said Mr. Darcy.
