Page 34 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
“Indeed, ma’am. The late Mrs Darcy—the master’s mother—played daily upon it, and Miss Georgiana has inherited her talent.”
Elizabeth continued along the gallery, pausing before each portrait as Mrs Reynolds provided commentary on the subject’s accomplishments and character. She found herself particularly drawn to Darcy’s father—a handsome man whose face combined authority with warmth, not unlike his son’s in rare unguarded moments.
Near the end of the row hung a smaller painting that seemed oddly out of place among the formal Darcy likenesses. It depicted a fair-haired young man with laughing eyes and a charming smile. Unlike the others, he wore no fine coat or cravat, but rather the plain garb of a scholar.
Elizabeth felt a sudden jolt of recognition. The face was very familiar—surely it could not be—but no, that would be too extraordinary a coincidence.
“Who is this?” she enquired, keeping her tone casual despite her racing heart.
Mrs Reynolds’ expression darkened. “That is George Wickham, ma’am. The son of old Mr Darcy’s steward. He was raised alongside the master, though he proved unworthy of the family’s generosity.”
Elizabeth started visibly at the name. “Wickham?” she repeated, hardly able to believe the confirmation of her suspicion.
“Yes, ma’am. A most ungrateful young man. Old Mr Darcy funded his education and intended him for the church, but after the master’s father died, Wickham showed his true colours.” She lowered her voice. “If you’ll permit my saying so, ma’am, the portrait should be removed. It pains the master to see it, though he has never ordered it taken down out of respect for his father’s wishes.”
Elizabeth studied the portrait with new intensity, her mind whirling. This was indeed the same George Wickham who had been stationed at Meryton with the militia the previous autumn. He had paid particular attention to her at a local assembly, his easy manners and ready conversation making him an immediate favourite among the local populace. His sudden transfer of affections to Miss Mary King—or rather, to her recently acquired fortune of ten thousand pounds—had occasioned much gossip in the neighbourhood.
Now she recalled with uncomfortable clarity how bitterly Wickham had spoken of a nameless gentleman who had denied him his rightful inheritance. He had described being raised almost as a son by his godfather, then cruelly cast aside bythe heir after the old gentleman’s death. The son who, she now realised, must have been Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“How did he prove ungrateful?” she asked, careful to keep her tone measured.
“I should not speak ill of anyone,” Mrs Reynolds demurred, “but Mr Wickham caused the family nothing but grief. He was given a generous settlement in lieu of the living old Mr Darcy had promised him yet returned years later demanding more. The master refused, quite rightly.” She sighed. “There was more trouble after that, involving poor Miss Darcy, though I do not know the particulars.”
Elizabeth wondered whether she ought to mention her own brief acquaintance with Wickham. The coincidence was remarkable—that she should have encountered her husband’s childhood companion in Hertfordshire, of all places. Yet something held her back. Wickham had spoken so bitterly of Darcy, painting him as proud, unjust, and jealous. Mrs Reynolds’ account suggested a very different history, one where Wickham, not Darcy, was the villain.
Before she could decide how to proceed, a footman appeared at the gallery entrance.
“Pardon me, ma’am. A packet of letters has arrived, several addressed to you.”
She took them with a smile. “Thank you. I shall read them in the morning room.”
Once alone, Elizabeth stared at the letters for a long moment, unwilling to break the seals that would releasewhatever sentiments her family had chosen to convey. At last, unable to bear the suspense, she opened her mother’s letter first.
Oh! My dear, foolish Lizzy! What have you done to us all? To run from the church on your wedding day like a common thief in the night! And with a strange gentleman none of us have ever met!
The Blackfriars have been most severe in their condemnation—Mr Blackfriars has sworn never to speak to any Bennet again, and his son tells anyone who will listen that you led him on most shamefully before abandoning him for a wealthier prospect. I cannot show my face in Meryton without whispers following me, and your poor sisters’ prospects are damaged beyond repair!
Mrs Long had the audacity to express pity for us at church on Sunday—pity! And Lady Lucas makes a great show of sympathising with me while clearly gloating over her Charlotte’s steady disposition compared to my wayward daughters.
I have had such spasms and fluttering since hearing of your elopement that Mr Jones has had to attend me thrice with new draughts. Such a trial for my poor nerves!
And yet—Pemberley! Your father says it is a grand estate indeed, and your Mr Darcy possessed of at least ten thousand a year! Well, that is some consolation, I suppose. If you must disgrace us, at least you have done it by marrying wealth. Now you must use your position to help your sisters secure equally advantageous matches. It is the least you can do after the distress you have caused.
Lydia especially requires a good match, as she grows prettier each day and will need a husband to match her beauty. And do ask your Mr Darcy if he might speak to his man of business about breaking the entail on Longbourn. Surely, with his connections and fortune, such a thing might be arranged?
Mama
Elizabeth set the letter down, her cheeks burning with mortification. How like her mother to alternate between lamentations of ruin and calculations of advantage. The accusations stung, though she had expected as much, but the naked mercenary considerations appalled her. Did her mother truly believe she had married Darcy for his fortune? And the suggestion that she should use her position to secure matches for her sisters, to say nothing of asking him to break the entail—it was unconscionable.
She took a deep breath before opening her father’s letter, bracing herself for disappointment. His opinion mattered far more to her than her mother’s dramatics.
My Lizzy,
I write to acknowledge receipt of your letter explaining your sudden marriage. While I cannot pretend to approve of either the manner or the timing of your decision, I must own that the Blackfriars match had begun to trouble my conscience. Jonathan’s manner in the days before the wedding suggested a coldness of heart I had not previously perceived.
Nevertheless, to flee the church and marry a stranger shows a rashness of judgement I had not thought you possessed.
Your Mr Darcy has written separately, expressing his esteem for your character and assuring me of your comfort at Pemberley. He has offered financial assistance, which I have declined. Your Uncle Gardiner has arranged matters satisfactorily in that quarter, and I will not be further indebted to the gentleman who carried off my daughter without so much as a goodbye.
