Page 62 of Mr. Darcy's Runaway Bride
Elizabeth felt a chill settle in her stomach. “I found some of the officers to be agreeable acquaintances,” she said carefully.
“Agreeable?” Lydia laughed. “You were quite particular in your admiration for one officer, as I recall. Mr Wickham, wasn’t it? I hardly had a chance to talk to him because he always took up all your time. Such a handsome man, and so very charming!”
Blood drained from Elizabeth’s face as she raised her eyes to meet her husband. Darcy’s expression changed—the pleasant civility replaced by a cold intensity that seemed to lower the temperature of the entire room.
“Lydia, you mistake the matter entirely,” Elizabeth said, attempting to sound light. “Mr Wickham was merely an acquaintance. I would hardly elevate him to more than he was.”
“Oh, but you walked with him on several occasions,” Lydia persisted, oblivious to the sudden tension. “And he singled you out at that party at Aunt Phillips’s house, telling you all those fascinating stories. What were they about again? Something about an inheritance that was unfairly denied him—”
“Enough, Lydia,” Mr Bennet cut in, his voice unusually stern. “You exhaust us all with your chatter about the officers. I am certain Mr Darcy has no interest in these provincial attachments.”
But the damage was done. Darcy had turned his attention to his plate, his face a careful mask, but Elizabeth could see the rigid set of his shoulders and the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped his fork. The remainder of the dinner passed in strained conversation, with Elizabeth making desperate attempts to revive the earlier civility, but a pall had been cast over the gathering that could not be dispelled.
When the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port, Elizabeth caught her husband’s eye, attempting to convey her distress and regret, but his gaze slid past her, focusing on some point beyond her shoulder.
The evening concluded with a stiffness that belied the initial warmth of their welcome. When at last they took theirleave, Elizabeth felt a growing dread at the conversation that must inevitably follow.
The carriage journey commenced in tense silence. Elizabeth cast about for words to bridge the chasm that had opened between them, but found none adequate to the task. It was Darcy who finally broke the stillness, his voice controlled but edged with emotion.
“You knew George Wickham.”
It was not a question, but Elizabeth answered as if it were. “Yes. He was stationed at Meryton with the militia last autumn.”
“And you did not think to mention this… acquaintance to me at any point during our marriage?”
“You never told me about him,” she argued, aware it was a poor defence that would swiftly fall apart once he knew the whole story.
“Mrs Reynolds told me you asked questions about the portrait gallery and she mentioned that she spoke of him. She was uneasy because she knows how I despise him and wanted me to be aware she had spoken of him to you. However, I did not bring it up because you appeared not to know anything of him.”
Elizabeth twisted her fingers in her lap. This made it worse. “I discovered his connection to you only recently, when I saw his portrait at Pemberley. Mrs Reynolds made it clear she cared little for him but would not elaborate. Then Colonel Fitzwilliam provided further details during his visit. I felt it best not to bring him up. He was no longer in either of our lives.”
“Did Wickham speak to you of me while in Hertfordshire? Your sister implies as much.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then decided that complete honesty was the only path forward. “He did. He claimed that you had denied him a living promised by your father, leaving him in financial distress.”
Darcy’s laugh was harsh and without humour. “Of course he did. Wickham has always excelled at presenting himself as the injured party.” Were these not the words Mrs Reynolds and Darcy’s cousin had used? Elizabeth thought so.
He paused, then continued with deliberate precision. “The true story is somewhat different. My father provided generously for Wickham’s education, intending him for the church. When my father died, Wickham approached me to say he had no intention of taking orders. He requested three thousand pounds in lieu of the living, which I provided. He squandered the money within two years, then returned demanding the living he had previously renounced. I refused.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam told me this much,” Elizabeth said quietly.
“Did he tell you the rest?” Darcy asked, his voice tight with suppressed anger. “Did he tell you that Wickham then disappeared, only to resurface at Ramsgate last summer, where my sister was staying with her companion? Did he share how Wickham insinuated himself into Georgiana’s affections, convincing a fifteen-year-old girl that he loved her, persuading her to agree to an elopement? Did he tell you that Wickham’s true target was not my sister but her fortune of thirty thousand pounds?”
Elizabeth felt sick with dismay. “He mentioned an incident involving Georgiana.”
“Had I arrived at Ramsgate a day later,” Darcy continued, “my sister would have been ruined beyond recovery. As it was, the experience left her shattered, her trust in her own judgement destroyed. She cannot bear even to hear Wickham’s name mentioned.”
“I had no notion how badly it affected her—”
“No,” Darcy interrupted, “you did not. Because you chose to conceal your acquaintance with him rather than trust me with the truth.”
The carriage rolled to a stop before Netherfield’s entrance, the glow of lanterns illuminating Darcy’s face—a face now drawn with lines of strain and disappointment. He descended first, then turned to assist Elizabeth, his hand impersonal beneath her gloved fingers.
“Why did you not tell me?” he asked as they climbed the steps to the entrance.
Elizabeth looked up at him, seeing the hurt there. “At first, I knew nothing of your connection to him. Then, when I discovered it, I feared… I feared you would think me of low character for having engaged in a friendship with him, brief aa it might have been. And later, I was ashamed to admit I had been so easily deceived. But after Caroline Bingley mentioned the militia yesterday, I knew I had to tell you.”
“Yet, you did not. I slept in the room next to yours last night. You had ever chance. You saw me this morning, again you said nothing.”
