Page 71 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious "Miss B"
2nd June 1811
The familiar streets of Cheapside had never felt more welcoming than they did this afternoon as Elizabeth walked home from her meeting with Darcy. A smile played about her lips as she recalled their conversation in Hyde Park, the easy companionship that had developed between them, the way he had looked at her when he thought she was not watching.
Time had moved quickly since their evening at Vauxhall Gardens, and each day had brought them closer together. What had begun as a convenient deception had transformed into something precious and real. Though they had not spoken explicitly of the future, Elizabeth felt certain that their arrangement would blossom into something lasting. The tenderness in Darcy’s eyes, the way he could gentle place his hand on the small of her back at times—these were not the actions of a man merely playing a part.
She thought back to the dance at Lord Matlock’s London home. How odd it was that she had felt like an intruder there only to now perhaps become a true part of this family.
Everything seemed to be settling into place at last. The household at Gracechurch Street had become a haven. Lydia and Mr Darcy had reconciled completely, their friendship restored to what it had been at Netherfield. He had even resumed battling her in games of chess, much to her delight. Georgiana, whethershe had ever suspected Lydia’s role in revealing her letter-writing activities or not, bore no grudges. The two young ladies had become inseparable, their laughter often echoing through the drawing room.
Even Kitty and Mary had warmed to the arrangements. Kitty found Georgiana’s gentle manner soothing, whilst Mary approved of the elevated conversation that Mr Darcy’s presence brought to their gatherings. The entire party—the Gardiners, Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy, and even Mr Morton—had spent several pleasant evenings together. Uncle Morton proved himself a thoughtful conversationalist and engaging conversationalist once freed from his nephew’s manipulative influence. He had not said much about James beyond that their relationship was strained. James’ reaction at having been told the union with Jane would not happen had shown Uncle Morton the man he truly was.
In the interest of saving him further pain, they had not told him about the encounter at Vauxhall Gardens.
Mrs Bennet, meanwhile, could scarcely contain her joy at the turn of events. Two daughters engaged to wealthy gentlemen exceeded even her most ambitious dreams. Though they all still felt the sharp absence of Mr Bennet—his wit and calmness irreplaceable—there was healing in their happiness. Elizabeth often caught her mother gazing wistfully out the window, but increasingly, these moments were followed by smiles rather than tears.
As Elizabeth turned into the garden gate, her contentment evaporated instantly.
Two figures stood near the rose bushes, deep in conversation with an air of conspiracy that made her stomachclench with unease. James Morton she recognised immediately, his posture rigid with suppressed anger. The other man was a stranger—tall, handsome in a conventional way, with dark hair and an easy smile that somehow failed to reach his eyes.
“Miss Elizabeth,” James called out as she approached, his voice carrying false cheer. “How fortuitous. I was hoping to speak with you.”
“Mr Morton.” She inclined her head politely whilst maintaining her distance. “I was not aware you were calling today. I did not think there was much left to say after our last meeting.”
“That is where you are quite wrong. Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr George Wickham,” James continued, gesturing to his companion. “Mr Wickham, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
The stranger stepped forward with a bow that was perfectly correct yet somehow insolent. “Miss Bennet, the pleasure is entirely mine. I have heard so much about you.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth’s tone remained neutral. “And from whom might that be?”
“Why, from our mutual acquaintance, Mr Morton, of course.” Wickham’s smile widened, but there was something predatory in his face. “He sought me out a fortnight ago at my accommodation here in Town and told me all about the delightful family he associated with. And the unfortunate acquaintances you have made with a certain Mr Darcy.”
His manner immediately set Elizabeth on edge, and the mention of Mr Darcy did not make it any better. “Mr Darcy is my fiancé,” she said in as collected a manner as she could. “And I seenothing unfortunate in our connection. Now, pray. Why are the both of you here?”
“You may not see it as unfortunate, but I do. I understand of course why you feel as you do. I once considered him a dear friend. A brother, almost. But that was before he wronged me. You see, your cousin is concerned about your future and after hearing of your intentions to marry Mr Darcy, so am I. He is not the sort of man one can trust. Believe me.”
Elizabeth stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“You see, I have known Fitzwilliam Darcy since we were children. Our fathers were the closest of friends—my father served as steward to the Darcy estate for many years. After he died, Mr Darcy’s father took me in. I was raised almost as a brother to Darcy, treated with every kindness by his dear father.” Wickham’s mien grew sombre, though his eyes remained calculating. “I therefore know his character well. Too well. And it seems you do not know him at all.”
“What do you mean by that?” Elizabeth demanded, though part of her desperately wished to walk away from whatever poison this man was preparing to pour into her ears.
“It is delicate matter,” Wickham said with apparent reluctance. “One hesitates to speak ill of an old friend, particularly when that friend is engaged to such a charming lady. But perhaps… perhaps you deserve to know the truth about the man you intend to marry.”
James stepped closer, his face a mask of false concern. “Mr Wickham has shared some rather troubling information about both Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley. Information I believe you and your sister should be aware of before you proceed with your respective engagements.”
“What sort of information?” The words escaped before Elizabeth could stop them.
Wickham sighed deeply, as though the burden of truth weighed heavily upon him. “It concerns the living that was promised to me—the living at Kympton. You see, Mr Darcy’s father was my godfather as well as my father’s employer. On his deathbed, he made provision for me to inherit the family living when it became vacant. He knew my circumstances, my desire to enter the church, my need for independent income.”
Elizabeth’s mouth went dry, but she said nothing.
“When old Mr Darcy died, I applied to his son for the living as was my right. But the current Mr Darcy… he refused me. Claimed the living was not suitable for my temperament, that perhaps I would be better served by pursuing law instead. He offered me a sum of money in lieu of the living—a paltry amount compared to what I had been promised.” Wickham’s voice grew bitter. “I was young, foolish, desperate. I accepted his offer, thinking I could make my way in the world through other means.”
“And could you not?” Elizabeth asked.
“The money was gone within two years. Invested poorly, spent unwisely—I freely admit my mistakes. When I found myself in reduced circumstances, I applied to Darcy again, begging him to reconsider the living, which had still not been filled. But he refused me utterly. Told me I had made my choice and must live with the consequences. Mr Bingley was in residence at the time and only strengthened Mr Darcy’s resolve to deny me. The two of them worked in confederacy to separate me from Georgiana as well. I always thought of her as a sister,and the two of them filled her head with all manner of falsehoods so she now thinks ill of me.”
A cold dread settled in her chest. “That seems rather severe.”
