Page 72 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious "Miss B"
“Severe indeed, particularly from a man who had once called me brother.” Wickham’s eyes glittered with suppressed anger. “In truth, he always saw Bingley as more of a brother than I. They have more in common I suppose. They are rich, well-regarded, and popular with the young ladies,” he smiled.
“Young ladies?” she asked, hating how weak her voice sounded. Darcy had never mentioned another woman and Bingley had told Jane he had never been in love before.
“Oh yes, they were both popular. Bingley more so than Darcy. But he suffers from, shall we say, a fickle heart. Never stays with one lady for very long. That is also why I am here. To warn you and your sister.”
Elizabeth was not sure what to make of this. Who was this Wickham really? And why had Darcy not told her of him? They had shared so much over the last few weeks but he never once spoke of Mr Wickham. And what if Bingley? How reliable were his words regarding Bingley?
“But that is not all,” Wickham continued, his voice taking on an even more bitter edge. “There is also his treatment of those who depend upon him. The stewardship of his estate, for instance. Did you know that he has dismissed several long-serving families from their positions for the smallest infractions? Families who had served the Darcy name faithfully for generations, cast out without references or means of support.”
“Rather excessive,” James said.
“Excessive, yes, but entirely in character. Darcy cannot bear to have his authority questioned in any way. He rules Pemberley like a tyrant, and woe betide anyone who crosses him.” Wickham’s eyes glittered with malice. “But perhaps you think I exaggerate? After all, what proof do I have beyond my own testimony?”
“I dare say you have shown none,” Elizabeth said.
“I had hoped you would listen to me and trust my word, but if you do not believe me, I have brought evidence. Letters from former tenants.” He slipped hand into his pocket and waved a small bundle of papers. He handed them to her.
She hesitated but then took them from him, though every part of her wanted to decline. “Miss Bennet, I merely present facts and allow you to draw your own conclusions. Though I will say this—the Darcy I knew as a child was capable of great charm when it served his purposes. He has always possessed the ability to make others believe exactly what he wishes them to believe.”
The garden seemed to spin around Elizabeth. Every tender moment with Darcy, every gentle word, every look that had made her heart race—had it all been part of some elaborate performance? Or had she seen only his best side? Was he hiding a dark side to him? And what of Bingley?
“I think,” she said unsteadily, “that I have heard quite enough.”
“Of course,” Wickham said with another of his unsettling smiles. “I understand this must be difficult. Perhaps we should take our leave and allow you time to consider what you have learnt.”
He bowed again and moved towards the garden gate, but James remained behind, his countenance now openly vindictive.
“Why?” Elizabeth asked when they were alone. “Why would you bring this man here? Why would you want me to hear such things?”
“Because you and your sister are blinded by wealth and status,” James replied coldly. “You think Darcy and Bingley are your saviours, but they are not the sort of men you think they are. Darcy has ulterior motives and is surely using you, and Bingley? He will tire of Jane soon enough.”
“Mr Darcy has already paid our debts, he has no obligations to us anymore.” She paused, not wanting to say out loud that his reason for courting her—needing a Miss B—had long since resolved itself. “As for Jane, you are only envious because she is happy and no longer needs your calculating offer of help.”
“You flatter yourself, Miss Elizabeth. After what your family has cost me—the humiliation of being rejected, the strain you have caused between Uncle Morton and I—do you honestly think I would still want to marry into such a family? Even if Jane came begging, I would refuse her.”
“Then why—”
“Because I am not as bad a man as you think I am. When your family rejected me for Darcy and Bingley I decided to look into them. That is how I learned of Mr Wickham who in turn told me a great many things that let me know how large a mistake you are making. They will discard you, both of you. Mark my words.”
With that, he strode away, leaving Elizabeth alone in the garden with her shattered certainties crumbling around her like autumn leaves.
The house behind her hummed with the usual evening activity—the Gardiners preparing for dinner, Lydia practising her pianoforte, Kitty’s laughter drifting from the drawing room. But Elizabeth could not bring herself to enter that world of contentment. Not when every foundation of her happiness had just been shaken to its core.
Was it possible? Could the man she had begun to love be capable of such cruelty, such calculated manipulation? The Darcy who had defended her at Vauxhall, who had looked at her with such tenderness, who had made her believe in the possibility of genuine affection—could he truly be the same man who had destroyed Wickham’s prospects and dismissed faithful servants without cause?
As the shadows lengthened around her, Elizabeth remained in the garden, wrestling with doubts that threatened to destroy everything she had thought she knew about her own heart.
Chapter 26
Elizabeth
Elizabeth had not slept. She lay in her bed as the grey dawn light crept through the curtains, her mind turning over Wickham’s words like stones in a tumbler, each revolution making them sharper and more cutting.
She had read the letters he’d left her—all of them a damning judgement upon a man who had mistreated his tenants, cast them out into nothing.
She rose and dressed instinctively, her movements sluggish from exhaustion. In the looking glass, her reflection appeared wan and hollow-eyed. How could she have been so wrong about Darcy’s character? The man who had been so gentle with Lydia, who had paid Longbourn’s debts without hesitation, who had looked at her with such apparent tenderness—was it all performance?
Yet as she descended to breakfast, doubts crept in. Wickham’s story, whilst compelling, had been thin on specifics. Even the letters had been somewhat vague on details. There were names, dates—but no addresses she could use to verify the information within. It was all very convenient, she thought, that every piece of evidence supported Wickham’s version whilst being impossible to verify.
