Page 35 of Mr. Darcy's Bargain Bride
“What manner of accommodation?” Mr Darcy’s words were clipped, controlled.
“A simple financial arrangement. Say, five hundred pounds as compensation for the years of care you have provided, and I shall relinquish all claim to the child. He may remain here at Pemberley, whilst I pursue other ventures that better suit my temperament.”
The sum mentioned was staggering—enough to maintain a gentleman in comfort for decades. Elizabeth felt her stomach turn with disgust at the naked greed behind Wickham’s supposed paternal concern.
“You seek to sell your own son?” Mr Darcy asked, his voice filled with contempt.
“Harsh words, my friend. I prefer to think of it as ensuring his continued happiness whilst providing for my own modest needs. After all, your reputation depends upon avoiding scandal, does it not? The courts can be so unpredictable in matters of custody, and the gossips remain eager for fresh material.”
The threat beneath his reasonable tone was unmistakable. Elizabeth’s hands clenched into fists as she recognised the true nature of his proposal—extortion disguised as paternal sacrifice.
“And should I refuse your generous offer?”
“Then I fear we must proceed through legal channels, though it pains me to contemplate such a course.” Wickham reached into his coat with deliberate ceremony. “I have here the registration of my marriage to dear Eloise Phillips, properly recorded in the parish books of St. Michael’s in Yorkshire. The law is quite clear about paternal rights, as I’m certain your solicitors have already informed you.”
The rustle of paper accompanied his words as he produced a document with a flourish that suggested theatrical training. Elizabeth strained to see the papers from her concealed position, noting how carefully Wickham held them.
“May I examine this document?”
“Certainly, though I trust you’ll handle it with appropriate care. Parish records are so fragile, are they not?” Wickham extended the papers toward Darcy, but as soon as his host reached for them, he snatched them back with practised swiftness.
“Careful, Darcy! I said you might examine it, not attempt to retain it for detailed study. Surely a gentleman’s word regarding its authenticity should suffice between friends?”
Elizabeth observed the suspicious speed with which the supposed evidence was withdrawn. No man confident in the legitimacy of his documents would behave with such obvious evasiveness.
“Your word has proven worthless before,” Darcy replied with cutting precision. “I see no reason to grant it credence now.”
Mrs Younge’s voice interjected with syrupy concern. “Oh, Mr Darcy, surely you can appreciate Mr Wickham’s delicate position? He wishes only what is best for the child, yet he must also consider his own future security. A man of your generous nature and substantial means could easily spare such a sum.”
“I could,” Mr Darcy agreed with deliberate mildness. “Yet I choose not to.”
The silence that followed stretched taut with tension. Elizabeth could almost sense Wickham’s facade beginning to crack as he realised his manipulation had failed to achieve its desired effect.
“I see.” When Wickham spoke again, his tone had lost its veneer of geniality. “How disappointingly predictable. The great Fitzwilliam Darcy, too proud to acknowledge when he has been bested, too arrogant to recognise superior claims when they are presented.”
“I acknowledge no claim from a man who abandoned his responsibilities and now seeks to profit from them,” Mr Darcy replied with steely calm. “Nor do I recognise any authority that would compel me to negotiate with extortionists.”
“Extortion?” Wickham’s laugh held an ugly edge. “Such dramatic language. I merely seek what is rightfully mine—my son and reasonable compensation for the years of separation you have caused.”
“You seek money, nothing more. The child’s welfare has never been your concern.”
“And yours has been exemplary, I suppose?” Wickham rose from his chair, his military bearing lending menace to his words. “That cold, calculating manner of yours, that inability to show warmth? The boy craves affection that you are incapable of providing.”
Elizabeth’s admiration for her husband grew as she listened to his measured responses in the face of Wickham’s increasingly vicious attacks. Here was a man defending not just his legal position but the welfare of a child he truly loved, refusing to be provoked despite deliberate insults to his character.
“You mistake dignity for coldness,” Mr Darcy said quietly, his composure absolute despite the provocation. “And stability for calculation. Ambrose wants for neither affection nor security in this house.”
“Pretty words from a man who married hastily to strengthen his legal position,” Wickham sneered. “Does your convenient bride know how thoroughly she has been used in this charade?”
The insult to herself barely registered beside Elizabeth’s fury at the attack on Mr Darcy. How dare this mercenary wretch question the motives of a man whose every action demonstrated care and responsibility?
“I believe this interview has concluded,” her husband said with finality. “You are no longer welcome at Pemberley, Wickham. I suggest you remember that in future.”
“Surely, Mr Darcy,” Mrs Younge said in a desperate tone, clearly realising their scheme had failed, “a gentleman of yourstanding and Christian charity can find it in his heart to be generous? Poor Mr Wickham asks for so little…”
The sharp sound of a bell being pulled interrupted her pleading. “Morrison,” Mr Darcy’s voice carried clearly, “please escort these persons from the premises immediately. They are not to be admitted again under any circumstances.”
“You make a grave error, Darcy,” Wickham’s words carried the venom of defeated ambition. “Some choices cannot be maintained forever, no matter how much you try. We shall meet again, I assure you.”
