Page 69 of A Certain Appeal
Regarding Wickham... that is its own painful series of complications.
As boys we were close, but we drifted apart in high school. I became more involved in crew and preparing for college, while he committed his time to... other pursuits. The resale of classmates’ Ritalin was rumored to be his endeavor, and accusations about similar schemes circulated during his time at NYU. Ultimately, he took a leave of absence that coincided with my father’s final months and began visiting him frequently.
Despite the circumstances of Wickham’s availability, I was glad to have a familiar face checking in on my father. Wickham accompanied him to specialists and kept me updated on Dad’s condition. When I’d comment on his visible deterioration, Wickhamwould assure me that I’d simply caught Dad on a “bad” day or that recent, alarming bloodwork had been compromised by a medication. Trusting my old friend, I believed my father’s health stable.
After a few months of this, my uncle, Fitz, flew to LA to confront me over neglecting Dad. He explained that Wickham had made it clear I couldn’t be bothered to visit. Wickham had convinced family and friends I’d simply abandoned my only living parent. As it was, doctors believed Dad had weeks—days, possibly—left, though even those grim estimates proved optimistic. Dad died that night, sometime while my plane was taxiing into JFK. I didn’t get to say goodbye.
Then came Wickham’s claim of the inheritance. Fitz was executor of the estate and had received no notes on the subject, nor had any changes to Dad’s will been made to back Wickham’s assertions. We did, however, discover a sum of money missing from my father’s personal accounts. There was no guarantee that the blame could be placed on Wickham, but there were no other suspects. When pressed, he claimed his innocence and would not relent on the issue of Pemberley. In the end, my father’s lawyers and I chose to extend him a few thousand dollars, though now I believe he uses the generosity as further evidence of my plot against him. Personally, I have not spoken with him since my father’s passing.
For all my insistence upon it, trust is, in the end, a choice. I have ample evidence to support my stance with Wickham—electing to trust the man again would be sheer folly. But in matters of the heart, as with Jane and Charles, I cannot seek evidence of absolute truth. Your steadfast belief in Jane’s affection is where I must satisfy my need for fact, and I trust you. I choose to trust you.
At the beginning of this letter I claimed that you had only two grievances, but I know I’m guilty of more. As for the comments you overheard the night we met, I know I said I didn’t have to explain myself, but I want to.
I won’t mince words: it offends me that you are so committed to your first impression of me, while my impression of you has not stopped evolving. Seeing you care for Jane that day on the sidewalk secured my interest more than any playing card could, however alluring its image (and make no mistake, it is; I have looked at that card more times than would be considered gentlemanly).
Further, the wit you expressed that night at the show was practiced: skillful, but not genuine. The way you’ve conducted yourself in our meetings that followed has shown me just how quick and clever you are. Our correspondence as you secured Pemberley for Work It’s function revealed the scope of your professionalism and tenacity; you are owed a far better title than “glorified receptionist.”
Similarly, I deeply regret suggesting that your kittening was a detriment. The comment was unkind, informed by old prejudices and mobilized in anger. Between your cheeky emails, your care for Jane, and, whether I “trusted” it or not, your playful, stunningly sexy persona at Meryton, you had me well and fully enchanted before that night at Pemberley. The push and pull of my attraction to you and my concerns over manipulation were unsettling, though to hear you phrase it yesterday, that I wanted to have you anyway, revealed the depth of my delusion. You are, delightfully, the sum of your parts, Ms. Bennet/Kitten/EBenAdmin.
I will be on the West Coast for the remainder of the month, but business has me back in New York in two weeks. If you would careto further discuss anything mentioned here, it would be my pleasure to meet and do so. Better still, if the contents of this letter have softened your opinion of me, I would be honored by your company over dinner. I leave it entirely to you. If this has left you unmoved, know I will see that as a sign that you prefer I stay away and I will respect that desire.
Yours,
William Darcy
I’m stunned.
I read the letter a second time and still come away feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. Both times, reading that he “undermined” Charles’s faith in Jane sets my teeth on edge, and the confirmation of what he alluded to last night—that he thought I may have been in on the imagined scheme, too—lands like a slap. But after reading the rest of the letter, I can’t be mad at him. Yes, he directed Charles away from Jane, but he was confident he was doing so in his friend’s best interest, and as much as I hate to admit it, I see how he came to that conclusion.
I scrub my hands over my face. Damn it all. I haven’t let myself consider Darcy’s explanation last night, his insistence that Jane’s behavior was a performance, but Ming was right. Jane’s exuberance, Andrea’s tactlessness, Charles’s uncertainty, and Darcy’s experience with Wickham’s duplicity collided with the worst possible outcome.
That he was afraid I might have been involved in some Charles-swindling plot isn’t exactly sunny.But—I flip to page 3 and his admission that any suspicion was no match for his attraction to me. Given the origin of his cautious tendencies, that’s actually a solid compliment.
He’s apologized for the things I took offense to personally, and well, I might add.
And he’s looked at my card. Alot.
Wickham, on the other hand... I feel like a dupe. The guy’s only gotten shadier each time I’ve seen him; he was downright hostile when he came by with the Twins. Given what I now know of both men, that Wickham could take advantage of an infirm senior Darcy is more believable than any malice Wickham ever claimed on Darcy’s part. The sheer depth of Wickham’s betrayal of his childhood friend, someone who had trusted him with the care of his own father, makes me nauseous. That Wickham would go so far as to cause Darcy to lose out on whatever last, precious time he could have spent with his dad? It’s irredeemable.
I look at the pair of business cards beside me on the bed. Irredeemable, and easily corroborated. But I don’t want to think about Wickham. That’s its own mess, and I’ll have to decide what to tell the Twins about his past.
I scan the last paragraph of the letter a third time, giggling aloud at the overwrought invitation to dinner as I recall just how thoroughly I “softened” to him in the coat check.
I trace the five letters above his signature.
I’ve been wrong about so much.
And I couldn’t be happier about it.
CHAPTER
19
“Lizard!” My cousin spins on her bar stool, hopping down to meet me with arms open wide. I rush into the hug, sending her staggering back a few steps, her slightly lower center of gravity keeping us upright.
“Sorry!” I loosen my grip. She’s still laughing, though the body slam was overkill. “I’m so happy to see you. Both of you,” I say as her fiancé approaches and hugs me, too. There’s no risk of knocking him down; the guy’s a beast.
“Have a seat.” Gales nods to the bar. “I’m gonna grab another beer. You want anything to drink?”
