Stronger Even Than Pride

by Gail McEwen

  “I confess I have heard something of the circumstances.” Elizabeth looked everywhere but at Wickham. Unable to deny that she was dying to hear the truth of it from him, she ventured to add, “But you know how small neighbourhoods can be; the stories that circulate do not always have a great deal to do with the actual facts.”

  “Let us just say that I was most painfully deceived. I had placed much confidence in the character and honesty of Miss King, and when I found her with my closest friend…well, I desire most fervently to put the entire unfortunate experience behind me. I have been a fool.” He shook his head sadly and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “How so?” Seeing his dismay, Elizabeth attempted to rouse his spirits. “You said you were deceived. As painful as this must be for you, Mr Wickham, to me it only proves your trusting and open nature. Indeed, it was wrong for that trust to be so misused, but do not hold yourself responsible for the wickedness of others. In this, you are not culpable.”

  “But, my dear Miss Bennet, I am.” He smiled wearily. “I allowed myself to forget the simplest of truths. I allowed myself to be convinced, contrary to my every wish and instinct, that affection in marriage is secondary. Perhaps”—a wave of pain washed over his countenance — “perhaps Denny did me a service…”

  “I wish I had some words of comfort to offer you, Mr Wickham.”

  His pace slowed, and she ventured another glance at his face. He stopped and turned towards her.

  “You could, if you wished to, give me great comfort indeed.”

  “How so?” Her heart was in her throat and racing so fast she was afraid it would burst.

  “Please say you will forgive me.”

  “Do not be silly, Mr Wickham. You do not have to answer to me for the choices you make in your life. There is nothing to forgive.”

  “Yes, there is. I believe you know as well as I…” He dropped his eyes and grew silent.

  “I know as well as you…?” she encouraged.

  Taking a deep breath, he looked into her eyes. “I am afraid you will think me cold and callous, but in the midst of my bitter disappointment, I have also found some cause for optimism and hope.”

  Discomfited as she was, Elizabeth could not look away. “Yes?” was all she could manage to choke out.

  “The situation is awkward indeed, but in his eagerness to preserve his niece’s reputation, Miss King’s uncle made me an offer in exchange for breaking the engagement quietly—a very generous offer. I am almost ashamed to own that I accepted it, but only because it provided me with an opportunity to do what my heart has always wished to do. What I thought was impossible—until now.”

  “And what was that?” she whispered.

  “Miss Bennet”— he swallowed— “from the first moments of our acquaintance, I have felt a harmony of understanding and friendship between us and, you must forgive me, an attraction as well. Allow me to be blunt; had it not been for my lack of fortune, I should have, at the first sign of encouragement, proposed to you rather than… But I would not degrade myself, nor ask you to stoop to such a level.”

  “Mr Wickham,” she stammered, blushing furiously. He seemed to be waiting for her to continue, but she found she could not.

  “I now find,” he resumed the walk, “that however unfortunate the circumstances, I now have the resources… We will not be rich by any means, though we shall be able to make our way comfortably in the world, but I get ahead of myself. Miss Bennet.” He stopped again, taking both her hands into his. “I would be extremely proud and humbled if you would agree to be my wife in a marriage of mutual respect and affection— that is, if you do indeed forgive my defection.”

  “As I have said before, Mr Wickham, there is nothing to forgive.”

  “Does that mean…?” he asked, his face hopeful.

  “Yes.” She at last gave free reign to the smile she had been endeavouring to control for so long. “I believe it must.”

  * * *

  “Four thousand?” Mrs Bennet, listening at the study door, was openly incredulous. “Four thousand? You refuse Mr Collins, who may now turn us out the moment your father is dead; you refuse Mr Darcy and his ten thousand a year, and yet you accept a man with four thousand? Total?”

  “Mama, please,” Elizabeth began, embarrassed that Mr Wickham, standing silently at her side, must be witness to this outburst, but her mother would not be restrained.

  “And you expect us to share in your foolish happiness? How is it that you can be filled with joy and smile so at the prospect of living in relative poverty and scandal where the only benefit this alliance brings to your family is that it relieves your father of the cost of your support?”

  “Scandal?” Elizabeth cried.

  “Yes, scandal! It is no secret that you have refused two very eligible offers, and it is no secret that you have always preferred Wickham. Make no mistake; it has been much talked of. And now, just as he has broken his engagement under shameful circumstances, and within hours of his return to Hertfordshire, you two are conveniently engaged…”

  “That is outrageous!” She turned to her father for support. “Papa, please tell me you cannot think such things. Please tell me I have your support in my choice to be happy rather than rich.”

  “I am afraid I do not understand this either, Lizzy,” Mr Bennet sighed, “and I cannot say that I am pleased with the idea of this union. You say you will be content. You say you know what you are about, but I have my doubts. However,” he added before either she or Wickham could protest, “I can see in your eyes that you are determined to have your way. I am convinced your sisters have already broadcast the news of this reckless alliance far and wide, and since it is doubtful you are likely to live down yet another refusal, especially under these circumstances, I feel I have no choice. You have my grudging consent, and you may do what you like.”

  Torn between outrage, anger, pride and sadness, Elizabeth lifted her head defiantly but, having no words, contented herself with taking Wickham’s arm possessively. He gave each of her parents a charming smile and promised he had many prospects — that his £4,000 was only the beginning, and he intended to make their daughter a very happy and prosperous woman indeed. He gave Mr Bennet a deep bow, Mrs Bennet a courtly kiss on the hand, Elizabeth a smile and a wink, and turned to the door.

  “Now if you will excuse me,” he said, putting on his hat, “I believe I must arrange another leave with Colonel Forster. Under the circumstances, I think a quiet trip to Scotland will be our best choice.”

  He left her standing, open mouthed and speechless. Scotland? She had never considered they would be married in Scotland. In fact, she had hoped to be married from her own church, to hear her name together with his as the rector called the banns.

  “And do not even think about coming to us with your hand out after you are married, Miss Lizzy,” her mother’s voice intruded into her thoughts. “We shall have nothing for you. You are far too obstinate and headstrong for your own good, and you will lie in the bed you have made, make no mistake about that.”

  She tried to catch her father’s eye, but he was already buried in his book, and he would not look at her. She turned away, blinking hard, and ran upstairs to find Jane. Jane would understand. Jane would share in both her joy and her sadness.

  * * *

  The ball whirled round the wheel again. The motion was mesmerising, and Darcy was content to watch it spin time after time. If it landed on one of his numbers, he let the chips ride. If, as was usually the case, it did not, he woodenly replaced his bet and waited for the next spin.

  “If you are going to play,” Fitzwilliam said from beside him, “you ought to at least look like you are enjoying it. Maybe even try to win.”

  Ignoring his cousin, Darcy watched the ball as it circled and at last settled into the space.

  “Twenty-three!” the croupier called. Winnings were paid out, losing bets were raked away, and he placed, yet again, one chip on four and another on nine.

  “An
d you certainly will not win playing like that,” Fitzwilliam persisted. “What has gotten into you?”

  “Rien ne vas plus!” the dealer called, then spun the wheel and set the ball in motion.

  “Nine and four,” Darcy said as he watched. “The ninth day of the fourth month — the day I made a perfect ass of myself.”

  “Do you not think it is about time you stopped?”

  “What?”

  “Making an ass of yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing”—the colonel took his arm and dragged him away from the table as the ball dropped into the number nineteen—“you will hate yourself in the morning for throwing away money so stupidly. For another”—his eyes scanned the crowded, overheated gambling house—“you have not yet spoken to Bingley, have you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I think you had better.” He nodded towards a remote corner of the establishment. Darcy looked in that direction and saw Bingley sitting casually on a fine damask sofa, smiling and laughing with his arm draped across the shoulders of a woman with a smouldering expression in her dark eyes.

  “Oh lord! Deidre? What the devil is he thinking? He is jumping in with both feet on that one, is he not?”

  “And he is likely to find himself in over his head if we do not go over there and pull him out.”

  As they watched, Deidre reached out and placed her hand, oh-so-gently and oh-so-accidentally, on Bingley’s thigh, causing him to shift and turn towards her.

  “He really ought to stick to Patrice,” Darcy grumbled as they made their way across the noisy room, dodging reeling gentlemen and flirtatious women. “Sweet and simple are more his type.”

  “In that case, should he not be in Hertfordshire, paying court to the sweet and simple Miss Bennet instead of putting his health and his pocketbook in jeopardy in this den of iniquity?”

  “Miss Bennet is not the only sweet and simple woman, Fitzwilliam.”

  “Of course not, but she is the one he wants. Please do not tell me you are still entertaining the idea of saving Bingley for Georgiana.”

  “And why not? It is not a bad match, and Bingley is a good and kind man.”

  “Yes, but Bingley could never look on Georgiana as anything but your younger sister. Any marriage between them would be nothing but polite distance and courteous conversation, and completely devoid of passion.”

  “That,” Darcy said, “would suit me fine.”

  “It would suit me as well”— Fitzwilliam smiled— “but it would hardly suit Georgiana, would it? She deserves better, as does Bingley. Send him to Hertfordshire. His heart is already there. You know it is the right thing to do.”

  “You have made your point,” Darcy grumbled. “You are a worse scold than a woman, you know that?”

  By then, they had reached the couple on the sofa. The woman met his eye and stood, smiling at him as they approached.

  “And just what do you think you are doing with my good friend?” he asked in Deidre’s ear as she kissed him in greeting.

  “Nothing at the moment, Mr Darcy, but trying to make him my good friend as well. Unless”—she touched his sleeve and smiled slyly—“you have a better idea.”

  “I do,” he replied without smiling, giving a slight jerk of his head. “Go see my cousin.”

  “I say, Darcy,” Bingley protested as she and the colonel walked away. “Are you not getting rather tired of jumping in the midst of my every encounter with the opposite sex? I assure you, I was not tempted to propose to that one.”

  Taking the empty seat beside his friend, Darcy sighed. “As a matter of fact, that is exactly why I wanted to talk to you alone. I have a confession to make.”

  “And you need to confess this very minute?”

  “I do, actually”—Darcy smiled slightly—“before I lose my nerve.”

  “Well, this is singular.” Bingley turned in surprise. “Go on.”

  Darcy pulled his gaze up from his clasped hands. “In one of your other, recent encounters…with a lady…I convinced you that her heart was unlikely to be touched.”

  Even without turning his head, Darcy could sense Bingley’s demeanour grow tight and wary.

  “You need not worry, Darcy. It was not Deidre’s heart I was planning to touch.”

  A bark of surprised laughter burst from him. “I should hope not since I am not entirely sure she possesses one. But, Bingley, this other lady, Miss Bennet…”

  “Yes?” Bingley looked at him sceptically.

  “She does. That is, her heart…” This was ridiculous. Be a man and say what needs to be said. “I was wrong about Miss Bennet. I was wrong to say she had no attachment to you, and I was wrong to interfere and try to influence your feelings for her.”

  “What are you saying?” Bingley looked stricken.

  “What do you mean, what am I saying? I have said it; I was wrong. I say that you should go back to Netherfield, call upon Miss Bennet, and ascertain her feelings for yourself.”

  “That is what I intended to do”—Bingley’s eyes narrowed — “when I was besieged from all quarters, pointing out my errors of judgement. What do you know?”

  What did he know? Oh, he knew enough. He cringed as he always did on remembering those bitter words, those eyes full of disgust and anger as that sharp tongue took him to task for his arrogant presumption. Then on the journey back to London, Fitzwilliam’s calm assertions that, no matter how fervently he wished to dismiss those words, he dared not, for Miss Elizabeth had more cause and right for certainty than he had. Humbled, he admitted it was so but found it difficult to bring himself to the point of confession.

  “Darcy! What do you know?”

  “I know that I was wrong.” Darcy sighed, suddenly wanting this conversation to end. “In every possible way.”

  “But…” Bingley still looked doubtful, his face a mixture of incredulity and hope. “What if it is too late?”

  Darcy ran his hands over his face and held them out in a gesture of surrender. “Go to Netherfield, call on Miss Bennet, and if it is too late, you can return to town, call me out, and demand your satisfaction of me. I honestly believe, however, that the next I hear from you will be a letter demanding my congratulations—which I shall freely and heartily give.”

  A long moment passed when no words were spoken between them. Bingley stared at the floor, and Darcy stared at Bingley. At last, his friend let out a deep breath and looked up, his face and voice expressionless. “I will go,” he said. “One last time I shall listen to you. One last time I shall act upon your advice, but if you are wrong…” He hesitated. “If you are wrong in this, I think you will not be hearing from me at all.”

  “I understand.”

  They stood and shook hands. Darcy watched as the glimmer of hope in Bingley’s eyes turned into a flash of optimism, the grim set of his mouth relaxed into its accustomed smile, and when he left, he moved so swiftly to the door that his walk nearly overflowed into a run. After his young friend strode out to face the rest of his life openly and happily, free from regrets, deceptions, or guile, Darcy turned and looked for his cousin across the noisy, smoke-filled house. Spotting him on a sofa with Deidre on one side and a friendly-looking blonde on the other, he strode across the room to relieve him of the extra burden.

  Chapter 2

  Darcy had calculated the course of events precisely. After leaving the gaming house Wednesday evening, Bingley would have spent the night preparing for the journey, leaving first thing Thursday morning. He allowed half a day’s travel from London to Netherfield, and even granted Bingley a case of nerves that prevented his calling on Miss Bennet until the following day. So, the first encounter would be on Friday. Miss Bennet would smile, and Bingley would stammer at first but soon be his charming and affable self. Mrs Bennet would insist he stay to supper, and by Friday night, Bingley would be in love once more. Saturday, or at the very latest, Sunday after church should bring the declaration, and so Monday, by all rights, should see a letter
.

  When Monday offered no such relief, he revised the timetable to allow for the unlikely possibility that Bingley gave a day’s notice of his intended arrival to the Netherfield staff before setting out. On Tuesday, he cursed Bingley’s timidity in not asking the question, and on Wednesday, he felt no end of irritation over what could only be Miss Bennet’s perversity in not providing him a swift answer. He retreated to his study on Thursday and drank himself into a state of gloom, dwelling on his regrets over a friendship lost, a love never realised, and heartily wishing he had never set foot in the county of Hertfordshire.

  On Friday, he resolved to put the entire regrettable business out of his mind, so naturally, that is when he came across the letter while sorting through a pile of recently delivered correspondence. Darcy smiled as he read the few short lines, splotched and wandering in Bingley’s typical fashion, announcing his happiness and his intention of requiring Darcy’s presence at Netherfield on the 25th of May, but his smile froze as he reached the end.

  I had my dear Jane’s consent on Saturday last, but she wishes to wait for her sister’s expected return from Scotland on Friday before calling the banns. She asked it so sweetly of me that I was compelled to consent to remain a bachelor for an additional week. I cannot fault her reasons, however, for my Jane is the sweetest angel…

  “Someone die?” A voice interrupted his contemplation.

  “Certainly not,” Darcy addressed his cousin, waving the letter in his direction. “Rather, Bingley is engaged—and apparently one of the Bennet sisters is gone off to Scotland.”

  “And that is why you are staring mutely at that page, as pale as if you had seen a ghost? Bingley is engaged and one of the Bennet sist— Hold on… You are not afraid that your lady love has run off with another man are you?”

  “She is not my lady love, Fitzwilliam,” Darcy said coolly. “That was merely a momentary lapse in judgement, a temporary confusion of desire with deeper feelings. And nothing in this letter indicates an elopement, nor does it single out Miss Elizabeth Bennet as the sister in question. If it is an elopement, it is far more likely that one of her younger sisters has found herself in a delicate situation, and the family simply wishes to be spared the cost and exposure of a public wedding.”