by Gail McEwen
“Well, well,” Fitzwilliam remarked as his eyes scanned the room, his hand moving automatically to where his sword should have been. “Look who we have here. And in a shiny new coat, no less.”
Following the colonel’s gaze, Darcy saw him sitting at one of the open tables in a velvet coat of expensive if not elegant taste, dividing his attentions between a portly, be-wigged gentleman on his right, a half drunk man on his left, and the cards in front of him. Each man also had a mid-priced drab hanging on, exclaiming over the progress of the game.
“What the devil is Wickham doing here?” he wondered aloud. “How did he get in, and who is that with him?”
“You mean besides Florence? I think the fat one must be Lord Smythe-Hamilton. I have heard that he has come back. Again.”
Darcy looked at the man carefully. “I do believe you are right. So he has not given up trying to find investors for his Shropshire venture?”
“Ironworks are the way of the future,” Fitzwilliam said sardonically, “and I believe his lordship has lately discovered some nominal deposits on his land. The other man must be one of his prospects, but what is he doing with Wickham? He has no money to speak of.”
“Obviously joined in partnership. Smythe-Hamilton provides the prospects and Wickham charms the money out of their wallets, and probably the skirts off of their wives as well.” He watched in distaste as the man in question shoved his hand down the bodice of Florence’s gown, roughly massaging her breast as she giggled and grabbed at his crotch. “I do believe that man was put on earth for the sole purpose of plaguing my heart. Look at him, right out in the open like that.”
“Not everyone can afford a private salon,” Fitzwilliam noted, distracted by the approach of two women dressed in an equally seductive but much more expensive manner than the women at the game table. “And I believe ours is ready.”
“Those who cannot afford it”—Darcy took a last look towards the table as he allowed himself to be led away by a gentle touch—“should confine themselves to the shilling standers on the Strand.”
“Such language, Mr Darcy,” the woman on his arm said gently as she pulled back the heavy velvet drape, “should be confined to this side of the curtain.” With a seductive smile, she led him into the darkened parlour.
“That,” Darcy remarked, “is precisely my point.”
It took Darcy a little longer than usual, but at length the brandy worked its wonders, as did the soft darkness and the skilled touch of his companion, and he was able to unwind and enjoy the slow unfolding of the rest of his evening. He drifted into a state of profound relaxation as Deidre worked her magic, her gentle murmurs and practiced flatteries in his ear overpowering any distractions from beyond the curtain, and he at last forgot the unwelcome presence in the other room. Still, later, even as he floated on the fog of physical gratification, once his own rasping breath no longer dominated his hearing, there came drifting through the curtain that laugh—Wickham’s confident, charismatic laugh—and the moment was ruined.
Impeccably dressed gentlemen entered Ce Lieu in a steady stream every evening, and if many of those gentlemen left the premises in a slightly more dishevelled state hours later, it was nothing to be remarked upon. Darcy had never troubled himself over the necessity of it — it was simply the way of things — but this night, he baulked at walking past that man in a state of disarray. From their childhood, George Wickham always had the gift of making him into an object of ridicule. Even when they were engaged in the same activity, whether it was a clandestine card game with boys from the village or hiding in the bushes and watching the local girls cooling themselves in the pond, one derisive look from Wickham would make him feel foolish, inept, and out of place, while Wickham appeared at ease in any circumstance. Darcy hated feeling foolish, and he resented the man who could so easily bring him to it. The attempted elopement with Georgiana was just the latest move in this seemingly endless game of one-upmanship. Along with a slow anger for what his sister had suffered, he also felt a grim satisfaction for having thwarted the scheme. How much thought and planning had gone into it? How much time, effort and money had Wickham vainly expended? But Georgiana was safe from his clutches, and Wickham was reduced to hustling money for dubious investments. Who was the fool now?
He allowed himself a tight smile of satisfaction, but nothing would induce him to take the chance of being seen to emerge from behind the heavy drapery. Nothing could persuade him to walk across the room in his rumpled state and risk the feel of those eyes on his back, knowing the smirk that would be on that face. That such an unworthy bastard could give himself an attitude of superiority was infuriating, and he would not allow it—not at his own expense.
It was not until he sat in the carriage, awaiting his cousin in the darkness behind the building, that the incongruity struck him. He had just snuck out the back door of a bawdy house. He, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Derbyshire, had been reduced to skulking in the shadows to avoid detection. Never before had he felt any compunction to hide this particular activity from those who knew him or knew of him. Why should he care what George Wickham thought?
Another moment of reflection gave him the answer: George Wickham had known his father. George Wickham was fully aware of the morals and principles by which he had been raised, for he had been raised with the same, and if George Wickham had fallen so far from those principles, he could not but feel the victory of seeing Darcy fallen away as well.
He closed his eyes and let his head fall to the back of the seat. What had happened to him and his well-ordered life? In the space of one month, every belief he had cherished about himself had been called into question and by those who, by rights, should have nothing but respect for him and his situation. His manners and breeding had been derided by a young woman who, although intriguing enough, was clearly beneath him. His attempts to protect a friend had proved to be officious and controlling while the man he had so naturally assumed could only benefit from his experience and guidance had proved to be the wiser one. Then tonight… His deep breath pulled the remnants of Deidre’s perfume into his nostrils, expensive perfume he had likely paid for. Tonight his habits and behaviours glared in stark contrast to the morals and ideals of his upbringing, else why would he feel the compulsion to hide them from a man for whom he had no use and even less respect?
He remembered Miss Bennet’s impassioned defence of Wickham. At least in that instance, there was something he could reflect upon with satisfaction. He had laid himself bare before her on that charge, acquitted himself with humility, and effectively protected her from the influence of that black-hearted bastard.
The door opened, and the carriage bounced as Fitzwilliam bounded in. “At last,” he exclaimed good-naturedly. “I had the devil of a time finding you. What are you doing back here?”
“That is a very good question,” Darcy said without opening his eyes, “but I begin to think it is time for me to leave.”
Chapter 4
It was apparent that he still had some work before him, Darcy thought as he stared in the mirror of his borrowed bedroom, allowing his man to remove the traces of travel from his person and make him presentable for an early dinner. Bingley’s welcome upon his arrival at Netherfield had been friendly, effusive even, but Darcy sensed a reserve behind his eyes, a tenseness in his smile that signalled perhaps not quite all had been forgiven.
No more than his dessert, however. Sitting in the darkness behind Ce Lieu, he had resolved to live nearer to those values he esteemed, and if that meant further humbling himself before his friend, so be it. Now that he was in Hertfordshire, he reluctantly acknowledged there may be yet another debt — to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. What, if anything, did he owe the lady? He would surely see her soon, the first time since that fateful afternoon in the Hunsford parsonage. Ought he pretend that day never happened, put it out of his thoughts and make no reference to it? Or did he have an obligation to examine her harsh opinions of his behaviour and manners, and if he found they had merit, shoul
d he then attempt to prove to her that he was not so proud and arrogant as to be unable to accept censure?
One last tug on his waistcoat and then down to dinner. He would see Miss Bennet on the morrow, and perhaps afterwards, he would know better what to do, but tonight he must face Bingley and beg his pardon once more.
Unwilling to put off the inevitable, Darcy strode into the dining room and announced at once to his startled host, “Bingley! If there is something yet to be done to atone for my mistakes and presumption, you need only say it. I will do what I must — and happily.”
Bingley turned slowly towards him with a troubled look and spoke as if Darcy had said nothing.
“Darcy, we have known each other, we have been friends, for quite some time, have we not?”
Darcy nodded, preparing himself for what must inevitably come.
“And in that time,” Bingley continued, “I have asked for nothing from you, save advice, have I?”
“That is true,” Darcy agreed with a pained smile, “and many times you have got more of that than you ever asked for or wanted. And on that note, I hope you will allow me, once more, to — ”
“Please, Darcy!” Bingley held up his hand. “I have been in dreadful anticipation of your arrival all day, and I do not wish to delay this any further. I have something to ask of you.”
Startled into speechlessness, Darcy could only stare while Bingley cleared his throat and turned to face him straight on.
“Well, now…today…I must ask, not advice, but a favour of you — quite a large favour.”
“Anything,” Darcy said. “If it is in my power to grant it, my friend, you may have it.”
“You are my friend as well— my very good friend.” Now that he had commanded the stage, Bingley appeared reluctant to come to the point. “One might even say the best friend I have, and it means a great deal to me that you are here…at this time…to stand with me at my wedding.”
“Of course, Bingley.” Darcy let out his breath in relief. He was indeed forgiven.
“And now we come to the favour. Miss Bennet—Jane—is very close to her sisters, and it means equally as much to her that all of them are present…” His voice tapered off.
“I should imagine so,” Darcy prompted.
“The truth is that all of her sisters will be present, as expected, but one of them…one of them has recently returned from Scotland, having made a match that you will surely find objectionable.”
Was that all? Did Bingley really think him so shallow as to refuse to participate because one of the younger, foolish Bennet girls had been compelled to marry quickly? Perhaps so, and considering his past cutting remarks with regard to that family, perhaps rightly so. He spread his hands out on the table, staring at them as he spoke. “I wish you would forget everything I ever said about the Bennet family and their connections. It was unforgivable of me and absolutely none of my concern. There is nothing — nothing — that would prevent me from standing at your side come Monday morning. If Miss Bennet’s sister has married the devil himself, it will not keep me away from your wedding.”
“That is good to hear,” Bingley smiled, “because I fear, to you, it will appear as if she has.”
“Honestly, Bingley, what possible interest would I have in Miss Bennet’s sister’s choice of a husband.”
“Because,” he said, paused and then blurted out, “because she has married George Wickham!”
“Wickham?” Darcy repeated in disbelief.
“Wickham.”
“George Wickham?”
“George Wickham.”
“George Wickham has married Miss Bennet’s sister?”
“I am afraid so, Darcy.” Bingley sounded completely miserable.
“And that means, of course…”
“He will be present at the wedding.”
Darcy’s face darkened. “Why did you not try to stop it?”
“I cannot very well forbid my future brother-in-law to attend my wedding, now can I? Besides, I have told you what it means to Jane.”
“Not his attendance at your wedding,” Darcy snapped. “I meant, why did you not try to stop his attendance at his own? You know the man is a scoundrel of the first degree, why just last night I saw him…” He stopped, suddenly wondering why Miss Elizabeth had not tried to stop it herself. After all, she too was aware of the man’s character; he had seen to that.
“What could I have done, Darcy? I could hardly take Mr Bennet aside and tell him he ought not let his daughter marry the man of her choice because my friend dislikes him although he would never discuss it nor give any reason. Besides, it was already too late; they had gone two days before I arrived, and the Bennets are resigned to the match.”
“Yes,” Darcy sighed. “I suppose, under the circumstances, there was nothing else to be done.”
“Under what circumstances?”
Despite the prickles that rose along the back of his neck at Bingley’s honest look of confusion, Darcy continued, “The circumstances, I assumed, were that this was a marriage of necessity.”
His host said nothing but shook his head, looking slightly offended.
“You mean to tell me that Wickham chose this? He willingly chose to align himself with a silly, flirtatious…”
“Now see here, Darcy,” Bingley interrupted, “I am striving to forget your previous criticisms of the Bennet family as you requested, but you make it difficult to do so by continuing along those same lines. Despite your feelings, you have no call to disparage her reputation, and you know quite well that the young lady is neither silly nor flirtatious…”
Something like nausea gripped Darcy’s stomach. “Dear God.” His voice came out in almost a whisper. “Tell me, please, Bingley; tell me for the love of God that we are speaking of Miss Mary Bennet.”
A disbelieving noise came from his friend and he raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Come man. Miss Mary and Mr Wickham? I think not.”
“You cannot mean…”
“Who else? I am speaking of Miss Elizabeth—though, of course, she is a ‘miss’ no longer.”
How Darcy got through the rest of the meal he would never recall.
* * *
“Lizzy?” Jane asked tentatively as she ran the brush through her hair. “Are you very uncomfortable at the prospect of seeing Mr Darcy? Not that you, of course, have any reason to feel uncomfortable, but still, I wonder…”
“You think not?” Elizabeth smiled. “After all, I did have the audacity to make him fall in love with me. Should that not make me uncomfortable?”
“You should not be so callous about his feelings”—Jane frowned slightly—“even if you did not return them. He cared enough for you to offer marriage, and you have married someone else. It cannot be easy for him, nor do I expect, despite your levity, can it be entirely easy for you.”
“Do not worry yourself.” She laughed. “I have no concerns whatsoever about seeing Mr Darcy this afternoon, simply because I do not plan to do so. I plan to bundle up some bread and cheese and take a long solitary ramble. When the gentlemen arrive for their tea, I shall be lost in my book somewhere in the countryside.”
“You are not going to snub him?” Jane was horrified.
“I most assuredly am. I have no desire to see Mr Darcy or to socialise with him, and aside from tomorrow in church where he can glower at me from a safe distance, I do not see the need.”
“I see.” Jane dropped her eyes, but what Elizabeth saw in them the moment before she did so made her draw closer.
“Jane? What is the matter? Are my appalling manners distressing you so terribly?”
“Do not be silly,” Jane said. “It is just that I had so hoped…you are my sister, after all, and Mr Darcy is Bingley’s particular friend…and I should hate, that is, I had hoped it would be possible to…”
Ashamed, Elizabeth dropped penitently to her knees beside the dressing table. “Oh, do please forgive me. Pay no attention to my frivolity. I did not mean to upset you, and I do not
intend to ruin your entertainment plans or the careful seating arrangements of your dinner parties once you are married. It is just that when I first see Mr Darcy face-to-face, I should like to do so on the arm of my husband.”
“You do not imagine Mr Darcy will act…inappropriately, do you?”
Unable to stop the snort of disbelief, Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Oh heavens, no! Mr Darcy is nothing if not appropriate, and I am nothing if not weary of this subject. Do not fret. It will be well, I promise. Are you happy now?”
“Very well, have your fun.” Jane smiled sweetly. “And yes, I am very happy. How could I not be? If only my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner could be here…but I must not complain. After all I have been given, how ungrateful I must seem. And when I think of those poor children…”
“You should be very grateful indeed that they have chosen to stay in London. It would not do at all for the bride to be stricken with the measles on her honeymoon. But do not worry; once I arrive in town, I shall call upon our nieces and nephews with hot soup and tell them all about the wedding—how beautiful you were and how handsome Bingley was—and I will give them all your love and good wishes.”
“Thank you. Does Mr Wickham arrive Sunday still?”
“Yes”— Elizabeth’s spirits rose— “in the evening. I had not thought to be separated this soon after our wedding, but I am pleased that all the arrangements are now made and I will be returning to London with him. I am anxious to see what married life is truly like.”
“You do not mean you have not…?” Jane stared at her, wide-eyed.
“No, I do not mean that,” Elizabeth said, her brows raised mischievously. “I am well married, thank you very much, although I had not pictured my first weeks as a wife quite like this.” She ran her hand over her old, familiar bed with a soft sigh. “I had imagined things, many things, quite differently.”