Stronger Even Than Pride

by Gail McEwen

  “Elizabeth,” he began, taking a step towards her.

  She raised her head slowly and gave him a look of pure weariness.

  “Kindly do not address me in such an intimate and inappropriate manner, Mr Darcy. I am a married woman.”

  “Forgive me.” He paused a moment and began again. “Mrs Wickham, I hope you will allow me to express how very sorry I am. I cannot help but feel I am somewhat to blame for this unfortunate incident.”

  “You feel you are somewhat to blame?” she repeated.

  He nodded.

  “For this unfortunate incident?” Her brow crinkled sceptically. “My husband is in prison for murder, and you call it an unfortunate incident?”

  He stood uncertainly before her, not daring to venture anything further until she spoke again.

  “I am afraid I cannot agree with your assessment, Mr Darcy. For as I see it, you are entirely to blame for this unfortunate incident.”

  “I am to blame? You cannot mean that!” he stammered, shocked.

  “But I do.” She rose from her seat. “I saw you approach his lordship at supper. It was you who set this whole regrettable episode in motion.”

  “Me? I set it in motion?” Darcy cried in disbelief. “Once again you take up his cause against me. You will blame me before you blame Wickham when it was he who disgraced you! It was he who was upstairs with another man’s wife, openly degrading and shaming you! Of course, I approached Smythe-Hamilton. Was I, or any other gentleman, expected to overlook such gross effrontery?”

  “Of course you were to overlook it! What other course was there without turning my personal tragedy into a public spectacle? Any other gentleman would have understood the material point, Mr Darcy.”

  “And pray, Mrs Wickham, will you enlighten me as to the point I have so grievously misunderstood?”

  “My husband,” she said in a voice that was deceptively calm, “degraded himself by his behaviour with that woman. It was you, Mr Darcy, who humiliated me. It was you who exposed and paraded my shame before the world.”

  “Did you expect me to wink and smile at it? Did you expect me to stand by and do nothing? Was I simply to let him get away with it as he gets away with everything else? No,” he stated stubbornly. “I could not. I would not.”

  “Then you achieved your purpose. He did not get away with it.” She added softly, “He will pay for his misdeeds and crimes…and I will be made to pay as well.”

  Suddenly, her strength and anger seemed to evaporate, and she turned away, burying her face in her hands to hide the tears that would come, however much she tried to stop them.

  Darcy watched helplessly as she cried and, for the first time, began to doubt. It had seemed so clear at the time; Wickham would at last be exposed and called to account for his misdeeds. From the moment Fitzwilliam called him out of the dining room, he had no doubts as to the rightness of his actions. After so many years of impotent anger and the inability to do anything of substance against the man, here was his chance. George Wickham was discredited and humiliated in front of everyone, done in by his own indiscretions, and Darcy had relished the memory of it. Wickham’s stunned face turned scarlet with embarrassment and alarm as the door burst open and he was caught with his breeches down. The triumph of hauling him out before everyone, exposing him for the fraud and villain he truly was, watching him blanch with fear as he stood face-to-face with the man he had wronged, the barrel of a pistol trained on his chest. Yes, he had relished every second of it.

  Until this moment.

  * * *

  Elizabeth wept until an exclamation of concern, a rush of footsteps, and a handkerchief pressed into her hand as a comforting arm rested on her shoulders signalled Mr Bingley’s return. Doing her best to get herself under control, she dried her eyes and gave him a thankful smile. Mr Darcy looked stiff and uncomfortable, but Elizabeth was too conflicted to care. In the space of twenty-four hours, her life had turned and turned and turned again.

  “Shall I call a maid?” Mr Bingley asked.

  Another weak smile and shake of her head. “Not just yet. If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I believe I need some time to myself.”

  Amid their murmured assent, she left the parlour and returned to her borrowed room. She flung herself headlong onto the bed and tried to cry again, but she could not. It was anger and humiliation, not tears, that caught, hot and dry, in her throat.

  * * *

  A rough hand was on his shoulder, shaking him awake and banging his head against the hard stone wall.

  “Git up, ye bleedin’ noddy. Ye go ’fore the beak this morning.”

  Blinking in confusion, Wickham felt himself being hauled to his feet. He nearly fell as his cramped legs rebelled at his weight, but he was dragged by the grumbling keeper across the uneven and slippery floor.

  “Christ, ye’d think ye’d never been nibb’d before.”

  Whatever confidence Wickham had managed to conjure up earlier evaporated as he was marched, hands bound and chains clanking, down the dank prison corridors and into the magistrate’s office. He stood, blinking and squinting in the bright sunshine streaming through the windows until his eyes grew used to the light.

  He listened as Mr Greyson and Colonel Fitzwilliam testified to what they had witnessed the previous night, and he answered the questions put before him with as much swagger as he could, but even he knew it was a pathetic performance. In the end, he was committed to prison to face the charge of murder. The clerks were ordered to draw up the indictments and recognizance, and he was handed back to the keeper, who had watched the proceedings with interest from the corner of the room.

  “It don’ figure,” his guide commented when they were alone. “Ye go to fancy balls with the fine folk, even take a flyer with the wife of a lord, but when ye get tossed in the block-house, ye’ve ’ardly a farthing in yer pocket. What gives? Ain’t ye got any of these high friends to call on, or maybe yer tupping all their wives?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Wickham remembered, “I do have a friend—a particular friend I have known from boyhood—a man of great fortune who, I am certain, would be overjoyed to help me if only I could get word to him. I am equally sure he would be grateful to the man who brought the news of my predicament.”

  “How grateful?” the keeper asked with a mercenary gleam in his eye.

  “Exceedingly grateful.”

  “Well then, what say ye give me the gentleman’s name, and I’ll see what can be done about that.”

  Chapter 14

  It was whispered that Mrs Greyson had taken to her bed and left word to all callers that she was gravely indisposed while her husband spent an unpleasant morning dealing with coroners and inquests before being called to testify before the magistrate. Miss Honoria Greyson, however, was ecstatic. Not only had her principle suitor and dance partner of the evening shown himself to be strong and commanding, she knew that the night’s events would make her coming out ball a topic of conversation for many months to come.

  She was correct. The happenings were canvassed in every parlour and sitting room in the morning and in every gentlemen’s club and gaming house on into the afternoon and evening. As anyone of name or rank had been present during the infamous incident, there was no need to relate the particulars, yet everything must still be told, and told again. Details were scrutinised, and relationships between various parties parsed to the extreme.

  For those unfortunates who were out of town on the fateful night, express riders criss-crossed the counties, armed with elaborate descriptions.

  Mrs Wickham’s gown, Mr Wickham’s character, Lady Smythe-Hamilton’s degradation, and his lordship’s tragic death were discussed in great detail, but as he rode from Bingley’s house to his own, Darcy could think only about Elizabeth’s angry words and accusations. How many times would he, after believing he had acted properly and with the right motives, be forced to re-examine his behaviour in light of her reaction? Had he not changed at all since that fateful day in the Huns
ford parsonage? Was he still, despite all that had occurred since, the same arrogant and thoughtless man he was then?

  The carriage approached the street where his sister had her apartments, and he briefly toyed with the idea of stopping by. After discovering that her dear friends the Franklins would not be attending the Greysons’ ball, Georgiana had developed a sudden disinclination to attend herself. While her perversity had irritated him at the time, it was a circumstance for which he was now profoundly grateful. Be that as it may, she surely would have heard the gossip by now, and he felt as if he should go to her and explain, but how? How could he discuss Wickham’s debauchery and its subsequent tragic outcome or attempt to excuse his own motives for becoming so deeply involved in a matter wholly unrelated to their family? How could he explain that he had done it all for Wickham’s wife, even though it now seemed as if he had done it for himself?

  A feeling of weariness settled over him as he let the carriage pass without pausing, but leaning forward, he peered down the street. Fitzwilliam’s horse was tied in front of the small house, and he mentally blessed the man. His cousin was so much better at that sort of thing than he was. Fitzwilliam would know just what to say without saying too much, and Darcy knew without a doubt that he would have Georgiana smiling and laughing before he left. If only his cousin could do the same for him, he thought wryly, as the driver pulled up to the front of his house.

  “Good morning, Mr Darcy,” his butler greeted him while a footman removed his outer clothing.

  “Is it still morning, Peters?” It felt like a full day had passed by already.

  “Why, yes, it is, sir. A young man stopped by a short time ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “As I could not say for certain when you would return, he left his card and said he would come again.”

  Darcy took the proffered card and noted the name with interest: Mr Robert Franklin, Esq.

  “Quite a gentlemanly man, if I may say so. Not taken to the loose manners of so many young people these days, or so it seemed to me.”

  No sooner had Darcy sat down in his study, ostensibly to attend to some neglected correspondence but in actuality to brood over the events of the morning, than he heard Peters’ discreet cough in the doorway.

  “Excuse me, sir, but the young man has returned.”

  “Franklin?” The butler nodded. “Well then, I shall see him here.”

  Darcy, unsure whether he welcomed or resented the interruption, carefully examined the young man who appeared in the doorway. He was well dressed—fashionable, yet not overly so — with a fine person and an honest face. His eyes were unusually bright, and he was obviously nervous. After the customary greetings, the man just stood, twisting the brim of his hat in his hands.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr Darcy.”

  “Not at all.” He folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “We have not met since that evening at the Wilkinsons’, I believe. You did not attend the Greysons’ Ball?”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, I was honoured to make your acquaintance at the Wilkinsons’,” Mr Franklin spoke rapidly, “but, no sir, we were regrettably—or as it turns out, not so regrettably — prevented from attending the ball. My sister is to be married soon to Mr Tibbet, and the family was engaged to dine with us last night.”

  The young man started pacing.

  “My family… I know we have a reputation for being rather old-fashioned, but if you will excuse me, sir, I see nothing wrong with holding the traditions and customs of our ancestors in high esteem.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Indeed. Thank you.” He continued making rounds from the window to the fireplace to the door. “I imagine my coming here is a bit of a puzzle to you, but be assured that I have given it much thought, and I cannot…that is, I feel that it is only right to…” He sighed.

  “Will you not sit down?” Darcy finally asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” Robert Franklin crossed the room and perched himself on the edge of a chair, where he sat rolling his hat so violently that Darcy feared it would never survive the interview. “You must forgive me, Mr Darcy. I am not generally so out of sorts. I very much hoped to speak to you this morning, so when you were not in, I walked to the shop across the square to watch for your return. While I waited, I foolishly drank three cups of coffee. I fear it is catching up with me.”

  “And what is it I can do for you, Mr Franklin?” Darcy did his best to stifle the smile that rose to his lips and remain perfectly serious. “I assume this is not merely a social call.”

  “No, sir, not entirely. The thing is, my sister will be married soon — next month in fact from our estate in Essex — and while in town, I have been performing the duties of escort since Mr Tibbet has only just arrived. As a result, I have become acquainted with…with Miss Darcy.”

  “Yes, I recall it was she who introduced us at the Wilkinsons’.”

  “Oh yes! Quite true. But I should…though first let me say that I have thought quite a lot about how to approach…or even whether I should since there is no…however, I could not proceed without…” He broke off in frustration while Darcy waited in silence for him to continue.

  “Miss Darcy is a remarkable young woman,” Franklin began again after a deep breath, “and I would be honoured to continue our acquaintance. In short, Mr Darcy, I am here to ask your permission, as her guardian and elder brother, to court her. I know it is a rather old-fashioned notion, but as I said, my family is very traditional, and I could not presume to take this step without the blessing both of my own family and of Miss Darcy’s.”

  “Have you your family’s blessing?”

  “I have not approached them. I felt it would be presumptuous of me to do so without first knowing your feelings on the matter.”

  “What about my sister? What does she say to your request?”

  “Oh!” Franklin was mortified. “I would never approach Miss Darcy first! To declare my intentions and involve her feelings without first knowing your mind? That would be—”

  “Presumptuous. Yes.” Darcy hid another involuntary smile. He could not help it; he liked this earnest young man.

  “But, if I may be so bold, I do not believe my attentions will be unwelcome. Sir.”

  “No, I do not believe they would.”

  “You do not?” The silly grin that immediately arose sealed Darcy’s good opinion, and the relief that washed over Mr Franklin’s face when he gave his consent made Darcy like him all the more.

  The interview ended with multiple expressions of gratitude and at least three effusive handshakes before Darcy could return to his desk and give full rein to the smile he had taken such pains to control. He was pleased with Robert Franklin—pleased with his manners, his position in society, his respect for tradition, and his attention to propriety. He was a fine man and a fine match for Georgiana. Now in her first Season, Georgiana disliked being on display and the object of interest and speculation as much as Darcy disliked the idea of putting her out for show. Her obvious partiality towards Mr Franklin and Mr Franklin’s suitability would make things so much easier on them all.

  Before he could feel too satisfied with this welcome turn of events, he noticed the butler in the doorway once again, holding a folded sheet of paper.

  “A letter? At this time of day? Who is it from?”

  “A note, sir, carried by a decidedly disreputable-looking messenger. He says it is from Mr Wickham.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth sat in the Bingleys’ library, staring intently at the pages of the book in her hand, comprehending nothing. Even though she desperately needed and wanted the distraction, she simply could not concentrate. At the same time, she could not form any coherent thought on any one subject. Too much had happened, and her mind flitted from one worry to another. George was in prison. What would become of him? What would become of her? She was angry and humiliated at his open indiscretion. She was horrified at her own indiscretion with Mr Darcy in the conservatory, yet,
even in her present state of confusion, she flushed at the memory. She was sick to her stomach when she remembered what he told her about his letter and thought of what might have been. She lashed out at him that morning, but truly, with whom was she angry? At herself. The entire ugly mess was her doing. Her ruined life and her bleak future were wholly due to her own obstinacy.

  Pulling her thoughts away from that fruitless circle, Elizabeth closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the household. A baby’s cry, a mother’s cooing. Bangs and clangs and enticing smells rising from the kitchen below. The soft footfalls of servants preparing the rooms above for the coming night. A knock on the door. The butler telling the caller that the master was away.

  “No matter, it is Mrs Wickham I must see. On a matter of business.”

  She recognised the voice, and her heart jumped.

  “Yes, thank you, I know the way,” he said shortly. Elizabeth set her book aside and rose to await his entrance.

  “I am on my way to Newgate to see Wickham,” Mr Darcy appeared in the doorway and announced without preamble. “I came to see if you wish me to convey a message to him.”

  “A message?” Elizabeth was taken aback. “What sort of message would I send to him?”

  “I am sure I do not know; however, in light of our conversation this morning, I thought I should ask.”

  “I thank you for your consideration, but no, I have nothing to say to him.”

  “Very well.” He gave a crisp bow.

  “Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth heard her voice speaking of its own volition.

  “Yes?” He paused in the doorway.

  “Will you not stay?” She gestured to a chair, and when he hesitated, she urged, “Just for a moment. Please.”