Stronger Even Than Pride

by Gail McEwen

He sat, though obviously ill at ease, as she took the chair opposite.

  “I cannot begin to make sense of everything that has taken place, and I have no idea what I am to do next. The only thing I know for certain at this moment is that I owe you an apology for my outburst this morning.”

  “You owe me nothing of the sort,” Darcy spoke stiffly. “You were completely justified in your rebuke. I allowed my personal feelings against the man to cloud my judgement.”

  “That is true.” A small smile played upon her lips. “You must forgive me—I am overwhelmed, and I have no strength within me for anything but complete honesty. We are both adults, and we should speak plainly to each other, even if it is now too late.”

  “Very well.”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath.

  “I awoke this morning knowing that, when I threw away your letter, I had deliberately thrown away my one best chance at happiness. I also awoke thinking that George had been killed. God help me, I awoke believing that I was finally free of him.

  “When I learned otherwise…” Elizabeth paused. “When I realised I was still tied to him and everything was all now so much worse, I wanted to blame anyone and everyone but myself, but in truth, there is plenty of blame to go around, is there not?”

  “There is.”

  “George Wickham has deeply wronged us both; there is no denying that, but through our own stubbornness and pride, we have wronged ourselves as well. And,” she lifted her eyes to look into his, “we have wronged each other.”

  “We have,” Darcy agreed. “What is to be done about it?”

  “Nothing is to be done.” Elizabeth sighed. “We will pay the price for the choices we have made, and our acquaintance will end, as it should.”

  Nothing was said for a long while until the clock chimed three.

  “I should go.”

  They both rose, and he stepped impulsively across the space that divided them, took her hand and brought it to his mouth. It took all her strength to draw it back and move towards the door.

  “Why must you go to Newgate?” she enquired to fill the charged silence in the room. “Is it official business?”

  “No, nothing official. I am going because Wickham asked me to, no doubt to beg for my assistance.”

  “But why go?”

  “Obligation. Guilt. And, I suppose, curiosity about what he has to say for himself.”

  “Will you help him? Can you help him?”

  She saw the struggle evident in his face at her question.

  “Do you wish me to help him?”

  “I…” She struggled as well. “I cannot answer that. But if I may ask…will you keep me informed? I suppose I am curious, too, about what he has to say for himself.”

  “It will be my pleasure.” He prepared to bow again, but stopped and looked at her carefully. “And how are you? That is, should Wickham ask, what shall I tell him?”

  “You think George Wickham, in his present circumstances, will have one thought to spare for anyone but himself?” She nearly snorted in disbelief. “Really, Mr Darcy, if you believe that, you surely do not know him at all.”

  “I should like to know the answer anyway.”

  “If he should ask, you may tell him…” She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. “Tell him that I am…nothing.”

  * * *

  What am I doing? Darcy asked himself. He had asked that same question at least ten times, but despite his misgivings, he stood in the warden’s office, uttering those inconceivable words, “I am here to see the prisoner George Wickham.”

  The clerk looked up from the desk, obviously surprised at the sudden appearance of a gentleman of his stature, but he asked the standard questions and wrote down the particulars in a ledger.

  “What is your business with the prisoner?”

  “I received a letter from him this morning. He requested a meeting.”

  “He is known to you?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  The clerk looked up with interest, but Darcy kept his face impassive. After a moment, the man scribbled something on a slip of paper, waved it idly to dry before walking to a side door, opening it and shouting into a hallway. A surly man appeared, snatched the paper from the clerk and whirled around, disappearing into the dimness beyond.

  The wait was perhaps a quarter of an hour, but it felt much longer. The clerk returned to his desk, and Darcy walked to the window. Looking out at the busy street, he ignored the feel of curious eyes boring into his back and questioned the wisdom of his decision to come. The door opened. Wickham was pushed through roughly by the surly man and stood before him.

  “Darcy, my dear, old friend. How good it is to see you.”

  Darcy could not help but stare in shock before he remembered himself. He could not believe the man was so altered in so short a time. Still in his evening clothes, the brass buttons had been ripped from his coat, his breeches were stained and torn, his face was smudged with a red and swollen mark below his right eye, and he reeked of human filth. Yet, despite his chains and bedraggled appearance, there was a look of calm assurance in Wickham’s eyes.

  “Get on with it,” Darcy said. “I am here at your request and against my better judgement. What is it you want from me?”

  “I want you to end this, of course.”

  “End this?”

  “Yes. Your point is taken. You obviously still care for Elizabeth and have taken justifiable offense at my behaviour towards her. It was very wrong of me to conduct myself that way. You are wholly in the right, and I am utterly wrong. I am humbled, contrite, and shall never stray again.”

  What Wickham said was bad enough, but his smug, not-at-all-penitent expression as he said it made Darcy see red. He closed his eyes and breathed in, waiting a long moment before he had control of his anger.

  “You are perfectly correct in one of your assumptions, Wickham. I have taken grave offense at your behaviour towards your wife. I would have taken offense regardless of who she might be, but you are mistaken if you think your present predicament is either of my doing or in my control. I have no authority to ‘end this,’ as you say.”

  “Come now, Darcy. You have had your fun. Call off your dogs, and get me out of here.”

  “Whatever power you presume I hold over your fate, let me assure you that my only involvement will be to testify to what I witnessed if I am called to do so.”

  Wickham’s confident demeanour faded. “But you can speak on my behalf! You would not disregard the connection between our families…the long-standing relationship…please, Darcy”—the man was beginning to sound desperate—“you cannot let me hang.”

  “There you are mistaken. I most certainly can.”

  A look of panic flashed across Wickham’s face but quickly disappeared, and the smile returned.

  “You can,” he said, “but you will not. I know you, Darcy; you forget how well I know you. You will enjoy the idea of having your revenge, of making me pay for all the perceived wrongs I have done to you, but when it comes down to it, you will do the right thing. You will get satisfaction from watching me squirm, but beneath it all, you are a man of honour, and you will help me.”

  “You may believe that if it gives you comfort.”

  The smile broadened.

  “It does. There is nothing so fixed as a Darcy’s commitment to honour and right. And now, since I am sure you are keeping apprised of all the news surrounding my disgrace, I must ask—how is Gwen?”

  “Gwen?”

  “Yes. Lady Smythe-Hamilton—the siren of my downfall. How is she faring through this ordeal?”

  “I am sure I do not know. As touching as your concern is for her ladyship, have you no thought to spare for your wife?”

  “Ah, yes. My wife…Elizabeth. You realise that you must help me, for her sake if not for my own.”

  Chapter 15

  Darcy spent a sleepless night reliving his visit with Wickham and trying to decide just what his obligations and responsibilities w
ere. It was within his power to help, that was true, but did honour compel him to do so? Without assistance from someone with power and influence, Wickham would be tried, convicted, and likely sent to the gallows for his crimes. He had no desire to assist the man, but was he honour bound to do so anyway? Could he live with himself if Wickham was hanged and he had done nothing to stop it? Would his death then be on Darcy’s hands?

  Thinking got him nowhere. His baser instincts battled with his higher aspirations, and he spent the night reasoning in circles until the rising sun touched the horizon. He needed to talk it out, but his customary sounding boards would be no help in this case. Fitzwilliam would be appalled at even the hint that either of them should lift so much as a finger to aid Wickham, and it would never occur to Bingley that he would not do everything in his power to help a man in such dire circumstances.

  And then there was Wickham’s parting shot: “You realise that you must help me, for Elizabeth’s sake if not for my own.”

  “I am curious to hear your reasoning for such a bold assertion,” Darcy could not help but ask. “Why must I help you for your wife’s sake?”

  “Really, Darcy.” Wickham laughed. “I do not understand why you think you can hide anything from me. I know your feelings for her.”

  “Old feelings,” he said simply, not able to deny it but not daring to venture further.

  “Old feelings?” Wickham scoffed. “Do you think I don’t know who paid off my debts in Castle Street, and why? I doubt you would have spared any thoughts to my grocery bill if it were not for Elizabeth. And I doubt it was old feelings that compelled you to seek me out and expose me at the ball.”

  “As foreign as the thought might be to you, Wickham, one can feel pity and outrage without ulterior or selfish motives.”

  “One might, and I have no doubt your intentions were as pure as the driven snow; however, that does not change the root of that pity and outrage. You care for Elizabeth deeply, and as much as it might pain you to hear this, Elizabeth cares for me. If you pity her, you will see to it that I walk away from these charges.”

  Of course, he knew that was patently ridiculous. Elizabeth was unhappy in her marriage and with her choices, but that brought up another troubling aspect. What were his obligations to her in this case? If he were honest with himself, he wanted nothing more than for her to be free of Wickham, but did that not disprove what he had so confidently asserted about his lack of selfish motives?

  He had asked whether she wished him to help Wickham, and she could not give him an answer; was that answer enough? After a brief deliberation, Darcy decided he must speak to Elizabeth again to ascertain her feelings. He was engaged to take tea at Georgiana’s by particular invitation after church, but he should have time…

  The moment services were over, he changed clothes and set out for Bingley’s house.

  * * *

  The musty smell of dust and mildew greeted Elizabeth when she stepped into the cold, empty house on Castle Street.

  “Shoo!” She waved tiredly to the rat on the table gnawing at a forgotten crust of bread. He paused momentarily, looking at her with only the slightest interest before returning to his meal. Balancing on one foot, Elizabeth removed her shoe and tossed it at him without passion or disgust and watched as he sauntered away, crust in his mouth.

  “Welcome home, Mrs Wickham,” she whispered to the empty room.

  She lit a candle and started a small fire in the grate, courtesy of the coal purchased by Mr Darcy, and sat down at the table, staring at the half-empty bottle of Scotch George had left sitting there.

  “One last drink,” he had said, smiling and pleased with himself before dragging her out to the Greysons’ ball. Was it only three days ago? So much had happened since that afternoon that she could scarcely account for the passage of so little time.

  In a defiant gesture aimed at no one in particular and everyone in general, she grabbed the bottle and poured an inch or two of liquor into the dirty glass sitting next to it.

  “And what would all you gossiping magpies say to this if you could only see me now?” she said out loud, taking a generous swallow.

  The magpies had been out in full force. Conveniently for the ladies of the ton, Jane Bingley had reached the end of her confinement and was able to receive visitors. The day before, too polite to send them away for a second consecutive morning, Jane was inundated with a constant stream of curious well-wishers who seemed to be more interested in catching a glimpse of Mrs Bingley’s sister than of her newborn son. Elizabeth felt an obligation to relieve Jane of the exhausting burden; therefore, she presented herself dutifully to be the object of open scrutiny and impertinent stares from society matrons.

  Nothing was said to her face, but her every look, every sigh, every word was noted to be discussed in detail over dinner tables and across theatre boxes. With much shaking of heads and expressions of sympathy, Mrs Wickham was pronounced to be a sad little thing, but then what could one expect when marrying a man with more charm than money.

  The next day was Sunday, so while they were spared visitors at home, she was not safe from inquisitive and impertinent stares and whispers from her fellow churchgoers. That was more than enough to convince Elizabeth that prolonging her stay with the Bingleys was detrimental, not only to Jane’s peace but to her own. Mr Bingley must have had similar thoughts because, when they returned from services, he announced his intention to convey the family, Elizabeth included, to Netherfield immediately.

  However tempted Elizabeth was by the prospect of escape, she declared she would not hear of further imposing on them. Truth be told, she could not bear the thought of facing her parents or the people of Meryton in her shame and mortification. Jane tried suggesting to her husband that they should perhaps consider delaying their departure until Elizabeth could be prevailed upon to join them, but Bingley was firm where he felt himself to be right. For Jane’s welfare, as well as their child’s, they would leave the next morning.

  Elizabeth wanted only to hide from the world, so despite their vehement and repeated urging, she declared she had intended all along to return to her home that very afternoon.

  She finished her drink and poured another. Although she seldom took anything stronger than wine, she now felt like she deserved it. And what did it matter anyway? In Castle Street, she rarely went out and never had visitors. No doubt she would still be the subject of gossip and speculation, but there was no need to be either polite or hospitable to her neighbours. She was back where she belonged, living in poverty and squalor, entirely alone, and with no idea what would become of her life.

  Halfway through her second glass of Scotch, Elizabeth was startled out of her self-pity by a sharp rap on the door. While she toyed with the idea of ignoring it, the repeated, insistent knocking quickly proved that to be impossible, and when she answered, she found herself face-to-face with a clearly agitated gentleman.

  “I must speak to you.”

  “Mr Darcy! What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same question,” he replied curtly. “Why are you not going to Netherfield? You are much better off there, and your sister is very distressed.”

  He took a step into the room, and Elizabeth had no choice but to draw back and allow him to enter.

  “This is my home.” His open scrutiny of her living conditions irritated her. “And I am quite capable of determining what is best for me, thank you.”

  “I would think you would be happy to leave all this behind.” He gestured around the small, shabby room. “I insist that you allow me to take you back to Bingley’s—or to Longbourn, if you must—but I shall not consent to you remaining here in this…hovel. We can speak in the carriage.”

  “You will not consent? What gives you the right to withhold consent for anything connected to me or my whereabouts? How can you possibly construe this as any of your concern?”

  “How is it my concern? You would say that to me, even now? We are still standing on pretence then?”


  He paced up and down the small room then turned on her decisively.

  “No. You may choose to pretend, but I shall not. I should think we have trodden upon the bounds of propriety often enough in the past days to speak plainly to one another. Whether I have the right to care can well be debated, but nevertheless, I am deeply concerned for your welfare.”

  “There is no need. As you see, I am well.”

  She squared her shoulders and desperately tried to hold on to her pride even as her cheeks burned with mortification.

  “No, Elizabeth,” he said softly, “you are not.”

  The quiet compassion in his voice was too much for Elizabeth, and sudden and unexpected tears welled in her eyes. Squeezing her lids tightly to keep them at bay, she stood with her back to him until she could trust herself once again, but even as she felt control returning, he was behind her, turning her around and wrapping her in his arms.

  Briefly, she gave in and allowed herself to cry, but it was not long before the reality of being in Mr Darcy’s arms overwhelmed every other concern. Her face pressed against his chest; she could hear the slow, steady beat of his heart, could inhale the clean scent of cotton and wool, and the deeper, more primal smell of maleness. His arms surrounded her with a strength and stability she could not recall ever having felt so fully before. Even after all that had happened, it was not until that moment that she fully realised the scope of her folly and loss. Had she not been so angry, so impulsive, so sure of her own cleverness and rightness, she might have seen who Mr Darcy truly was before it was too late. She might have been his wife, resting in the security and assurance of his strength and affection. She might have been a blessed and happy woman.

  But she was not. She had thrown away the letter that would have opened her eyes to the truth. She had literally thrown her pearls before swine and doomed herself to a wretched and miserable existence. The realisation was too much in her already fragile state, and the tears began again in earnest. That this made him hold her even tighter only made it worse. Regrets overwhelmed her, so much that she could not even put words to the torrent of emotions that flooded through her. She wanted to curl up into a ball of desolation; she would have crumbled to the floor in despair had he not had such a strong hold on her. She was wretched…hopeless…and so very, very sorry.