Kitty and Lydia were all aflutter, though. The Netherfield ball had been all but forgotten in the face of this new misfortune.
Elizabeth kept to her room. She could not hear it, even though she knew that her avoidance of the others would only be construed as heartbreak. Her sisters knew well of her partiality for the poor dead soldier, and she was torn between concern that, should gossip reach their ears, they might draw more scandalous conclusions, and relief that they saw fit, in this instance, to leave her be.
Her mother was still furious over her rejection of Mr. Collins, and so Elizabeth found a further source of comfort in remaining far from the family circle. In avoiding a sullen Mr. Collins, she found a third. She read books and mended several garments she had long been meaning to fix.
And she thought. She thought of all the ways she had been misled, and all the ways she had misled herself. About Mr. Wickham, about Mr. Darcy, and about her own powers of judgment and perception.
I have done what I could. If tongues wag, it will be in my direction.
What a risk he took, in order to protect her good name! When first she and Jane had returned from her walk that dreadful morning, she had gone to see her father, to ask him what Mr. Philips had said.
Mr. Bennet had been characteristically gruff. “He confirmed your own account, Lizzy, and has communicated the same to Colonel Forster. If we are very lucky, that will be the end of it.”
They were not very lucky. Mr. Wickham was dead. With one of his officers dead, it was possible that the colonel would seek retribution. Was that not why Mr. Darcy had been so quick to leave?
“Sir, I have heard—” She could not bring herself to say it.
Mr. Bennet stared at her, his eyes bright and piercing from behind his spectacles. “You have heard the scoundrel is gone from this life?”
She nodded wordlessly.
“Yes. He is, perhaps, the luckiest of all. For, were he not, I might find it necessary to rouse a bit of violence myself, and I dread to think what might come of that.”
He needed to say no more. Mr. Philips had clearly reported far more detail from Mr. Darcy than Elizabeth cared to have repeated in her hearing.
“Papa, I told you all that was relevant—”
“Not all, my dear child,” he snapped, and then slumped into the seat behind his desk. “Leave me now. There is nothing you nor I can do, at any rate. It is in the hands of God.” She turned to go, but heard him add, beneath his breath. “—and Mr. Philips.”
Elizabeth knew not what directives Mr. Darcy had delivered to her uncle, nor what incentives her uncle might have been given to ensure that it was Mr. Darcy’s version of events that were accepted over what had apparently been the ravings of a dying man.
The image taunted her cruelly, whether awake or asleep. Mr. Wickham, pale and bloody, on his deathbed. Mr. Wickham, delirious, raving nonsense phrases from which his companions concocted a story of a seduction and a duel.
For that was the only explanation she could arrive at, after nights spent tossing and turning on the subject. Mr. Wickham had been dying. Surely a dying man would not be so vicious as to spread such a horrible lie. No, it must be that in his weakness and suffering, he mentioned herself and Mr. Darcy, and Colonel Forster and his other friends had imagined the rest.
This thought gave her some measure of relief. For she dared to hope that if this was the case, any whispers about her that might persist would soon subside. It was best to remain quiet and at home in these days, however, just as Mr. Darcy was wise to have left Netherfield. Allow the gossip to run itself out, the grief of his friends in the regiment to burn alone.
Jane had received a brief note from Netherfield informing her that Mr. Bingley had been called to London on business. (Some business! Elizabeth could not help but think.) In her letter, Caroline Bingley had declared that she did not know when he would return and that both she and the Hursts were to quit the place and join her brother in town, a fact which gave Jane no small amount of concern. Elizabeth did her best to comfort her sister on this matter, but she was no more confident in her efforts than Jane was consoled by them.
They all waited. If indeed there was a scandal brewing because of the events at the Netherfield ball, she could not imagine otherwise than that it might put a damper on her sister’s romance. Would the Bingleys return under such a shadow as that?
She would not, in their place.
And despite reading Miss Bingley’s letter over and over, Elizabeth was not able to ascertain within its sharp and poisoned lines if Caroline knew aught of what had transpired under her very roof. Surely, if she did, she would not have kept silent about it, even to gentle Jane?
Surely, if she knew the whole, she would not have written to Jane at all?
That was a sentiment Elizabeth chose not to share with her sister. But it did speak to Mr. Darcy’s sense of discretion, if nothing else. Of his seriousness when he had declared, that morning in the lane, that she would be shielded from any talk which might arise from this terrible matter.
All in all, Elizabeth was relieved for these few stolen moments of peace. She could not close her eyes that first day but find that the image of Mr. Wickham arose before her, lying prone on the Netherfield lawn and clutching his side as the blood spread out. She could not seek the quiet of her bedroom or an abandoned corner of the garden without hearing Mr. Darcy’s whispered words, the devastation evident in every fiber of his being.
George. Good God, what have you done?
Elizabeth did not know what had first formed the breach between the childhood friends. But none could have seen and heard Darcy in that moment and believed that—even if all between them was quite lost—that there had not once been a very deep connection, indeed.
It did no good to dwell on such things. It did no good to wonder where Mr. Darcy was now, if he, too, hid away from the world and nursed his own private grief.
If he had anyone to comfort and advise him.
Tonight would be her first trial. The Bennet family was engaged to dine at Lucas Lodge, a locale that her father appeared to deem friendly enough to receive them and, of course, having the added benefit of not requiring a trip into Meryton proper.
And Elizabeth would be going. She both relished and dreaded the prospect. From Charlotte she would know, in the gentlest manner imaginable, what gossip might be spreading about Elizabeth’s part in the local tragedy.
When she descended the stairs to join her family as they awaited the carriages, only her sisters met her with a smile. Her mother steadfastly maintained her illusion that her second-eldest daughter no longer existed. Mr. Collins, too, did not met her eyes. Her father’s face was grave, as it had been every time she had seen him since the morning of the Netherfield ball.
Elizabeth faltered on the stairs as a quick, sharp pain rose in her breast. It would never be the same between them. Perhaps her father believed her story about what had happened the night of the Netherfield ball. Perhaps he only agreed to believe it, as Mr. Philips had agreed to spread whatever tale Darcy had requested.
Perhaps he was disappointed in her, still.
The thought was enough to keep her silent all through the short trip to Lucas Lodge. Indeed, it was not until she saw Charlotte await her in the drawing room that she brightened at all.
Soon enough, they were able to withdraw to a private corner.
“Oh, Elizabeth,” her friend exclaimed, her face a mask of concern, “I do hope you have not been brought low by this terrible tragedy. I called by Longbourn a few days ago, but was told you were ill in bed.”
“I am well, Charlotte,” Elizabeth replied, “though I will not say I am happy.”
“I cannot say I am surprised. I had known he was a favorite of yours. But such is the soldier’s life, you know. I suppose one thinks there are only dangers in battle, but a weapon is a weapon, whether it be in France or in Meryton.”
Elizabeth listened to all of this with no small sense of curiosity. “Do you know any detai
ls about what befell him?” She tried to keep her countenance as placid as possible. “I confess, the accounts which have reached us in Longbourn are vague and contradictory.”
“And such has been the same here,” said Charlotte. “The first we heard was of an accident during training exercises, and then there was a rumor in the servants’ hall about Mr. Wickham mishandling his pistol. I do not find that account too unbelievable, if I am honest with you, Eliza. I know how much you liked him, but he always seemed to me to be a very careless and rash sort of young man.”
Elizabeth could not dispute that.
“But,” and here, Charlotte lowered her voice, “my brother has heard another story, and this one may be of particular interest to you.”
A chill stole over Elizabeth’s skin. She dreaded to hear the truth. She longed to know it at last.
“He saw Mr. Wickham’s friend Captain Carter in Meryton yesterday. The captain is the one who first introduced Mr. Wickham into the regiment. They are—they were, rather—very intimate friends. And Captain Carter says that he believes Mr. Wickham’s death was no accident.”
“A murder?” Elizabeth whispered. All efforts to maintain her composure had fled. “But that cannot be!”
“You told me yourself of the long enmity that existed between the dear departed and another gentleman we know. A gentleman who has lately vanished most unexpectedly from the neighborhood, along with all of his friends.”
Elizabeth’s lips parted, and she wondered if she ought to sit down. She could not trust her knees to hold her. “Captain Carter thinks Mr. Wickham was murdered? By Mr. Darcy?”
“No!” came the harshly whispered response. “Nothing so blatant as all of that. But if it was an accident with one of the soldiers in the regiment, could it not be that there existed an arrangement? One which might allow Mr. Darcy to be free forever from Mr. Wickham’s claims to his stolen inheritance?”
“I—” she could hardly form the words. “Why, Charlotte, that is an intrigue, indeed! One worthy of the most outlandish of novels! For did you not just say it is likely that Mr. Wickham was the victim of his own carelessness with his firearm?”
“I did not say that I believed it. Only that Captain Carter looked very darkly upon Mr. Darcy, and his swift removal from Netherfield, according to my brother’s report. No one can properly account for them leaving so quickly, and Captain Carter seemed to know all the particulars of the history between the two men, and he believes that his friend’s death cannot be so simply explained.”
As well he might. It would not reflect well upon him that one of his subordinate officers—indeed, a man he had recruited into the regiment himself—would be so foolish as to shoot himself. And yet, it was as near as Elizabeth could ascertain to being the truth.
“And it did make me curious, I confess. Why would the party at Netherfield be so quick to quit the neighborhood?”
Elizabeth felt pressed to respond in defense. “Jane had a letter from Miss Bingley that it is a matter of business which calls her brother away. As far as I know them, none had as much love for the country as Mr. Bingley, and once he was gone, there would be nothing holding any of the others here.”
“Perhaps.” Charlotte considered this. “But they say Mr. Darcy left immediately after the ball.”
“I believe he left when Mr. Bingley did,” Elizabeth insisted.
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “I must admit, I am surprised by your reaction.”
“Why?”
“You are always the first in any conversation to impugn Mr. Darcy, and consider it possible for him to have committed any sin. Have I not heard you half a dozen times accuse him of pride and vanity, of arrogance and anger?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth admitted, “but there is a vast gulf between such faults and the evil of a murderer. Captain Carter should be ashamed to spread such rumors.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I should never have guessed the day you would defend Mr. Darcy!”
Before the Netherfield ball, Elizabeth would not have guessed it either. But in the days since, she had spent enough quiet hours with her gruesome memories and the contents of her soul to know better.
“I am ashamed of what I said of him these past two months, especially if they might have some small part in giving you leave to think him capable of violence against another living soul. It is true that I have never found him agreeable, but that does not make him evil.”
“No, not his manners alone, but what of all we heard of his character from Mr. Wickham? His cruelty to that poor man. His shocking refusal to honor his father’s wishes and provide Mr. Wickham with the intended living?”
“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said, miserable. “I don’t know what is the truth in all of that.” And now, there was slim chance they might ever know. “But I do not believe Mr. Wickham’s character was everything we were led to believe, either.”
Charlotte gasped. “How can you say such a thing about a dead man!”
Elizabeth drew further into the corner of the room, and lowered her voice to no more than a breath. “Oh Charlotte. I know more of these matters than I wish to. Believe me, Mr. Darcy is innocent of wrongdoing. What little he did, he did to protect—”
At that moment they were set upon by Kitty and Maria Lucas, who were giggling furiously.
“Tell her, Lizzy!” she cried breathlessly. “Tell Maria!”
Elizabeth caught her breath.
“…For she does not believe me that Mr. Collins has made you an offer, and you have rejected him!”
Oh. That. Elizabeth’s lips pursed. “For heaven’s sake, Kitty, lower your voice.”
Mr. Collins, fortunately, stood at the precise opposite corner of the room, expounding to Sir William about the similarities and differences between his chair cushions and the ones to be found in the summer sitting-room at Rosings Park.
Charlotte looked at her with much surprise. “Eliza, is this true? You have had a very eventful week, to be sure.”
“Yes, it is true. But it is not as eventful as you might believe. I urged him to reconsider from the very moment he began his address. I attempted to prevent him even making it.”
“But why?”
She shook her head. “Because I know he cannot make me happy. And I know I cannot make him happy. It is a hopeless business from the outset. He was mistaken, and I hope that he will soon see his error…and that my mother will learn to understand as well.”
This information, seemingly, was plenty for the younger girls, who giggled and hurried off, but not nearly enough to satisfy Charlotte. All thoughts of Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy had seemingly fled from her friend’s mind. Elizabeth wished she knew the trick of it.
“I can understand that with all that has happened, you may not be thinking with as much clarity as might be desired.” Charlotte’s eyes were keen and curious above the edge of her fan. “I hope that it is not you who might come to regret your choice in this matter.”
“I have no fear of that.” Elizabeth shook her head, ruefully. “My choice was made long before he began his addresses to me. I knew from the first night of our meeting that we would not be well-suited for each other.”
“How quickly you make these proclamations!” Charlotte exclaimed. “And how strongly you cling to them, despite what it was that you just confided in me, regarding your changing feelings about other gentlemen of your acquaintance.”
There was a surge of annoyance that Charlotte might use her confidence to needle her, but Elizabeth did not pay it much mind. “I have no reason to believe that Mr. Collins is anything other than a virtuous and respectable man. And I know better than anyone how eligible he is. I wish him every happiness. I just know, in my heart of hearts, that he would not find it with me.”
Charlotte stared at her for a long moment, then said, “Well, my friend, if that is the case, would it aid you at all if I were to ensure that you were not seated with him at dinner, and not forced to interact with him at all throughout the whole course of the ev
ening?”
“Oh, yes,” Elizabeth replied, and took her friend’s hand in gratitude. “I do not think he will seek out my company, and I know that I am avoiding his, but I did dread to think where we might sit at the table tonight. Thank you, dear Charlotte.”
And so it was. Elizabeth entertained herself tolerably well among her other friends and neighbors, while Charlotte focused her attentions almost entirely upon Mr. Collins, a strategy whose purpose would only be revealed to Elizabeth in the coming days.
Chapter 9
All of Longbourn was nearly frozen in astonishment at the announcement, only two days later, that Mr. Collins was to marry Charlotte Lucas. But no shock was as deeply felt as that of Elizabeth Bennet, who was first to receive the news from the mouth of none other than the intended bride.
Mr. Collins had left Longbourn that very morning for Kent, obligated as he was to return to his parish, his parishioners, and—perhaps most urgently—his patroness. But he had not long made his departure than Elizabeth was visited by Charlotte Lucas, bearing the unexpected news.
Upon hearing it, Elizabeth was scarce able to keep her composure. “Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte, that is impossible!”
“Impossible?” Charlotte responded, with so steady and calm a countenance that Elizabeth was unlikely to think her friend was teasing her. “But why?”
Well, it had been but a week since he had made addresses to her, to begin with, but Elizabeth did not see fit to interject such an observation into their discussion.
“Do you think it incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion,” asked Charlotte, “because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?”
“Oh no, not at all.” She must think very quickly. “If this is indeed the case, I am most pleased for you.”
“I see what you are feeling,” replied her friend. “You must be surprised, very much surprised, so lately was Mr. Collins wishing to marry you.”
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