“Yes, I suppose it was that.” It was that, but not entirely that. Her dear friend, the wife of that ridiculous man! He would have a fortune one day, when her father was dead, but oh, all the days in between!
“But did you not say at the Netherfield ball that I was welcome to entertain Mr. Collins, or any man who was not Mr. Wickham? Surely your rejection of his offer was all the proof a friend might need to ensure his heart was unclaimed.”
Elizabeth hardly remembered a moment of the ball that did not include the body of Mr. Wickham bleeding in the moonlit grass. Perhaps she did say such a thing, as much as it signified. How very strange to realize that all this time, as her mind had been occupied with the lives and death of two visitors to the neighborhood, her friend’s thoughts were for a third gentleman, one whom had hardly registered in Elizabeth’s thoughts, even on the day he had proposed marriage.
Might she have otherwise seen Charlotte’s interest? The list of matters to which Elizabeth had been blind seemed to lengthen by the moment.
“You are right, my dear friend. I hold no claim over the concerns of your betrothed. As I said to you at your home, I knew from the beginning that we were not a pair who would suit.”
Charlotte listened to her protestations with equanimity. “I see. Then you believe, perhaps, that it is too quick for anyone to form a lasting connection. But I am not like you, Eliza. I am not romantic, you know. I never was. I ask only a comfortable home, and considering Mr. Collins's character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state.”
Such declarations were not at all to Elizabeth’s liking, but she could not deny that they were widely accepted in other women. “Undoubtedly,” she answered awkwardly. “If this is what you want, Charlotte, then I wish you all imagined happiness.”
Charlotte took these assurances in the manner Elizabeth hoped. “I hope you can be glad for me. We are to be married in the new year, and go directly to Kent.”
To Lady Catherine. To making a fourth at cards. Oh, how nearly Elizabeth had escaped that fate! She wondered anew what her father might have said, that morning. If he might have encouraged her to marry Mr. Collins, were it not for Mr. Philips’s assurances that there would arise no scandal in the matter of Mr. Wickham. They would all have been made quite miserable.
Though, she could not fully conclude that they were to be made happy by this turn of events.
Charlotte did not stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match.
For her family, the paths diverged. Lydia—and therefore Kitty—found it instantly diverting, and many hours were devoted to the subject of the indignities that Charlotte would face upon taking the name of Collins.
Such musings were but torture to Mrs. Bennet, who found it very hard to imagine all that had been lost by this turn of events, and harder still to bear the thought of Charlotte one day become the lady of Longbourn and all it contained. Indeed, during every visit of either Charlotte or her mother that thereafter occurred, Mrs. Bennet declared they asked overmuch after Mr. Bennet’s continued good health. She also thought they had examined far more closely than Mrs. Bennet found proper the condition of the furnishings and china.
Elizabeth noticed no such change in their behavior during calls to Longbourn, but as her mother persisted in refusing to speak to her on any subject, it was not an observation she was given leave to make. She did, however, take great pains to visit with her friend at her home, and spare her mother as much pain as possible. As these efforts had the added benefit of helping her escape the walls of her own house, they were doubly welcomed.
Jane always accompanied her on these walks, which Elizabeth also welcomed. In Jane, Charlotte could find unalloyed joy at her coming nuptials, an attitude that Elizabeth, try as she might, was unable to adopt for herself. She was happy for Charlotte—she was!—and yet any time she tried to picture her friend’s future felicity, be it in a parsonage in Kent or the drawing room at Longbourn, she could not help the tiniest of shudders.
The few times she had tried to bring this up to Jane, however, her sister had replied to her in a manner that might, in a person less sweet than Jane, be considered an admonishment.
“Oh Lizzy, you do not make exceptions for differences in situation and temper. Our cousin might not be the most sensible of men, but he is respectable. He is not vicious. It is a most eligible match.”
What could Elizabeth do but agree? “You would not marry such a man, only to secure your own position in society.”
Jane smiled sadly. “I do not know what I would do at seven-and-twenty. I do not know what I would do now, if an eligible match were presented to me. Mr. Collins never proposed to me. I might not have had the strength you did, to so disappoint Mama.”
“How lucky it is, then, that Mama believed you to be all but spoken for.”
Jane said nothing, just looked out over the pastures in the direction of Netherfield.
Mary was dispirited for a few days, then rallied, throwing herself all the more vigorously into her studies and her music, to the further dismay of Mrs. Bennet, who claimed the constant plonking upon the pianoforte wreaked havoc on her poor nerves. Elizabeth was not altogether sure if her sister was nursing truly disappointed hopes in regards to the particular gentleman, or had merely expected that, his having been rejected by the second sister, he might naturally turn his intentions towards the third.
In truth, Elizabeth’s sense of the level of acquaintance and attachment that might be expected before one became engaged had been remarkably upended recently. She was not so foolish and naive as to think everyone expected or even desired a love match, but she did admonish herself for her earlier conclusion that the more sensible and rational a young lady was—those with powers of mind like herself, or Charlotte, or Mary—might at least hope to respect and like the man to whom they would pledge their troth.
Her own thoughts on this matter were derived from her long observation of her parents’ own unhappy marriage. Mr. Bennet, at a young age, had been charmed by her mother’s beauty and vivacious personality, only to discover when it was too late that such attributes did not make for a lasting affection when they merely masked a silly and ignorant character. As soon as Elizabeth was old enough to see the truth of her parents’ marriage, she had determined that she would never be so blinded.
And yet, she had been blinded, had she not? In Mr. Wickham, she had seen only his good looks, his charm—his red coat, a trait she had been fond of mocking in Kitty and Lydia. She had been all too willing to listen to his tales of woe as they reinforced her opinion of Mr. Darcy. She had not made any mistake nearly so great as to marry him—
But she did make a mistake, and one of great consequence. Now that they were out and about in society, she could not help but hear the whispers that persisted, of how the death of Mr. Wickham was not precisely as it had originally appeared. The theories varied, depending upon where they were and who was about. She liked it best in her aunt and uncle Philips’s house in Meryton, where nothing more could be said on the subject but that it was a most terrible accident, and that it was a grave lesson to all to be more careful when in possession of a firearm.
Elsewhere, rumors flowed more freely. Everyone had their own version of events. They had heard that Mr. Wickham had been shot at a training exercise, that he had been set upon by thieves at a public house, that he had been quarreling in the private home of a gentleman. Again, she heard the whisper that the purported accident was not so very accidental after all, but part of a wicked pact by those who counted the young officer as their enemy. The identity of these erstwhile killers was always debatable, but one name came up more frequently than all the others.
Whenever she heard this, Elizabeth did her best to sound very shocked indeed, and to insist in the strongest terms that such allegati
ons were as evil as they were preposterous.
She did not know how much good she did. The disappearance of Mr. Darcy was much related as a dark and mysterious act, made all the more suspicious as it was said he did not go out into society even in London.
Elizabeth very much wondered how the citizens of Meryton might know a thing like that. There was no one in the village who had such lofty connections in London that they might know the intimate movements of a Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. Indeed, she was not sure there were many who even kept up in correspondence with Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst.
And yet, when did truth ever prevent the spread of gossip?
But Mr. Darcy and Mr. Philips’s efforts—whatever they might be—were quite robust. At no time did Elizabeth ever get a hint of a whisper that she might know more about Mr. Wickham’s death than any other girl in the country.
The family did receive visitors from London, in the form of her mother’s brother, Mr. Gardiner, who was in trade in Cheapside, and his wife. The two came up from town for Christmas and injected a much-needed dose of merriment into the society at Longbourn. Elizabeth was very glad to see them both, particularly Mrs. Gardiner. She was a young, intelligent woman of great kindness and wit, and doted on her two eldest nieces.
It was Mrs. Gardiner who dared to name the malaise that Jane wore around the house like a shawl. “She is broken-hearted by the loss of Mr. Bingley, your mother tells me.”
Elizabeth sighed. “My mother says many things, but in this I fear she may be right. We have not heard a word about his returning to Netherfield all this long month.”
Though she wished most fervently that he would, and not only so that he might then renew his attentions toward Jane. Elizabeth was certain the things that were being said of his friend would not be said if Mr. Bingley were part of Meryton society. The rumors were only allowed to spread because the man himself had no friends in the neighborhood. Just like Elizabeth, everyone had already been inclined to believe Mr. Darcy was a disagreeable, if not hateful, sort of man. How easy it was for them all to conclude there must be something still more vile and violent within his heart.
She did her best to defend him when she could, as did Jane, but she did not know how much good it did. She could not, of course, explain the real reason that she knew Mr. Darcy to be blameless in the affair.
“So many disappointments for you young ladies. I had thought, when I first heard of your new neighbors, and of the regiment coming to town, that it would all be flirtations and diversion, but it seems to have gone sour, somehow. Jane has gotten her hopes up over a fickle gentleman, and you, Lizzy…”
“I am not broken-hearted!” Elizabeth exclaimed.
“Oh.” Mrs. Gardiner looked upon her with some surprise. “I am very happy to hear that.”
“What, pray tell, might lead you to believe you would hear otherwise? It was I who refused Mr. Collins. I do not mourn his loss, as I never wished for his affections.”
“Mr. Collins!” Mrs. Gardiner replied. “Yes, yes of course.”
And now Elizabeth was horrified. “What other meaning is possible?”
Mrs. Gardiner was silent, but her lips pursed in a manner that made Elizabeth believe there was more to the story than her aunt let on. A tale, perhaps, that had been related between Mr. Gardiner and his two brothers-in-law, about the events which had transpired of late in their little country hamlet. But perhaps she had only heard an initial report. Things might become garbled over correspondence.
“My dear aunt,” said Elizabeth, “my family as always is most loving and protective, but I assure you that in my case they are too zealous in their wish to shield their daughters from some of the more unjust cruelties of life. Whatever sin I may have committed, it was only one of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I bore witness to a terrible accident, nothing more.”
“Lizzy—you do not need to explain yourself to me—I am a woman of London, after all, and as such, have been privy to far more shocking tales.”
“There is no tale!” Elizabeth insisted, horrified. “I had not thought my father or my uncles to set stock by it, especially given my sworn denials—”
Mrs. Gardiner put out her hand. “I believe you, darling girl. Only, how very curious. I thought we were all hushing up a minor scandal. I had been afraid to even write you on this matter.”
“You are hushing up only a rumor about it,” Elizabeth replied. “One that began, most unfortunately, when Colonel Forster misinterpreted the words of a dying man.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes turned heavenward. “Oh, of course. That explains it. How like men to believe another man, rather than their own flesh and blood. But how much stranger this all is, even than I thought!”
“And why is that?”
“My husband had heard from Mr. Philips that his services were retained by the other gentleman in the matter. His sole duty was to protect your name. A task he undertook, of course, with all the more eagerness because you are his niece.”
All at once, Elizabeth understood. The men in her family had been informed that a duel was fought over her honor. She and Mr. Darcy had both denied it, but there could be no denial that he was protecting her honor still.
She thought of the things being said in the village about him.
Protecting her honor…but at what price?
Chapter 10
LONDON
Darcy did not know how long it took for the whispers to reach London, but the first indication he had that there was indeed a story, and that it was being spread, came several weeks after Christmas. His cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, had escorted Georgiana to a concert for the evening. They'd invited Darcy to come along, but he couldn't bear the thought of sitting in a stuffy box while half of society gawked and glittered amongst themselves. Crowds of any sort were his abhorrence now.
Promenading among the throng in the park made him uneasy, and he detested the very thought of a ball, infinitely more than he had ever before. He could not imagine accidentally brushing up against a great coat or epaulet without growing quite cold. Instead, he wandered the empty halls of their grand townhouse—haunting it, Georgiana claimed.
But of course, he was not the ghost.
Good God, George, what have you done?
Not a day passed in which those words did not echo in Darcy's head. An indictment, to be sure, but of the wrong man. For it had not been George Wickham, in the end, had it? It had been Darcy. That damned gun would never have misfired if Darcy hadn't leaped upon its owner like a schoolboy in a brawl.
Good God, George, what have I done?
There. That was far better. Then the last words Wickham might have heard from his lips would be the proper sort.
He was sitting in his study near the front of the house, nursing a brandy and reading and rereading the same page of a book when he heard a carriage on the cobblestones outside. It could not be his sister and cousin returning, though. It was far too early.
And yet, he also heard the butler using their titles in greeting, and rose to join them.
In the hall, Darcy was just in time to see the train of his sister's gown disappearing up the stairs. Colonel Fitzwilliam stood at the base of the steps, frowning most somberly.
Darcy rushed forward. “What is the matter with Georgiana? She is not unwell?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to him. Darcy's cousin was a fine gentleman, the younger son of an earl. Though he was more than ten years Darcy's senior, they had always been close, especially since the death of Darcy's father five years earlier. Old Mr. Darcy’s wisdom and sense had lasted to the end; he'd made the colonel an executor of his estate and seen fit to bestow the guardianship of Georgiana equally between the two of them. At the time, Darcy had bristled, thinking it a vote of no confidence from his father to himself, but the intervening years had taught him of its value. Darcy had been very young indeed when all the duties of Pemberley had descended upon his head. The responsibility of raising his own sister was a monumental task, and one tha
t he was pleased not to have undertaken alone.
Especially last summer, when Wickham had inserted himself into their lives again.
“What is it?”
“She heard the rumor,” his cousin replied in a clipped tone. “Some empty-headed chit who'd had too many glasses of wine asked her if she was related to the Darcy who'd had a man killed in Hertfordshire.”
Darcy grimaced. The story changed form as it spread through the beau monde, the gift of some angry and loose-lipped friend of Wickham’s. Some foolish soldier with just enough knowledge to make up a tale of his own, and just enough connections in society to allow it to survive.
At least this one was that he’d hired out his dirty deeds. There was the other one, as well. The one where he had murdered his childhood friend in cold blood. Or the one that had originated back in Hertfordshire, claiming Darcy had killed him in a duel. It would not do for Georgiana to hear that one.
“Should I speak to her?” Darcy asked, alarmed.
“And tell her what, man?” Fitzwilliam shook his head. “Bringing his name into matters will not help anything.”
“I would not want her to hear it from another source.” If the story refused to die, they would not be able to shield Wickham’s identity from Georgiana forever.
He could not say that he knew the whole of his sister’s heart. Not since the events of last summer. What if she still carried affection for Wickham?
“There is no cause for her to hear of it from any source,” Fitzwilliam declared. “Come, let us not speak of this in the hall. I have a powerful need for brandy.”
“But…Georgiana,” Darcy said, casting his gaze up the stairs.
“She has her companion and her maid,” said Fitzwilliam. “Ladies are in far better stead to comfort ladies. If you go up there now, you shall only scare her. You know this.”
He supposed Fitzwilliam was right. He’d guided them both so well through these difficult years. But then, Darcy thought, there had been times that Darcy had been the one to guide Fitzwilliam. They had best strategize the right way to explain the whole to Georgiana. Rushing in to confess everything to a hysterical girl would likely cause more harm than good.
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