In the Arms of Mr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  “Considering all he has done, I judge your sentiments normal. Yet, that is partially why you cannot go north. I fear you may act upon your inclinations, ridding the world of a worthless scoundrel, but harming your kind heart in the process. Despite some evidence to the contrary, vengeance is not normally in your character.”

  Darcy released a harsh bark, rising abruptly, and pacing with caged energy before the window. “I am not as certain as you. You know very well, Elizabeth, that I will protect my family at all costs without losing an iota of sleep. It seems, for years now, that Wickham has circled the fringes of my existence. Waiting for another opportunity to strike, to harm those I love, as he has not the courage to attack me directly. I have tried to convince myself that he is merely a pathetic excuse for a man, simply searching for the easy way in life and naturally latching onto the Darcy wealth as the most convenient. But I do not think it is that. Like pieces of a puzzle, it begins to fall into place with the clarity of hindsight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He paused, fingers again tapping and flicking as he stared sightless out the window. When he finally spoke it was in a low, contemplative voice, “Small, insignificant episodes from my youth. Wickham sidling up to Father and presenting an innocent face when I knew he was not. Pretending to be pious when he hated attending church. Charming, always charming. Using that gift he possessed to great advantage, knowing that I did not possess it myself. His wittiness and dazzling smile enamored everyone. Except my mother,” he reflected with sudden wonder. “She could not abide him, now that I think upon it. Said he was too noisy. Hmm.”

  He shook his head, turning toward Elizabeth. “I will not go so far as to say he consciously plotted to supplant me. I believe it was primarily jealousy. You see, my father and Mr. Wickham had met at Cambridge. Mr. Wickham, the elder, was of modest means, the third son of a country gentleman from Sussex. Their friendship was genuine, but it was Mr. Wickham’s intelligence that won him a position in our household. I am absolutely positive that Mr. Wickham never resented the arrangement, recognizing his good fortune in being steward to a grand estate while also working for a man he respected and held affection for. George Wickham, however, thought otherwise.”

  He sighed, running one broad hand over his face. “He is a born manipulator. Quite impressively skilled at it if one looks at it in that light. I was far from stupid as a child, but somewhat naïve, as I have told you before. Sheltered. It was easy to bait me, if one knew how to do it, and Wickham did. He well understood my nature for adventure, the typical wildness of a boy coupled with a healthy dose of pride and arrogance.” He looked at his wife with a crooked grin. “Yes, even then, Elizabeth, I confess.”

  Lizzy laughed softly, nodding.

  Darcy continued, the smile gone, “Still, I did not go out of my way to inflict injury upon my person. I was cautious for the most part, not one who particularly relished physical pain. Buried deep under the need for excitement and the desire to push myself physically was a sense of restraint. I was sensible and serious, as Mrs. Reynolds would always say. But Wickham knew how to circumvent that. He masterfully, as I now see it, dared and taunted me into recklessness. Such as climbing that ridiculous tree.”

  He touched his left rib cage, fingertips absently massaging the palpable bump. “I never gave you all the details, Elizabeth. Do you know it was the massive oak in the private garden, the one that grows over the nymph fountain? I had climbed trees before—what boy doesn’t?—but that tree is enormous. The lowest branch, even now, I can barely touch with my fingers. At twelve years of age, I needed to scale the statue, stand on a nymph’s head, and jump to the branch.”

  Lizzy gasped, knowing the scene, and her blood ran cold at the vision of a young Darcy, or Alexander, performing such a feat.

  “Indeed,” he agreed with her exclamation. “Utterly foolish. Of course, I was momentarily filled with conceit as I attained my goal, standing on the limb in all the glory of a conqueror. Then Wickham said he did not think I had the nerve to go higher.” Darcy closed his eyes in remembered embarrassment. “Idiot! Headstrong, foolish, imbecilic, cocky. And, as it turned out, incredibly lucky or protected by God, I know not which. I deftly climbed to the next limb and then the one above it before slipping. I hit the lowest branch on my way down, cracking the rib and scraping through my clothes to the skin.” He extended his left arm, one fingertip tracing where the long scar on his inner forearm remained. “It was that impact and the naiad that saved me, I think. Or her hair, more precisely, as my arm caught on the upswept end of her marble tresses, cutting deep, but slowing my descent and flipping me over so that I landed on the mossy ground rather than the fountain edge. I fainted, or was knocked unconscious, I am not sure which, but when I awoke it was to the gardener bending over me. Wickham had fled the scene, leaving me. The gardener found me accidentally.”

  Darcy shook his head again, Lizzy spellbound and feeling ill at the story. “He apologized later, saying that he had panicked.” Darcy shrugged. “I was young and forgave him. After all, I was not truly hurt all that badly and in the silliness of adolescence such exploits are deemed exciting, worn as a badge of honor while basking in the glow of womanly soothing. But it was just one of many such incidents that I gazed upon years later with discerning eyes and wondered.”

  “What sort of incidents?” Lizzy spoke in a bare whisper, almost afraid to ask.

  Darcy, in all his revelations of his youth, a part of his life that was no longer a mystery to Lizzy, never mentioned George Wickham. She knew that they had been childhood friends, although certainly not on par with his friendship to Gerald Vernor, Albert Hughes, or Richard Fitzwilliam. Yet, in relating their daredevil deeds and boyish capers, he ignored Wickham’s existence. She did not press the issue, knowing that memories of Wickham caused him pain and anger. In the end, she had assumed it was not all that important. Now she experienced a shiver of fear, unsure if she was resilient enough to learn the brutal truth about the man her sister was married to.

  Darcy obviously wondered the same. He hesitated, studying her closely. Finally, he crossed the thick-carpeted floor, sitting onto the sofa and taking his wife’s hands. “I have no proof for the most part, Elizabeth. As a child it was primarily the aforementioned baiting of me, and his false wooing. Falling from that tree was the worse injury I sustained, but there were other times that I could have been wounded due to bizarre accidents or foolish risks. But he acted my friend convincingly with his innate charisma. I confess that we were all taken in by him, me included. I remember wishing I possessed the easy personality of Wickham, and Richard and Gerald for that matter. I tried to emulate them but could never pull it off.”

  He smiled ruefully, Lizzy reaching to stroke his cheek, her eyes tender. He kissed her fingertips gently, understanding the unspoken words behind the gesture: his wife would never wish for him to be other than who he was, reserved and taciturn with a mellow playfulness and wit seen only by those most intimate.

  He continued, holding her eyes, “I do not believe that Wickham was born a villain, but came to use his natural gifts for the negative, all due to an unrelenting resentment. As I wrote in my letter to you, Father assisted with Wickham’s education, an education he never would have been capable of under normal circumstances, and Mr. Wickham was grateful. Yet, he continually reminded his son of the disparity in our stations, emphasized their dependence upon and indebtedness to Mr. Darcy. This rankled Wickham, to put it mildly.”

  He sat back into the sofa, holding tightly to Lizzy’s hand as he resumed his narrative. “Again, it is hindsight. Comments he would make, expressions on his face, actions that varied depending on who was present. Subtle aspersions against me, impudent interactions with Georgiana, and inappropriate impertinence to the servants. I increasingly felt uneasy in his presence as we aged, but did not begin to see the full truth of his character until we were older, after mother died. Father was distant, often lost to his grief, so Mr. Wickham assumed more responsibility. He
did it gladly, but Wickham resented it. Plus, he interpreted the adults’ abstraction as carte blanche. He was bolder, more reckless in conveying his disdain and imperiousness.”

  He shook his head, eyes locked with Lizzy, but his thoughts looking inward down the passages of time. “Who can ever say with conviction how events may have unfolded if time turned down a separate path? If Mr. Wickham had not rigidly reminded his son of the gap in our stations. If certain comforts and privileges had not been denied. If our parents had not been consumed with other affairs.” He shrugged, eyes clearing as he smiled grimly. “However, I do not hold with the opinion that a person is exclusively the product of outside influences, to be pitied or excused for their behavior and choices. Wickham was given opportunities far above most men in his place and he abused them all. During those years, there were numerous thefts about the manor. Trinkets, odd pieces of jewelry, silver utensils, and the like. Nothing of great worth, but losses nonetheless. We never were able to discover the culprit, assumed it was a servant although that seemed unlikely, as they have always been largely trustworthy. I have since come to believe it was Wickham.”

  “Why?”

  “Aside from the fact that it simply fits into his character and that the thefts halted once we left for University is the fact that he always seemed to have money beyond what logic would dictate. Father helped pay for his education at Cambridge, but Wickham should not have been able to… entertain, shall we say, in the manner he did. Even my allowance would not have afforded his extravagant diversions.”

  The disgust was plain on his face, Darcy being a man whose principles strongly abhorred such “diversions.” With tight jaw, furrowed brow, and voice steely, he resumed his narrative, “Long before father’s death and the events that unfolded thereafter, I had come to fully understand the character of George Wickham. Those years were an education to me in many ways. A genteel lady such as you, my love, does not require the same education. But trust me, when I said that I knew Wickham was utterly unfit as a clergyman, I know precisely of what I spoke.”

  His lips pressed tightly together as a shudder ran through his body. Darcy’s reverence for the Church was profound, his distress over any profanity extreme. Lizzy squeezed his hands tightly, heart aching as she caressed firmly and waited for him to continue.

  He sighed, eyes filled with a flinty hardness. “I am no longer naïve or a fool, Elizabeth. I am well aware of the evil nature of people in our world. It sickens me, but cannot be denied. Is George Wickham evil?” He shrugged. “I suppose that depends on one’s definition of the word. But I do know he is not to be trusted and is a scoundrel at the very least. He may not have planned my ruin or death with deliberation, but I am absolutely certain he would have welcomed and reveled in it. And I know his villainy matured because I saw the calculation in how he lied to my father, approached me for his inheritance and for more money, and with Georgiana. And with you.”

  “William, please…”

  “I know I promised you that I would let the past die, forget Wickham’s affronts against me and those I love. As long as he was gone and silent I have been able to put it aside—”

  Lizzy rose, halting his words. He frowned, watching as she walked toward the window with back to him. “Beloved?”

  “And now,” she spoke in a tremulous whisper, “because of stupid Lydia you are related to him! How could you bear it? Marrying me knowing he was a part of the bargain? I am so sorry, William!”

  He was across the room before the first sentence was finished. Hands grasping her arms and face stern as he whirled her about. “Don’t be ridiculous! I would cross hell and back for you, Elizabeth! You know this. As greatly as I despise Wickham, it is a paltry price to pay for the honor and pleasure of being your husband. Do you not see the truth of it, my love? Perhaps I should have shared all with you long ago so you would fully comprehend.” He drew her into his embrace, sturdy arms firm about her body, unwavering and secure. “Wickham has been a bane in my life since childhood. He would have continued to be so, I am convinced of it. Do you have any concept of how many ‘Lydias’ there were before her? Believe me, George Wickham feasted on such innocence, to my eternal disgust, as I witnessed the behavior more times than I can count.”

  He kissed her crown, breathing deeply of her fragrance. Lizzy held tight, comforted by his strength and steadily beating heart. “Lydia had nothing to do with you, my soul. Wickham may have sensed my regard for you as he knew me well, but months separated those weeks in Hertfordshire and the events at Brighton. He had no clue as to the depth of my love for you, and as we were not together at the time, it is impossible for him to have suspected that his dalliance with Lydia would profoundly affect me. He was absolutely shocked when I showed up in London. No, it was entirely coincidence. And entirely my fault as I have stated before.”

  Lizzy pulled away from his arms, it now her turn to glare at him sternly. “Now it is you who are being ridiculous!” she snapped. “All you have told me, both today and before, merely clarified Wickham’s propensity toward mischief in general. Surely you are not the only one in all his acquaintance to divine his character?”

  “No, but I had intimate knowledge and the means to thwart him.”

  She laughed harshly. “Oh really, William. Be sensible. Even if you had spoken the truth, ‘exposed him’ as you stated in Lambton, what possible good would it have done? You are only one man and England is a big country. I do not think even you have that much power. You were wise to not risk damaging Georgiana’s reputation and your father’s good name. Maybe I would have listened and not been so blind, but Lydia would not have. You said yourself that Wickham is a manipulative charmer—”

  “Indeed he is!” He brushed his hands angrily through his hair, pivoting on his heels to resume pacing. “I do not trust this disappearance or this past year of quiescence. Elizabeth, he may have been ignorant of my feelings toward you before, but no longer. Furthermore, he knows I have a son.”

  He stopped abruptly, face thunderous, but eyes inundated with dread. “I will not be a fool who wears blinders and gullibly believes all is well while the fox is loose in the henhouse! He is a blackguard and nothing that has been reported to me this past year has altered my opinion of him. So, yes, I do wish to know what he is up to, not only for Lydia’s sake!”

  “And if your hands accidentally find themselves around his throat, then so be it? Or if harm befalls you in the search or at his hands, what then? Will it have been worth it?”

  They both paused, respirations heavy and audible as they stared at each other from opposite sides of Darcy’s large desk.

  Lizzy broke the silent tableau first, her voice soft. “I still maintain that vengeance is not a trait near your heart, my dearest. Caution, vigilance, protectiveness, wisdom, and temperance, among a legion of other fine attributes, are the earmark of the man I married. I concur that we should be wary, Wickham not a man to be taken lightly. But I refuse to allow his existence to impinge upon our life and disrupt our happiness. Think how that would please him!”

  She smiled, lips lifted in the teasing manner he found utterly delightful.

  “And Lydia?” He asked quietly.

  Lizzy shook her head, slowly stepping around the desk. “It grieves me, but she is not our primary concern. Besides, all your reports have shown that for all his faults, Wickham seems oddly to care for my sister. And they must be together, or I am sure she would be running back to Longbourn.” She was before him now, palms reaching to encompass his face. “I think we need to make a new vow, beloved. You will relinquish your misplaced guilt, but we will not wholly forget the past affairs with Wickham. Heedful, yes, but not aggressively seeking problems where none exist.”

  “Is this more of the superior wisdom of my wife?”

  Lizzy laughed. “If you wish to proclaim it so, then yes.”

  They were long since returned to Pemberley and enmeshed in the delights of a fine summer before a new communication from Lydia was conveyed to the B
ennets. The Wickhams had settled in Exeter of all places, supposedly running an inn. The details were vague, but her tone was cheery and positive. Letters from Lydia to Elizabeth were nonexistent and eventually Lizzy gave up all attempts to communicate directly with her sister. What news she received was via her parents, and that was sporadic as Lydia wrote rarely. Children were never mentioned and this was taken as a merciful development as Darcy shuddered to imagine Wickham as a father. “Perhaps he cannot sire children,” Darcy said once to Lizzy. “It would explain how he managed not to compromise any of his numerous bed partners over the years.”

  As time passed, they found less and less reasons to mention the Wickham name. Darcy harkened to the advice of his wife and let the matter go. Gradually, his guilt faded, but he never surrendered his distrust or wariness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE HEARTBREAK OF MISS BENNET

  The two mounted men galloped to the small rise, reining in their heaving horses as they surveyed the rolling Hertfordshire fields below. The darker of the two gazed without really registering the vista, caught up with internal musings. The other young man turned to his silent companion with a sunny smile.

  “Once again I have bested you! Really, Falke, you must try harder.” The jest was lost, however, as Falke remained silent. “Very well, then. Tell me what the tyrannical old codger said.”

  “You know that my father is neither tyrannical nor old, but I thank you for the attempt to lighten my mood.” Falke sighed heavily, only then turning to his friend. “He was unmoved by the declarations of my affection. Offered all the rationales that I anticipated, and although I tried to contradict, I really could not do so with great vigor.”

  “Her connection with the Darcys did not sway his opinion?”