by Pamela Aidan
Upon returning to Erewile House, he embarked upon the singularly uncomfortable task of apprising his secretary that certain changes in his financial arrangements would be necessary. For the first time in their long association, Darcy saw Hinchcliffe actually start and stare. “Mr. Darcy,” he croaked, unable to find his full voice, “you cannot understand what you are saying! To raise that amount above the normal requirements of your interests would involve considerable shifting of assets and inevitable loss. Sir, I respectfully submit that you reconsider! Perhaps there are other ways such a sum —”
Darcy shook his head. “Not in so quickly a manner, I fear, and time is my adversary.” Seeing the concern in the older man’s eyes, he continued, “Do not fear that I have done something rash or unprincipled, Hinchcliffe. I have not turned gamester, nor am I the victim of blackmail. Rather I have hope that these funds will do some good…right a wrong, at least.” He stopped and tapped the desk between them. “I put it into your hands, Hinchcliffe,” he said to the man who had taught and guided him in all his financial affairs since his father’s death, “and have every confidence in your decisions. Proceed with what you think best: I will countersign without requiring explanation or justification.”
“As you wish, sir.” His secretary rose and looked down upon him, his reserve recovered but his concern still apparent to one who had grown up under his tutelage. “But hope, the kind of which you speak, rarely returns principal, let alone interest, sir.”
“Yet, if we have any humanity in us, we must continue to invest; must we not?” He spoke softly but with a sudden, heartfelt conviction.
Hinchcliffe inclined his head and then, for the first time in both their lives, made him a full bow. “Your father would be very proud, sir, very proud.” So saying, his secretary turned from the surprise and flush of appreciation on Darcy’s face and left the room, shoulders set to do financial battle with the world in his master’s interest. Hinchcliffe’s words, Darcy knew, had not been lightly spoken. Accompanied by his bow, they were the first tokens of a deep and genuine esteem that his secretary had ever offered him. Oh, the man had always been exceedingly polite and patient, even when, at their first meeting, when he was twelve years old, Darcy had bowled over the young, new secretary in the hall outside this very door. Your father would be very proud. Darcy’s eyes traveled to the small portrait of his sire on the wall and nodded his acceptance. “Yes, thank you, I believe he would.”
With the financial pledges he had made Wickham set into motion, it was incumbent upon Darcy that he speak with Wickham again before he could present it all as a fait accompli to Elizabeth’s relatives in London. Entering once more into a rough hired cab, he believed himself prepared for any dodges or demands that might arise. Wickham was ever one to surprise his fellows with erratic actions, depending on their sheer audacity to confound his adversaries. But such tricks were become old to as long an acquaintance as lay between them. This time Wickham had ever so much more to lose; and Darcy, a host of allies that could pin him down whichever way he might jump.
Darcy arrived at the inn just before three. Ducking his head to enter the public room, he spied his “shadow” watching for him from the doorway leading to the stairs. With a toss of his head upward and a broad wink, the boy silently informed Darcy that the pair was still to be found above. Casually placing a guinea on a nearby table, Darcy acknowledged with gratitude the urchin’s information and was rewarded with a look of surprise that, he imagined, rarely crossed the world-weary child’s face.
This time, the place was set into order. Wickham opened the door upon a room where clothing had been packed away, bottles removed, and a sturdier table and chairs had replaced the former hazards. “Darcy,” he greeted him awkwardly and motioned for him to enter.
“Miss Lydia Bennet.” Darcy bowed to the young woman perched on the windowsill. At a look from Wickham, she scrambled down and offered him a curtsy. “Mr. Darcy,” she replied guardedly.
“Lydia, my love, go down to the cook and bespeak something to eat.” Wickham took her hand and led her to the door. “Wait for it and bring it up yourself; there’s a good girl. Darcy and I have some things to discuss.” With a face that clearly indicated her displeasure at such a task, Lydia pulled her hand away and flounced from the room, slamming the door behind her lest there be any doubt of her feelings.
“Disagreeable chit!” Wickham grimaced. “See what you wish to chain me to!”
Darcy would not allow it. “That was determined when, by your own choice, you bundled her into your carriage in Brighton.” He sat down on one of the chairs. “She is little more than a girl, George, and you encouraged a girlish fantasy that you have yet to fulfill. It is not to be wondered that she is disappointed and behaves like the child she is.”
Wickham granted the possibility with a grunt and took the other chair. He did not look well, even though his clothes were in order and he had shaved. He ran his hand through his hair several times before sitting back into the chair, but even then he did not relax. Noticing Darcy’s observation of him, he laughed self-deprecatingly. “Nervous as a cat! Could not sleep last night, and I do not know why, but I feel as if I am being watched. Makes my skin crawl.”
“ ‘Something in the wind…,’ ” Darcy quoted.
“Yes, that is it exactly! Damned sick of it.” He bit his lip. “Yesterday, you agreed to cover my debts no matter the source, yes?”
“Yes, from your time in Meryton until your wedding day, I will cover them all.”
“It may take some time to collect them. Except for what is owed the officers, I really have no notion of the amount.”
“That shall be yours to accomplish in the next week.” Darcy brought forward the leather case he carried and took out paper, ink, and pens. “Write what you can remember and send for those you cannot.” At Wickham’s alarmed look, he amended, “Have them sent to Erewile House.”
“Oh,” Wickham breathed out, “that will answer.” He looked at the items laid out for him for a moment and raised his gaze back to Darcy’s. “And when I have done all this and married the girl, what next? If you will not give me a living in one of your parishes…” He paused, but when Darcy did not naysay him, he continued, “Then how am I to support this new style of living you insist upon?”
Here was the second hurdle, and to make it all work, Wickham had to be made to jump it with some degree of willingness. “I have purchased you a lieutenancy in the army,” Darcy answered him.
“What!”
“In a regiment that will likely never see action abroad,” he assured him.
Wickham fell back against his chair, his face twitching as he absorbed the revelation of his future. Slowly, he appeared to come to some terms with it. He looked at Darcy. “But I shall need —”
“I know what you shall need and shall provide you the credit to purchase it — what is needful and no more. With prudence, you should be able to live comfortably; with advancement, quite well.”
“Comfortably!” Wickham laughed derisively as he rose from his chair. “And what is your idea of comfort, Darcy? Would you be ‘comfortable’ living so?” He spread his arms, indicating their current surroundings. “I think not!” He leaned against the frame of the room’s one small window and turned his face to the courtyard below.
“There is also your wife’s dowry —”
“A trifle!” Wickham spat.
“— and what I will settle on her as well.” Darcy offered the inducement without pause. Wickham spun around, his interest rekindled.
“Two thousand pounds!” he demanded, as if the amount were negotiable. Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Fifteen hundred, then, and I’ll ‘turn Methodist,’ if you like, in the bargain.”
“I doubt that it would ‘take,’ George, or that you could sustain it for long.” He shook his head. It was time to bring this to a close. “No, I will not bargain with you. One thousand pounds in addition to her dowry, your debts covered, your profession secured, your character refor
med, so to speak, and your wife provided for — that is what I offer to enable you to do what is right by this girl and her family.”
“As long as I ‘behave like a gentleman,’ I believe was the condition?” Wickham mocked. He did not seem to require a response, for he turned back to the window to consider what had been laid before him and did not notice Darcy’s silence.
…had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner. Wickham’s derisive words merely echoed Elizabeth’s charge, but it was close enough. How ironic that Darcy should demand of Wickham what Elizabeth had declared so lacking in himself!
“You have thought of everything, Darcy. I congratulate you.” Wickham’s voice brought him back to the matter at hand. “Try as I might, I can find no flaw to exploit or contingency to hold over you. Remarkable!” He crossed the room and sat down at the table. “You have hemmed me in quite well, you and Lydia, but in truth, the prospect is not so bad. Much to be preferred to debtors’ prison or a court-martial, certainly.” He wiped his hands upon his trousers and laid one, palm up, on the table between them. “I believe I must accept your offer, Darcy. Here’s my hand on it, one ‘gentleman’ to another.”
“On behalf of the young woman’s family,” Darcy amended, extending his hand.
“As you wish.” Wickham shrugged, and it was done.
Darcy did not allow himself the great sigh of relief that pressed against his chest until he was alone and the hired cab’s horse set into motion. His mind cast back to the beginning, to the inn at Lambton and his discovery of Elizabeth in such heartrending distress that it had been all he could do not to hold and comfort her, to dry her tears. He’d had no right, although every feeling in him had urged him toward her in the name of sympathy and love. Her tears had rent him, for he had known instantly where the blame for them lay; but it had been the awful resignation in Elizabeth’s voice to the shame and disgrace that lay ahead which had truly devastated him. He had vowed then that it would not be so, and though great patches, dearly bought, had been sown over the tatters of her family’s name, he had succeeded, ensured that the weave would hold, and the fabric of her family’s honor would once again be whole.
Closing his eyes, he leaned back his head and filled his lungs with air, then let it slowly escape. Elizabeth! Elizabeth was free. No living in the shadow of disgrace — she could be again who she so magnificently was and without apology or blush. Darcy smiled. He had righted a grave wrong caused by his own pride, and it was good. But his vision of Elizabeth restored…that was a treasure he would cherish in his heart all his days!
The cab pulled up before the Gardiner residence on Gracechurch Street. As Darcy waited for the cabbie to descend and open the door, he looked about the street curiously. The houses were not grand, but neither were they mean or pretentious, as had been implied by Caroline Bingley’s sniggering. Rather, neat and trim residences lined the public way in a row of solid respectability and, occasionally, some grace. One of these was the address before him, and seeing it Darcy better understood the conversation and taste that Elizabeth’s relatives had exhibited at Pemberley.
He descended from the cab, mounted the shallow steps beyond the front gate, and knocked. He wondered how he should begin to explain his visit. His paying a call would be considered highly unusual, even eccentric, especially without having sent his card earlier in the day. But when they heard his reason for calling, how would they regard him?
A servant answered. “Yes, sir?” She appeared rather young for her duties and not at all schooled in the proper etiquette of her position. Likely, she was new to service.
“I have come to see Mr. Gardiner.” He handed her his card. “Is he at home to visitors? It is important that I see him.”
“I-I dun know, sir.”
“Whether he is home, or whether he is home to visitors?” Darcy prodded. Definitely new!
“Oh, he be home, but there’s already sum’un wif him. An’ the missus ain’t back from country yet,” she supplied ingenuously. “So, I dun know if he can see two visitors. I was hired for the kitchen; never answered door before. Them’s what does weren’t expectin’ to be called back yet.”
“I see.” Darcy could not help but smile, but he had to see Elizabeth’s uncle as soon as possible. “Perhaps I can help you. If you could tell me who the other visitor is, we can determine whether you should announce me. Do you know who it is?”
“The master’s brother,” she pronounced with conviction, but then doubt crossed her face. “Well, calls him ‘brother,’ but how can he be with the name Bennet? Brother-in-law, maybe.” She appeared satisfied with her reasoning. “He’s been here for days, he has, lookin’ like thunder and rain.” She shook her head at all the trouble in the world. “So, should I let you in?”
“No, I think not.” Gently, he tugged his card from between the maid’s fingers and sent up thanks that he’d escaped the disaster of stumbling unexpected into the presence of both men.
“Oh.” Her face fell, then brightened. “He be leaving tomorrow mornin’, sir. Heard it just now. Goin’ back home, he is.”
“Then I shall call tomorrow, thank you.”
“Yer that welcome, sir,” she replied, and without asking his name, she shut the door.
“Well!” Darcy snorted in surprise at his summary dismissal. “That is that, and probably just as well!” Climbing back into the cab, he directed the driver to take him to a corner near Grosvenor Square. From that address, he walked home by way of the mews so that he would not be seen by his neighbors. Living secretly in his own house had been necessary for his purposes, but he was finding it rather a blessing as well. Leaving him free from the social obligations that would have interfered with what he had to do, it also freed him to associate with whomever he must to bring all to fruition. “Rather like Dy!” The thought sprang up initially to his amusement, but soon the divergent nature of their purposes sobered him. Where was Dy? There had been no word since he had ridden off hell-for-leather in pursuit of those thought involved in the assassination of the Prime Minister. Was he well, or had it ended badly, far away in America? Darcy wished he knew.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy!” Mrs. Witcher exclaimed, pressing her hand to her heart as he surprised her at the service entrance to the kitchen. “I shall never understand why the master of the house cannot come in through his own front door!”
When Darcy knocked at the Gardiners’ door the next morning, the little scullery maid had been replaced by an older woman who knew what she was about. He was ushered into the hall with polite murmurs and curtsies and left for only moments before the master was at the door to his study observing him with astonishment.
“Mr. Darcy!” He stepped forward. “I am honored, sir!”
“Mr. Gardiner.” Darcy inclined his head at the older man’s bow. “I trust you are well.”
“Why, yes…as well as may be,” he stammered. “But welcome and come in, please!” He motioned to his study. “May I offer you anything? Tea —”
“No, I thank you. Please do not trouble yourself or your staff.”
Mr. Gardiner bowed once more and sat down on a settee opposite him. “What may I do for you, Mr. Darcy?” he began. “I must confess my utter astonishment to find you in my hall, but,” he hurried on, his eyes bright with curiosity, “that does not mean I am not delighted to return your excellent hospitality during our visit to Derbyshire. How may I serve you, sir?”
Despite the delicacy of that on which he was about to embark, Darcy had thought himself well prepared for this interview; but the open countenance and geniality of the man before him gave him pause. He liked Elizabeth’s uncle, he realized suddenly, and did not wish to see his honest, welcoming face harden in displeasure and embarrassment. But it could not be helped. What Elizabeth had confided in despair, he had turned to good use for the man before him and his family, and Elizabeth’s relative must have the particulars to complete what he had secured thus far.
“Your niece Miss Elizabeth Bennet must have told you that I
happened upon her only minutes after receiving disturbing news from her sister,” he began.
Mr. Gardiner’s eyes shaded, but he put on a good face. “Yes…yes, she did, and I thank you for your understanding…and Miss Darcy’s, also, I am sure. Lizzy was anxious to rejoin her family, and what can a man do in the face of such entreaty but comply?” He gave a little laugh.
Darcy took a deep breath. “Then, it would appear she did not tell you that, in her distress, she revealed to me the contents of those letters.”
“Ah…” Mr. Gardiner sat back as if flinching from a blow and closed his eyes. Darcy prepared to allow him his moment, but the man rallied with remarkable speed. “I am sorry that you should have been troubled with our concerns, sir,” he said in a firm voice. “Please, excuse my niece for so forgetting herself.”
Darcy waved a hand in dismissal. “There is nothing to excuse.”
Elizabeth’s uncle sighed. “Thank you, sir. You honor us.” He shifted forward and continued with some embarrassment. “I know our acquaintance is a tenuous one at best, Mr. Darcy, but I feel that I — that my family — may rely with confidence upon your discretion in this sad affair.” Although he’d phrased it as a statement, it was certain he desired assurance.
“My silence on it will be absolute, I assure you,” Darcy replied, to Mr. Gardiner’s grateful relief. “But for urgent, personal reasons, I could not ignore the situation in which your family finds itself. Frankly, sir, I believe myself to be in great part responsible for it.”
Mr. Gardiner’s bewilderment could not have been more complete. “You, responsible! I am at a loss, sir, how this could possibly be!”
“George Wickham has long been known to me. He is the son of my late father’s steward; therefore, our relationship is from childhood. Sadly, his character was a devious and calculating one from the beginning. Upon my father’s death, our connection was severed with the paying over of an amount bequeathed to Wickham by his will. After that, his whereabouts and activities were unknown to me until —”