by Jennifer Joy
Sitting cautiously, Bingley replied, "I had to walk past two guards just to get past the entrance. They would not have allowed me to enter had not Mrs. Forster walked by at that moment and insisted they let me pass."
"Colonel Forster takes his profession seriously and has turned his house into a secure prison for me," muttered Darcy, his thoughts wandering to the windows. He had climbed out of one before….
With a chuckle, Bingley asked, "Whatever for? To keep people out or to keep you in?" His face fell. "I apologize, Darcy. This is no laughing matter, and it is good for you to have some protection."
“Nothing has happened at Netherfield, I hope?” asked Darcy.
“Nothing at all, though I have informed Caroline and Louisa that they are to leave if things change for the worse. They wanted to join me, but I encouraged them to call on Miss Stallard instead. She is good company for them.”
Darcy tensed, his muscles slowly loosening when he remembered Mr. Stallard would not be at home. He did not think Miss Stallard capable of killing Wickham, but he had doubts about her father.
"You ought to take your family and return to London. When this affair is done, calm will return, and it will be safer for you." He could not tell Bingley directly of his suspicions toward Mr. Stallard without causing panic and needlessly spreading unfounded rumors.
Leaning back in his chair, Bingley said, "And what kind of friend would that make me? I cannot abandon you, and I thank you not to ask it of me. I will not go. Of course, my sisters are free to leave as soon as they wish, so long as things remain calm. Mr. Hurst would convey them safely to town, but they, too, are unwilling to leave when they think they might be of assistance."
Just what he needed. More people snooping into this mess. Darcy held back his disapproval so as not to tread on the good will of his friend.
Instead, Darcy asked with more cheer than he felt, "Have you learned anything?"
Bingley bunched his eyebrows in thought. "I had some of the officers over to dine last night. I included Mr. Denny in the hopes that he might confide something worth knowing during the course of the evening. I even broke out my best Madeira for the occasion." He paused to sigh. "If he knows anything besides what he has already told us, he is not talking."
Darcy nodded. "It is not surprising. Had he nothing to say at all about Wickham? Even some small detail?" As much as Bingley wanted to be of help, Darcy could not trust him to remember that his purpose in inviting the officers had not been merely for a pleasant dinner, but to seek out information.
Bingley thought for a while, rubbing his hand over his chin. "Ah, there was one thing that struck me as interesting. Whether it is of any use at all is another matter, but I will repeat it to you all the same and let you decide. Apparently, Mr. Wickham and Miss Stallard were not new acquaintances."
So it was true. At least part of it. Darcy sat forward in his seat. "When did they meet?"
"They met during the summer at Ramsgate. Mr. Stallard disapproved of their... friendship. He sent for Miss Stallard and forced her to return to his estate." He folded his hands and crossed one foot over the other.
"That is all?" asked Darcy.
Bingley rubbed his chin again. "Yes, I do believe so. It struck me at the time that what Mr. Denny told us gentlemen at the table was significant, not for the information itself, but his conspiratorial manner in telling it. He spoke in low tones, and his eyes darted about. I asked Caroline to encourage Miss Stallard to confirm it. She seemed confident she could get Miss Stallard to talk."
Darcy sat back. "You did well in remembering to tell me of it. Did he give any indication as to why Wickham chose to be stationed here in Meryton?"
Shrugging his shoulders, Bingley said, "I had always assumed Wickham came here in pursuit of you."
Darcy looked at him in shock. He had not told Bingley about what had transpired in Ramsgate.
Bingley held a hand up. "Do not concern yourself, Darcy. I have not discovered your secrets— I do not have the inquisitive sort of mind to figure these things out, and I content myself with simply being your loyal friend. That you have secrets, I know. That they concern Wickham, I have surmised. It does not take great intelligence to know as much, but I have no desire to know any more."
Letting his breath out in a relieved gasp, Darcy ran his fingers through his hair. "What have I done to deserve such a good friend as you are to me, Bingley?"
Bingley smiled. "I may say the same about you. You have done me many more favors in helping me achieve a level of acceptance amongst the gentry— something I never could have accomplished without your assistance. I would be lost in the muddle of leasing properties and establishing myself were it not for your guidance."
Darcy accepted Bingley's explanation. It was true. However, had Bingley been less forthright or in any way secretive, as he had been, Darcy had to admit to himself that his loyalty would have found its limit long ago. Bingley was a much better man than he.
"I want you to know…." Darcy closed his mouth before the words tumbled off his tongue. He paused, collecting himself. He was sincere, but that did not mean he could betray Georgiana— not even to Bingley. However, there was no harm in telling Bingley how he felt.
His heart pounded so vigorously, he felt it in his throat. Taking a deep breath, Darcy continued, "I want you to know how much I value your friendship. Even in these trying circumstances in which I find myself, I am comforted to know you believe me innocent." There, he said it. That had been difficult.
To Darcy's surprise, Bingley grinned. "I know how difficult that must have been for you to say."
With a chuckle, the tension in Darcy's chest lifted and, for a moment, he felt as carefree as he imagined his friend to be. As lighthearted as Miss Elizabeth had been even in the face of her sister’s illness. How he admired that quality! The ability to see the humor in life’s trials and the grace to maneuver through them with cheer. Miss Elizabeth never lost the twinkle in her eye. Darcy envied her for it.
Elizabeth was chilled to the bone by the time they arrived home. Holding her hands up to the lit fire in the drawing room, she pondered the information she had gathered that afternoon. Her intuition, which had immediately taken a liking to Mr. Wickham’s charm, was not such an accurate judge of character as she had thought it to be. It was becoming impossible for her to continue to dislike Mr. Darcy as she had so easily done before.
Rubbing her hands together, soaking in the warmth, she and Jane waited downstairs while everyone else occupied themselves in other pursuits. They had entered the house quietly, and Elizabeth enjoyed the brief minutes of peace they had been granted. She had much to ponder.
Hours later, Elizabeth's doubts still warred with her prejudices, her reasonableness with her stubbornness.
She wished she could speak to Mr. Darcy. He was not the sort of man to be carried away by emotions. She admired that about him. He kept his calm no matter how grave the situation.
Of course, she could not help but wish she could crack his stoic exterior. For all of the responsibility he bore— and he bore it well— she felt certain he would benefit greatly by smiling more. Not a polite smile, but the sort of grin which creases the eyes, exposes teeth, and usually prompts laughter. It was a silly wish, but more than anyone she had ever met, Mr. Darcy needed a dose of humor. Perhaps that was his reason for befriending Mr. Bingley.
The clouds covered the stars and smothered the brightness of the moon, making the sky look like spilled ink. Elizabeth shivered despite the warmth in the dining room. Mother had not gone to the extremes of Aunt Philips, but not one wrap was present at the table.
Lydia and Kitty played tug-of-war over Mr. Denny’s attentions— though he had departed hours before.
"He sat closer to me than he did to you," boasted Lydia.
Kitty retorted, "With the way you squeezed yourself onto the other end of the sofa, it is no wonder. Were it not for the presence of Mrs. Yeats and Mr. Collins, I do not doubt but that you would have sat on his lap!"
Her cheeks burned red, and her eyes glared at her younger sister.
"Why should you both fight over the same gentleman when there are so many handsome officers in the village?" asked Mother.
Pointing her finger at Lydia, Kitty said, "She only fixed her sights on Mr. Denny because she knows he is the one I like best."
"Envy is the root of all evil," Mary spouted.
Before Mr. Collins could expand on Mary’s comment, Father opened his hands and said, “Ah, young love. I congratulate the both of you. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. With officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country, I feel optimistic that each of you could have the privilege of being jilted creditably.”
Elizabeth had little experience in the subject, but that did not prevent her from expressing her opinion, “And this spoken from a man who suffered from no struggle during his courtship with Mama. Perhaps it does offer some distinction, but I cannot agree that it is a situation in which a lady seeks to be.”
Father winked at her and raised his wine glass. Pulling back from the table, he said, “I will retire early tonight. It has been a busy day.”
Elizabeth wondered how spending the day hidden in his study could tire him. She had walked into Meryton twice that day, but the shock to her emotions had caused much more fatigue than the physical exercise.
Mr. Collins had told them nothing of import regarding Mr. Denny’s visit. Mrs. Yeats had been more intent on maintaining propriety than on asking questions, and so had nothing to relate.
Elizabeth joined the rest of her family in the drawing room after Father left them, but her thoughts were too restless to concentrate on the novel she attempted to read. The light was too poor to do needlework, a task in which the only point she could see was the end of the needle. How an embroidered cushion would communicate her qualifications as a suitable wife was beyond Elizabeth’s desire to understand. Why would she want to marry a man who would base such an important decision on trivialities? No, she would marry a decisive, intelligent man. A man with uncompromising values. An honorable gentleman who would never lose her respect. Her vision blurred as she stared out of the black window. The man she imagined was none other than Mr. Darcy. Anybody but him!
Suddenly, the room felt stifling. The giggles her younger sisters emitted, and the droning voice of Mr. Collins reading from his book of sermons, intensified her agitation. Dismissing herself from the room, she went upstairs to the cool and quiet of her bedchamber.
She went over the events of the day, mulling over every detail. There had been a folded piece of paper. Mr. Darcy’s valet had given it to her, and she had completely forgotten about it until then. Lighting a candle and opening her bureau, she found the dress she had worn that morning.
Retrieving the paper, she unfolded it to see that it was a letter. It was addressed to her. Flipping over the page, she saw Mr. Darcy’s signature, and her skin tingled in anticipation as she sank into her bed to read.
Chapter 23
His handwriting was small and bold and perfectly legible. Elizabeth held her breath, her eyes devouring the covered page.
Miss Elizabeth,
My purpose in conveying this message to you is one of hope. I am surrounded by people who believe me guilty of a crime we both know I could not have committed, and I know I have only fueled their prejudices against me by being unwilling to reveal the nature of my quarrel with Wickham. That you believe me innocent is not based on my own merits— of this I am well aware. And yet, I hope. If you will extend to me a measure of the compassion I have seen you display generously to others, please allow me the honor of your friendship whilst you hold this page in your hand. Allow me to unburden myself of the secret which has been weighing on me since Mr. Wickham’s arrival to Meryton. If such an imposition is distasteful, then read no further, but my distress is greater than my pride, and I trust no one but you to safeguard my secret.
First and foremost, I must explain my long history with Mr. Wickham. Of what he had particularly accused me, I am ignorant. His accusations have been numerous and varied. Of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.
Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years managed all of the Pemberley estates. His good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him and to liberally bestow his kindness on his godson, George Wickham. My father supported him at school, and afforded him a gentleman’s education at Cambridge— an assistance his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him. My father was not only fond of Wickham’s society, whose manners had always been engaging, but he also held the highest opinion of him, hoping the church would be his profession and intending to provide for him in it.
As for myself, it is many years since I first began to think of Mr. Wickham in a very different manner. I will not speak ill of the dead. Suffice it to say that had my father observed him as I could, in his unguarded moments, he would not have held him in such high esteem.
My father died about five years ago, his attachment to Mr. Wickham so steady to the last that in his will he particularly recommended it to me to promote his advancement in the best manner his profession might allow and, if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds.
Mr. Wickham’s own father did not long survive mine, and within six months from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage in lieu of the position at Pemberley’s parish.
He informed me of his intention of studying the law, and how I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be too insufficient a sum to support him therein. I rather wished than believed him to be sincere but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman.
The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance in the church and accepted in return the sum of three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved.
I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley or admit his society in town. I later learned that his life had become one of idleness and dissipation.
For about three years I heard little of him, he still having sufficient funds on which to live. When that was squandered, he applied to me again by letter. His circumstances, he assured me, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study and was absolutely resolved on being ordained. He then demanded that I present him the living my father had intended for him— the living he had exchanged for money three years before. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with his entreaty or for resisting every repetition of it.
His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances, and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others then as he was upon arriving to Meryton. After this period, every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived, I know not.
However, last summer he was again most painfully thrust on my notice. I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said this much, I feel no doubt of your discretion.
My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself.
About a year ago, she was taken from school and settled in an establishment formed for her in London. Last summer, she went with the lady who presided over it, Mrs. Younge, to Ramsgate and thither went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design. There proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most u
nhappily deceived. It was by her connivance and aid he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose innocent, affectionate heart believed herself in love and consented to an elopement. She was then but fifteen.
I joined them unexpectedly a day before the intended elopement and Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. I am grateful with my every breath that she confided in me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister’s feelings and concern over her reputation prevented any public exposure. Mrs. Younge was, of course, removed from Georgiana’s charge. We left Ramsgate immediately, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham who, as I understand it, chose to stay at Ramsgate long enough to use his charm to seduce another unsuspecting lady.
Mr. Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds. But I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed. My argument with him the day you witnessed my departure from his tent was about Georgiana. He attempted to blackmail me, using his popularity and the threat of her exposure, for money. You must see now why I have refused to reveal the nature of our quarrel.
I will admit to some amount of relief at Mr. Wickham’s demise. He can no longer threaten my sister or harm her. However, the way it was done is unforgivable, and I must bring his killer to justice. I will not rest until it is done.
This, Miss Elizabeth, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together regarding Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner nor under what form of falsehood he had imposed on you, but his success was not to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning him, detection could not be in your power and suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You are blameless.
You may wonder why all this was not told you before. My only reply is that my life’s experience has taught me not to trust easily and to never allow another any measure of power over me. I would do anything to protect my sister from ruin. She is deserving of happiness, and I could never forgive myself if I failed to protect her.