The Confession of Fitzwilliam Darcy

by Mary Street

  Fitzwilliam’s letter was rather more coherent than Elizabeth had been. Lydia Bennet, I now discovered, had become friendly with Colonel Forster’s wife whilst the regiment was quartered in Meryton. Upon their removal to Brighton, the colonel had invited Lydia to accompany them as his wife’s particular friend and companion.

  I looked up from the letter, recalling what Fitzwilliam had once said about Colonel Forster: ‘He was engaged to some silly little piece about half his age. I suppose he is married to her, by now.’

  I nodded to myself, reflecting nothing was more likely than a friendship between Lydia Bennet and the colonel’s lady.

  Fitzwilliam, although hesitating to ask too many questions, had learnt that Lydia had left a note, proving there was no deliberate infamy on her side; she believed Wickham was taking her to Gretna Green.

  Fitzwilliam had understood the connection between Lydia and Elizabeth. He went on to remind me there was a miniature likeness of Wickham at Pemberley and suggested that, had I no objection to parting with it, it might greatly assist the Bennet family in their efforts to recover their daughter.

  If Fitzwilliam had any suspicion I would involve myself more directly in the matter, he gave no hint of it. There were no other suggestions. I was glad to be reminded of the miniature, which had been painted for my father, for I had not thought of it myself. Certainly, it would be more useful than verbal descriptions. I would take it with me to London.

  When I left Lambton, I had the hot-headed intention of setting out for London that same day: cooler reflection reminded me Elizabeth and the Gardiners would be travelling the same route. Having no wish to encounter them along the way, I resigned myself to waiting, merely sending a team of carriage horses ahead. I spent the rest of the day arranging affairs at Pemberley.

  I left for London early the following day and reached my house in Eaton Place on Sunday evening.

  As I travelled, I had time to think and after worrying the problem for some time, I knew the answer to the question Elizabeth had asked: ‘How are they even to be discovered?’

  I confess to the most dreadful feeling of revulsion when I understood who would have news of them. That same person who had been my sister’s companion, that same person who had conspired with Wickham to betray me: Mrs Younge.

  Every feeling revolted against applying to her for news of Wickham, but it could not be helped. I knew how rapidly he lost his more respectable friends: it was most unlikely that any other of his former associates would now have news of him. But she was of his own ilk, treacherous and conspiratorial by nature.

  By the greatest good fortune, I happened to know where to find her, for somehow my valet had learnt she had taken a house in Edward Street and was now maintaining herself by letting rooms.

  I considered the matter, and thought it quite likely I need seek no further. It would be natural for Wickham to go to her for lodgings.

  I set myself to my task on Monday morning. I did not immediately repair to the lodging-house run by Mrs Younge; instead, I made a few enquiries in that neighbourhood, showing the likeness of Wickham, asking if he had been seen.

  It was past four o’clock by the time I had some definite information: a tavern-keeper pointed out the father of a chambermaid who worked in Mrs Younge’s establishment. He was surly and unfriendly, but a half-sovereign bought me a few minutes speech with the girl.

  Yes, she had seen Wickham; yes, there had been a lady with him; yes, he had wanted lodgings with Mrs Younge, but all her rooms were taken. Mrs Younge had directed him to another part of town. ‘No, sir, I am sorry, I know not where.’

  So, I would have to see Mrs Younge. I took myself off to Edward Street directly, but the only satisfaction I had during the first interview was in my certain knowledge she knew where Wickham was, for she refused to admit even that much.

  ‘You waste my time, madam, and your own, by these false assertions. I have it on good authority he has been here this last week. You have knowledge of his whereabouts and you would be wise to tell me. You do no one any service by withholding such information.’

  ‘Indeed, sir? Am I now to assume you have his interests at heart?’

  I wished she had known how ridiculous her smirk looked. ‘You may assume whatever you choose, madam. You may be assured, however, I will find him, with or without your assistance.’

  ‘Then I suggest you do so, sir, for you will hear nothing from me. I owe nothing to you, and he is my friend: I will not betray his trust.’

  I might have set more store by this had not experience taught me the woman was ready to betray any trust, for profit. If all else failed, bribery would do the trick.

  I only said, ‘Then let us hope he will not betray your trust, though I fear it will be a long time before he can repay what he owes you.’

  I saw the alarm in her eyes. She recovered quickly. She tried to deny it, but certain it was she had lent money to Wickham.

  I said, ‘Allow me to give you some advice, madam. You should not lend more money to Wickham than you can afford to lose, for you will be fortunate indeed, should you ever recover it.’

  She glared at me. I smiled, happily aware that so far I had had the best of the encounter. I decided to leave whilst I still had the advantage. ‘Think it over, madam. Determine for yourself how much loyalty you owe to Wickham.’

  I left her, confident now. If other methods failed, I would, in the end, get what I wanted from Mrs Younge.

  My other methods were tedious in the extreme and I pursued them for a while, merely out of my distaste for the idea of lining the pockets of that woman, but without much expectation of success.

  It was late on Tuesday when I returned to Edward Street. By this time, Mrs Younge had remembered that she had always disliked me, a circumstance which troubled me not at all.

  ‘Your opinions are noted, madam, but I venture to suggest they are hardly likely to influence anyone within my circle of friends. My opinions of you, however, could have far-reaching consequences, should I choose to make them known. A hint, perhaps, in Bow Street, could make your livelihood somewhat precarious, could it not?’

  ‘There is nothing here to interest the runners,’ she said loftily. ‘I keep a respectable house.’

  ‘Then you must value your reputation,’ I answered smoothly. ‘Indeed, I understand perfectly why you refused to take in Wickham. A good reputation is not easy to recover when it has been lost: a visit from the runners….’ I shook my head and tuttutted. ‘Your lodgers would dislike it, madam. They would dislike it very much indeed.’

  I will not repeat what she said to me. I let her run on for some time and she ran out of breath before I ran out of patience.

  The woman was in difficulties: she would not have been so free with her invective had she not some reason to fear. It might be she had lent too much to Wickham and could not afford to lose customers, or there might be some other reason why she would fear the runners. I did not much care. My only reason for bandying words with her had been to conceal my own urgency for, had she perceived it, she would have been wholly impossible.

  Now, it was time to suggest she might profit by giving me what I wanted. I said coldly, ‘Your loyalty to Wickham does you credit, madam, but no service, when you must know he will neglect every interest but his own. I suggest you now consider your own interest. Something might yet be retrieved, for I am in no humour to continue my visits here indefinitely. I have more agreeable ways of spending my time. Name your price, madam.’

  She wanted £500. I stood up to go. ‘You will be more reasonable when you have had time to think it over.’

  She had reduced her price to £300 before I reached the door. ‘Sleep on it, madam. I will call again tomorrow.’

  The next morning, after an hour of bargaining, with an occasional mention of the runners, I had Wickham’s address.

  I took myself there immediately. His landlady showed me into a parlour. ‘Tell Mr Wickham that Mr Darcy is here and wishes to speak with him,’ I said.r />
  I was sorry I could not see what effect this message had on Wickham. The landlady returned to tell me he would be down directly. She regarded me shrewdly, offering me wine, clearly hoping there was profit to be made from attending upon a gentleman such as myself.

  I did not disappoint her. ‘I wish for privacy,’ I said, producing a sovereign. ‘Please keep other visitors out of this room.’

  I received thanks and a blessing, which was more than fifty sovereigns had bought from Mrs Younge.

  Wickham appeared eventually, looking seedy. He was nursing a sore head, I realized. However distressed he was for money, he had enough to indulge in wine. ‘What are you doing here, Darcy?’

  ‘I hope I am not wasting my time,’ I said, regarding him with disfavour. ‘You look very ill, Wickham. Could you not have shaved and brushed your hair? I doubt the girl still favours you as well as she might, if that is the appearance you present to her.’

  Wickham pressed his hands to his temples and slumped into a chair. ‘Must you talk so loud?’ he complained.

  ‘And I should not imagine she likes you when you are in your cups, either.’

  ‘Damn it, Darcy, what do you want?’

  ‘What possessed you to run off with the Bennet girl?’

  ‘You cannot imagine I had any wish to be landed with that little doxy,’ he said. ‘She would come. I was obliged to leave Brighton on account of a few … er … shall we call them local difficulties?’

  ‘I suggest you call them debts,’ I said, ‘since that is undoubtedly what you mean. Since you did not wish for her company, how, then, did she know you meant to leave?’

  ‘Should I know? A man cannot be held responsible for what he says after a drink or two.’

  ‘Do not take me for a fool, Wickham. You persuaded her into this.’

  ‘She needed no persuading, believe me: she thought of it all by herself.’

  ‘I do not believe you, Wickham, why should I? Never has truth been your strong point. Had you wished to leave her behind, you would have done so. I daresay the child had a little money, enough to assist your flight.’

  ‘What business is it of yours?’

  His behaviour taught me I had come pretty close to the truth. He had professed love for Lydia Bennet, persuaded her to an elopement, allowed her to believe he would marry her, all for the purpose of funding his own escape. He had done all this, had ruined her into the bargain and now he did not scruple to lay the blame for her flight upon her own folly.

  ‘How do you live with yourself, Wickham?’ I asked curiously. ‘Do you never feel ashamed?’

  Wickham was too full of his troubles. ‘I had to do something,’ he said defensively. ‘You do not know what it is like to be distressed for money.’

  ‘I confess I do not,’ I replied, ‘but do not expect me to be sympathetic. We both know how very little time it took you to squander your substance. If you are distressed now, you have only yourself to blame.’

  ‘Oh, Darcy, what am I to do?’

  ‘Do I know? I wish to speak with the girl.’

  ‘What?’ Wickham looked astonished. ‘Why, for goodness sake?’

  ‘Believe it or not, there are some who are concerned about her present situation. They have the quaint, old-fashioned notion it is not suitable. She is, after all, the daughter of a gentleman.’

  ‘Why should you care? The Bennets are no friends of yours, Darcy.’

  ‘There are some I may count among my friends. Summon the girl, Wickham.’

  He complied more readily than I expected: perhaps he was tired of her already.

  I had resolved to be gentle with Lydia Bennet, having assumed she would be shamed and embarrassed by her disgrace. I quickly discovered my mistake. She came, afforded me the briefest curtsey, and stared at me boldly. ‘I know not why you should wish to see me, sir.’

  ‘I have pledged myself to assist your relations, Miss Bennet, in resolving this present situation.’

  ‘Why do you take the trouble?’

  ‘Your family and friends have been greatly distressed by this elopement, particularly since no marriage has yet taken place. Why did you not proceed directly to Gretna Green, as I believe you intended?’

  I knew Wickham had no intention of marrying her, but I was curious as to what she thought about it.

  ‘Wickham had business to attend to here in London,’ she said sulkily. ‘It is of no consequence. We shall be married sometime: it does not much signify when.’

  ‘What is Wickham doing about his business?’ I enquired. ‘Apart from drinking himself into a stupor whenever he can?’

  I had hoped, by this remark, to give her pause and make her suspect the man she trusted was less than satisfactory. I was soon to discover Lydia Bennet did not hear anything she did not wish to hear. She ignored my last question, answering only the first.

  ‘La, I am sure I do not know. Business affairs bore me. He knows what he is about.’

  I talked to her very seriously, representing the disgrace of what she had done and the misery she had brought upon her family. She fidgeted, not from embarrassment, but from boredom. Nothing would persuade her to quit her present situation. I told her I would persuade her friends to receive her again and she declared she cared nothing for her friends. She spurned all my offers of assistance. She wanted no help of mine: she knew me for her dear Wickham’s enemy.

  Through her prattle, I learned of what I had been accused in Hertfordshire. It was as I suspected: I had overset my father’s Will and deprived poor Wickham of the living at Kympton.

  ‘Not that I care,’ continued Lydia, tossing her head, ‘for I prefer to see a man in regimentals. I cannot feel there would be any fun in being married to a clergyman, and so I told Mama when she was railing against Lizzy for refusing Mr Collins. Poor Lizzy! I am sure she was envious when she heard I was to marry Wickham. He was quite a favourite with her, you know.’

  There was a triumphant note in her voice and I stared at her, wondering if she understood how matters were with me. But she did not. Her pleasure was in the belief she had captured a man to whom her sister was partial. I knew Wickham was not above assisting this notion: how far her affection for him depended on it, I know not. Certainly, it pleased her.

  All attempts to reason with her were in vain. She would not quit her present situation; she would not leave Wickham. Since she was resolved, I could only secure and expedite the marriage.

  Marriage had never been Wickham’s design, and when I saw him again I did not immediately suggest it. Instead, I asked him what he meant to do now, pointing out that, since he had left so many debts behind him, he could hardly remain in the regiment.

  He said he meant to resign his commission immediately. He did not know where he would go; he did not know what he would do; he knew he would have nothing to live on.

  He was in absolute despair, which suited me for I knew that in such a situation he would be willing to grasp at anything. Letting him stew for a few minutes, I asked his landlady to bring us some coffee and waited in silence until it came.

  ‘It seems to me,’ I said at last, ‘your situation would be benefited by marriage to Lydia Bennet.’

  This solution found no favour with Wickham: he had other ideas. He meant to make his fortune by marriage, and was in no doubt his charms would tempt an heiress into matrimony.

  I cast doubt upon his certainty. ‘How many heiresses have slipped through your fingers, already, Wickham? Two, to my certain knowledge, and I doubt not there are others of whom I know nothing. You have a reputation, you know, which will not assist you in such ambition. Besides, in these circumstances, you are in no position to court an heiress. In fact,’ I added, ‘the way matters stand at present, you are more likely to find yourself in a debtors’ prison.’

  ‘You do have a bracing way of putting things,’ he muttered.

  ‘The girl is fond of you,’ I told him. ‘Heaven knows why, but she is. Mr Bennet is anxious to retrieve what he can of his daughter’s rep
utation, and though I do not imagine him to be very rich, he must be able to do something for you. I would counsel you to forget your notions of a promising future and consider the prospect of immediate relief.’

  ‘You have a point,’ he admitted. I saw he was regarding me with a speculative look in his eye, but I said nothing. Some expense I would bear, and I suspected he knew it, but I had no intention of making him rich. After some reflection, he roused himself. ‘Well, then, Darcy, consider me engaged to Lydia Bennet.’ And he laughed.

  ‘I wish you joy.’

  ‘Shall we get down to business?’ he suggested.

  ‘No.’ I had a sudden revulsion of feeling. ‘I have seen enough of you today, Wickham. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I am leaving, now. I suggest you pay some attention to the girl: it would not do for her to change her mind, would it?’

  I left, completely nauseated by the knowledge that I was assisting such a man to become the brother-in-law of Elizabeth.

  I determined, then, to keep myself informed about Wickham for the rest of my days. He would never trouble Elizabeth if I could help it. Now I saw his future plain.

  I would clear his debts; I would settle some funds, in addition to whatever portion she had, on Lydia. I would also assist him in his chosen profession, in a way that would please me far more than it would please him.

  Fourteen

  I RETURNED TO WICKHAM’S lodgings the next day, tipped his landlady another sovereign for the use of her parlour, and she brought coffee without being asked.

  Wickham was not so obliging. I wanted matters settled quickly, for the less time I had to spend with him the better. But he was being superlatively stupid.

  ‘Do you remember, Darcy,’ he said, ‘the time when we were lost in Peak Cavern, up at Castleton? I thought we would never find our way out.’

  Boyhood memories would not soften me, and so I told him. He was determined to reminisce and went on, ‘Those were the days. I was telling Lydia about the time we were snowed in at Cromford and took sleds into Via Gelia. And the time we went gathering those delicious chestnuts in Shining Cliff Woods, at Ambergate. Do you remember, Darcy?’