Chapter Fifteen
Setting out early that next Monday, Elizabeth found herself hoping that this might be one of the mornings when Darcy chose to make an appearance by that tree at the edge of Longbourn’s park. She wished for company on this morning, and for some inscrutable reason she felt that his would be the most satisfactory. He had indicated the night before that it was his intention to do so, so it was with a sense of anticipation that she rounded the last bend in the path before the tree.
There was a man waiting for her, but not Mr. Darcy. It was Mr. Wickham. Elizabeth stopped and frowned at him. Every time she thought that they had bid their last good-bye, he seemed to reappear at the most unexpected moments.
He sprang to attention. “Miss Elizabeth!”
“Mr. Wickham,” she said flatly. “What a surprise.”
He grinned. “I was hoping it would be so. The regiment is leaving in just a few days, you know, and I could not go without bidding my dearest friend good-bye.” He approached.
“I am flattered, sir,” she said warily. “I thought we performed that office at my Aunt Phillips’s house, did we not?”
“Oh, but a leave-taking in front of strangers!” He came even closer. “My dear lady, you must know that you mean more to me than that.”
She drew back a little, suspicious but not alarmed. “I am sure you are sad to bid farewell to all your friends here.”
“It is true. I have made many delightful acquaintances. I would wish to keep a permanent acquaintance in the neighborhood if I could, but I am afraid that that opportunity has been taken from me.”
Her eyes narrowed at his implication. “I do not see why. I am sure you will always be welcomed back.”
“Will I?” He sighed in a manner she had once found quite affecting, but now did not. “I fear that is not likely. A man’s reputation is easily stolen, you know, and it is a source of great apprehension to me that once I am gone from the country, mine will not long survive.”
“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Wickham?”
He shook his head slightly. “I should like to tell you, but I am afraid I should not. It would not do to speak ill of one whom, after all, you . . . but I have said too much already!”
Her eyes flashed a warning. “I apprehend that you mean Mr. Darcy will begin to speak ill of you after you leave, in order to deliberately tarnish your reputation. I assure you, Mr. Wickham, I can think of few scenarios less likely.”
“And it is very proper that you should feel so,” he said earnestly. “I could never be offended with so admirable a defense of your betrothed. If only all the human race were as loyal as you! I am not the only man whose plight would be lesser had he had the defense of a faithful friend.”
Elizabeth stared at him. Was this deliberate sophistry on his part, to pretend to agree with her while still urging his point against Darcy? His clear blue eyes looked back at her, still with that same sincere, guileless gaze that had so convinced her of his truthfulness in the beginning. The conviction that had been slowly growing on her—that Wickham, for all his apparent openness, was more difficult to truly read than Darcy—now solidified. “I think you should go now, Mr. Wickham,” she said slowly. “Mr. Darcy may be along at any time.”
“But not before you let me farewell you. Your friendship—I hope you know what your friendship has meant to me these months, Lizzy.” He reached for her hand and took it before she could stop him. “Perhaps I should not say so now, but I cannot leave without telling you how I think of you—what I feel concerning you—”
“Please, Mr. Wickham, stop!” She pulled her hand away. “You must not!”
“But I must! Do not despise me for my feelings. I know I have no hope—I never had any hope, but you must believe that if my situation had been different—if I had been able to offer you the life you deserved—,” he claimed her hand again and pressed it to his heart, holding her wrist too firmly for her to resist without a most undignified fight, “but we are both subject to our lack of fortune! You are doing what you must, and I am the last man on earth to condemn you—”
“Get your hands off her!” commanded a voice in biting accents. Elizabeth, her heart pounding with dread, started and turned to see Mr. Darcy standing not far away. She knew instantly that he was angrier than she had ever seen him; he was quite white with rage. Blushing deeply with shame and anxiety, she jerked futilely at her hand, but Mr. Wickham did not give it up immediately.
He did not appear at all discomposed; to her horror, he actually smirked while lifting her fingers to bestow a light kiss on them before letting them go in a most leisurely fashion. He sauntered casually in Darcy’s direction. “Ah, Darcy!” he said. “I have not had the opportunity yet to congratulate you on your engagement. I must say, I did not know you had such fine taste in women. She is completely charming! Did she tell you what close friends we are—have been, for all these months?” He stopped just out of his reach and lowered his voice. She stood by in agony, watching as he continued to talk to Darcy, who stood as straight and tense as a bowstring. When Wickham ceased speaking, he turned his head just slightly and spat some words out between his teeth, in response to which the other just laughed, shook his head, and replied. After another exchange, Wickham raised his voice again, half turning toward Elizabeth. “May I say, my dear Lizzy, that I have enjoyed every day of our acquaintance? I will always regret that your lack of fortune kept us from forwarding our relationship in the manner I know we both desired. You really are wasted on Darcy, you know.” With a last, careless wave, he strolled off down the path.
He left two extremely unhappy people in his wake. Elizabeth, horrified beyond thought at his manner and words—and at having been caught with her hand in his!—could scarcely look at Darcy. He was still fighting to control himself, and his anger was not in the least pacified by Wickham’s having left.
Suddenly it became very important to Elizabeth that he not think her faithless or shameless, that he know that the situation was not of her making. Her shock at discovering her erstwhile friend’s false front was great, but her distress at Darcy’s distress became greater still. She lifted her head; he was looking away from her, his face set in bitter lines, his hands clenched at his side. Gathering her courage, she approached him tentatively.
“Mr.—” She swallowed. “Fitzwilliam, you must believe me. I did not meet with him on purpose, and I did not consent to his holding my hand. He had it in too strong a grasp; I could not have freed it without a struggle. Perhaps I should have done so, but I thought he would let go in a moment and I could get away from him then.”
He turned his head sharply. “Did he hurt you?” he demanded.
“No! No,” she assured him. “Not at all. He was not rough, just . . . insistent.”
He looked at her, then away again. “How long had you been speaking with him here?”
“A few minutes,” she admitted.
“Did he have you in his grip the entire time?”
“No, of course not. He only took my hand a few moments before you arrived. I was too surprised to react at first, and then, well . . .”
“Is it your habit then, madam, to stand talking to men in secluded areas?”
She gasped slightly at his biting tone. “Of course not! But Mr. Wickham was a friend, and I had no reason to—”
“A friend? Mr. Wickham was your friend?” He stepped closer to her, staring her down with awful intensity. “Just what have you to do with that gentleman—if such he can be called?”
“I made his acquaintance not long after I made yours. He was wintered here with the militia and has often been a visitor at Longbourn.”
“I see.” He stepped closer still and gripped her shoulder insistently. “Did he come merely to visit your family, then? Or your younger sisters, perhaps? Was there no special relationship between you?”
She swallowed, more than dismayed at what she saw in his eyes. “I cannot deny that we were very good friends at one time, but—”
“So
now you have progressed from merely friends to very good friends! What does that mean, Elizabeth?” He put his other hand on her other shoulder and pulled her to him, still looking fiercely in her face. “What happened, Elizabeth? Did you find his manners to your taste? He clearly found yours to his! Did you flirt with him? Tease him with your eyes and—?” He let her go abruptly and strode away, as if he could not trust what he might do if he still held her in his hands.
It was obvious to Elizabeth that he was in the grip of a jealous rage, and she did not know what to do about it. She had flirted with Mr. Wickham, there was no denying it, and although she might justly argue that she had every right to do so back then, she doubted that would appease him. There was a long, agonized silence before Darcy turned back to her and asked, with naked torment in his eyes, “Were you in love with him?”
Here at last was something she could positively answer. “No!” she said emphatically, moving toward him in a compassionate impulse. “No, I was never in love with him!” She laid a hand tentatively on his arm. “I swear it.” She caught his gaze and held it.
He searched her face for confirmation; seeing her sincerity, he sighed, and a little of the tension went out of him. “Many women have fallen in love with him,” he said with some bitterness.
“Including half the women living in the region of Meryton, at some time,” she agreed, trying to smile and lighten the mood. Privately, she wondered if it was a woman who stood between them in their past. Had Mr. Wickham charmed a lady Mr. Darcy had desired? The thought did not please her.
“And yet you were immune?”
“I was immune,” she agreed. “I thought him agreeable, and, well—,” she looked away sheepishly, “I thought him honorable and good as well, but his behavior today shows him to be otherwise.”
“You are not the first he has deceived.” He took her face between his hands. “You are never to speak to him again, you understand?” he demanded tersely. “I will never receive him in my house or acknowledge his acquaintance, and you are not to do so either. You will be my wife, and he is to have no part in you or your life!”
Elizabeth stared at him, wide-eyed. Even a day ago she might have objected to such a peremptory demand from him, but today all she could think was—“What did he do?” she breathed.
His mouth tightened. “He has betrayed my entire family,” he said shortly. And she believed him. Without understanding in what way, or how it related to Wickham’s story, she believed what he said. He drew back and passed a hand over his brow. “I cannot tell you of it right now,” he said. “Someday I will.”
She nodded slightly.
“Only . . .” He frowned and looked down for a moment. “Do not speak of him to Georgiana, I beg of you. He has hurt her as well.”
The thought of Wickham having hurt sweet, shy Georgiana only dismayed her further. His early words describing her drifted across her mind: She is a proud, cold girl. She should have known, the moment she met the real Miss Darcy, how duplicitous he was.
Making a forcible effort to return to normal, Darcy said, “Were you setting out on your walk? May I accompany you?”
She shook her head and then quickly nodded. “I was setting out, but . . . I think I should prefer to return to the house now. It—I am afraid I shall not do the beauties of nature justice this morning.”
He nodded.
“You will . . . call later?”
“Certainly.” He took her hand and kissed it.
They bid quiet good-byes and went their separate ways.
Darcy returned to his steed not at all calmed. He set him to a gallop, his mouth grimly set, his mind returning again and again to Wickham’s taunting words.
“She does not love you, you know,” he had said. “In fact, until you proposed, your bride was most outspoken in her dislike of you. Very witty about it, too. Me, on the other hand, she was always excessively fond of. Surely you have realized by now that only your great wealth made you acceptable to her? That if I’d had only a tenth of your money, I could have won her from you as easily as—”
“If ever you come anywhere near her,” he interrupted with barely controlled venom, “I will—”
“You’ll what? Call me out?” He laughed derisively. “No, you and I will never meet on the field of honor, Darcy—you because you’ve too much honor, I because I’ve not enough.”
“I’m warning you, Wickham, I have shown you forbearance for my father’s sake, but never again!”
“What do I need your forbearance for?” he jeered.
Then he had turned and made that remark to Elizabeth.
He should know better than to let Wickham’s taunts get to him. The man would say anything to get a rise out of him. If he had been secure in Elizabeth’s love, he would have laughed in scorn, but as it was, Wickham’s words had been inescapably painful.
As he had stood there, doing all in his power to retain his composure, the one conversation he had ever had with her about Wickham rose in his memory. She had said, “He has certainly lost your friendship, and in a way he seems likely to suffer from for the rest of his life.” Somehow, he had forgotten, up until then. It had never even occurred to him that his nemesis might come between him and the woman he loved, but all at once it seemed far too probable.
He had found them, standing as two lovers, Wickham holding her hand to his heart, speaking in passionate tones. Elizabeth’s bonnet had hidden her countenance, but he could see no overt signs of resistance. The only thing that could have been worse would have been to catch them in an actual embrace.
It wasn’t that he did not believe her when she said Wickham had forced the situation. Of course Wickham had forced the situation! But his feelings in those moments could not be forgotten. It had been Ramsgate all over again, but twice, three times as painful a loss and betrayal. And Wickham had used it, of course. But at least he had revealed himself in front of her. At least she would no longer be deceived.
Your bride was most outspoken in her dislike of you. Very witty about it, too.
He shook his head fiercely, pushing the thought aside. She did not love him, he knew that, but Elizabeth would never have accepted him if she actually disliked him. She could not dislike him.
Me, on the other hand, she was always excessively fond of.
Once again, he had felt that helpless sense of futility that always overtook him when Wickham was around. How was it that he could not prevent him from charming and deceiving every person dear to him? Why was it that with all of his money, power, status, and education he could not protect his family from the machinations of a petty blackguard?
When he had asked her if she had been in love with Wickham, it was with a desperate hope that she was not now in love with him, that any feelings she had had for him had at least passed away. His overpowering sense of relief in perceiving her certainty that she had never been in love with him at all had still not quite been enough to erase the effects of his earlier shock; he could scarcely believe that if she had had money enough to tempt the scoundrel, she would not now already be his wife. He had seen Wickham’s wonderful ability to please far too many times.
In their own way, Elizabeth’s reflections were nearly as painful as Darcy’s. She was sorry that she had allowed Wickham to impose on her so far. She knew Darcy was likely to come at any time; she should have been more cautious and kept a further distance between them. She was sure he had been deeply pained to find them so; how could he not be?
As for Mr. Wickham himself, she had only to be ashamed of how easily he had deluded her. Was she really so shallow in her perceptions that she thought an agreeable man must be an honest one? She had been flattered—she could see that now. She had been flattered that the man all the girls were swooning over desired her company the most. And how pleased she had been to find her estimation of Mr. Darcy to be fully justified! She had taken such pleasure in disliking him.
It was not, in the end, as shocking as it would have been if the truth had burst on her al
l at once. As her estimation of Mr. Darcy’s character had risen, so her opinion of Mr. Wickham’s had been falling. Still she had been hoping to find some way that they were neither of them very much at fault, as Jane had suggested so long ago. She had not wanted to believe that her opinion could have been so very wrong; there, too, vanity had blinded her.
At least she had never taxed Mr. Darcy with the sin. They had both been saved that humiliation, thankfully. Perhaps he would never know how meanly she had thought of him.
Darcy arrived sometime after breakfast, as promised. He spent a few minutes in the parlor with the ladies, saying very little. Very soon he asked Elizabeth if she would like to take a turn in the garden, and she acquiesced quickly.
He was in one of his silent moods, for which she could hardly blame him. She did not know quite what to say either. Were they really past what had happened earlier? She felt like something more needed to be said, but lacked the courage to broach the subject herself.
They weaved their way through the shrubbery, then he took her beyond it to the larger garden. When they had reached a quiet corner where they could not be seen from the house, he halted and turned to her. Elizabeth lifted her face expectantly; she had no bonnet since they were not going far. She thought he would speak to her or possibly kiss her, but all he did was look at her. Would he ever tire of looking at her, she wondered?
He seemed to be searching for something, demanding something; his eyes moved over her features again and again; he set his fingers to her jaw, then her cheekbone.
A self-conscious blush began to rise in her cheeks. “You ought to know what I look like by now, sir.”
Unequal Affections: A Pride and Prejudice Retelling Page 22