Once, at Longbourn, her mother and aunt shared recollections of a ball many years past. A very handsome friend or relation of one of their neighbours had attended, and every girl there was wild to dance with him. The gentleman, however, only had eyes for the young Miss Gardiner that night. “He looked like he wanted to eat you up!” Aunt Phillips said to Mrs. Bennet. Elizabeth remembered wrinkling her nose in distaste, for the phrase sounded so vulgar coming from her aunt, but the sisters tittered and declared what a pity it was the man's reputation as a rake was so well known that their papa would never have countenanced a match between him and his remaining single daughter.
What Elizabeth wanted to know was whether that rake had looked at Mama like Mr. Darcy was looking at her now.
At last the man turned away and rode off. She ought to be accustomed to his scrutiny by this time, but that long stare and that light smile had her feeling oddly warm for a November morning.
He was too handsome for his own good—for her own good.
Elizabeth's fingers trembled a little as she held the pages of his letter. She forced her gaze down and began to read.
The look of indignation you wore as we danced is one I have seen many times in connection with Mr. Wickham, most often when his name is mentioned in the hearing of those who have suffered a prolonged acquaintance with him. Mr. Wickham himself has worn it while telling the collection of lies and half-truths he has repeated so long now that he may well believe them. On occasion I see traces of it on some unlucky fellow who has done business with him and hopes to recover his loss from me, as if Mr. Wickham were my ward rather than the son of my father's steward. Most painful, however, is observing that look on the face of an unsuspecting young lady who has not yet been exposed to Mr. Wickham's less redeeming qualities and who wonders how anyone can be so callous as to deny such a deserving gentleman his due. Though it was gracefully done—without missing a single step in the dance—and though the eyes that flashed their accusations were very fine indeed, to be charged with behaving unjustly and unkindly towards that man infuriated me. My anger soon took a proper direction, however, and I hope yours will as well after you have read this letter.Elizabeth read the letter through twice. The first time, she paid attention to everything pertaining to Mr. Wickham and compared it with what she had heard directly from the man himself. The ways in which the two accounts agreed and diverged were striking. The magnitude of the elder Mr. Darcy's kindness to his godson was certainly consistent with the fervent gratitude and lavish praise Mr. Wickham expressed. The circumstances regarding the living, however, appeared quite different with so many pertinent details misrepresented or left out of the telling. Refusing to take orders and resigning all claim might certainly be considered imprudence, but that was no fault of Mr. Darcy's, even more so if the very idea for the compromise had come from Mr. Wickham himself!
The elder Mr. Wickham was an exemplary man who had the management of the Pemberley estates for many years. My father served as godfather to his son and supported him at school and at Cambridge, support his own father could not afford because of his wife's extravagance. My father had the highest opinion of his godson, and though he did not live to provide for him in the church as he had intended, he particularly recommended to me in his will to assist young Wickham in his career and, should he take orders, grant him a valuable family living. In addition to this, he left him a legacy of one thousand pounds.
You may wonder how a man with such a fine example in his father and a wealthy and generous friend in mine, and such good prospects as a result, has ended in the militia far from his childhood home, with little to his name and few, if any, connections of worth—and no, I do not mean monetary worth.
My father's attachment to Mr. Wickham was steadfast, but it is many, many years since I have considered that man a friend. Being nearly the same age, I had opportunities to see him in unguarded moments that my father did not have, and I can testify to his general profligacy. The particulars may be too indelicate to share, but I will say it is fortunate that more than four years ago, soon after the death of my excellent father and then his, Mr. Wickham decided against taking orders. He knew as well as I that he ought not to be a clergyman. When he requested money in lieu of the preferment, I paid him three thousand pounds in exchange for his resigning all claim to assistance in the church. He said he wished to study law, but from the little I heard of him in the years following, that was a mere pretence, and he lived a life of idleness and dissipation in town.
Can you imagine my indignation last year when I began to hear directly and frequently from Mr. Wickham by letter once the living he had refused to wait for became vacant? His circumstances, he claimed, were very bad, and I had no trouble believing it. I knew the extent of the debts he had left behind him in Lambton and other villages near Pemberley. The first letter read thus: He had given up studying law as unprofitable and now meant to be ordained; therefore, I should present him with the living, as I had no one else to provide for and would not want to disregard my father's wishes. Subsequent letters heaped abuse upon me for holding him to his earlier agreement.
I wish my dealings with Mr. Wickham had ended there. Unfortunately, my father was not the only Darcy to retain a favourable impression of his godson. I had not intended ever to disclose this to any human being, but I have witnessed your affection for your own sister, and I know I can trust you with the reputation of mine. Mere months ago, in the summer, Mr. Wickham sought to repay my refusal to secure him several hundred pounds a year with a scheme to acquire thirty thousand pounds outright. I was unaware the woman I had recently hired to preside over my sister's London establishment had a previous acquaintance with him. When she accompanied Georgiana to Ramsgate to spend several weeks there, Mr. Wickham presented himself to their notice and, with Mrs. Younge's aid, quickly convinced Georgiana to believe herself in love. My sister, who is fifteen, had pleasant memories of Mr. Wickham's kindness to her as a child and no suspicion that he had not turned out well. I still shudder to think she would have married him in Scotland had I not visited her by chance a day or two before they were to leave. She confessed her plans to me, for she truly had not wished to disappoint me by taking such a step without my knowledge and approval, however much her companions had encouraged secrecy. How long would Mr. Wickham have taken to spend her fortune? How much sorrow would she have borne, tied for a lifetime to such a man while learning what many others before her have learnt: that he loves no one but himself?
I have too much appreciation for your liveliness of mind to desire your agreement on every subject, but if we should have occasion to dance again, I hope we shall improve in our ability to advance mutually pleasing topics of conversation.
I shall endeavour to place this letter in your hands as soon as may be.
Yours sincerely,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
When she read of the plot against Miss Darcy, or rather against the girl's fortune, she wanted to weep. Even there, Mr. Wickham had ventured into deception—for deception she must call it—and had again, unfairly, spoken ill of a Darcy. Mr. Darcy's description of events gave the impression that his sister was tender-hearted and easily influenced rather than proud, and Mr. Wickham's poor opinion of her seemed nothing more than sour grapes.
Elizabeth had been so pleased when Mr. Wickham had singled her out! Now she wondered why he had done it. She remembered that he had not been forthcoming with his complaints until she had revealed her own dislike of Mr. Darcy. She felt every kind of fool for having encouraged him by her attentiveness. There may have been truth in his looks, as she had told Jane, but she had first realised several hours ago that truth did not always extend to his words.
When Elizabeth read through the letter a second time, she was caught by Mr. Darcy's words of approbation for herself. She glanced over the pages and re-examined the phrases that illuminated his interest.
He considered her a graceful dancer. He thought she had fine eyes—very fine eyes. He thought her an affectionate sister. He trusted her discretion. He appreciated her liveliness of mind. Even after their disaster of a dance last night, he believed she might prove to be a pleasing conversation partner were they to stand up again.
He cared enough about her welfare that he had missed much of the ball in order to devise an effective means of warning her away from an unscrupulous man. He had risked being seen to pay her peculiar attention in giving her a letter. He had somehow known he needed to make the extra effort with her, that it would require more than another heated conversation in a busy ballroom for her to agree to hear his side of the story. She looked at the adieu. He had not needed to add 'sincerely' because she had no reason to disbelieve him. His account fit in so well with Mr. Wickham's in places and yet explained and corrected that which had not made sense to her before.
Several minutes ago, Mr. Darcy had stared at her, apparently studying her face for the pleasure of it. And though he could be doing anything else right now, he still rode within view. He had not abandoned her. Instead, he seemed to be watching over her.
She could not ignore so much evidence, no matter how much her contrary heart wished to try. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy liked her. He liked her a great deal. Impressions change, he had said, and he ought to know, for it was obvious he no longer found her merely tolerable.
She looked down at herself. She doubted she appeared more than tolerable today, with her hastily scrubbed face, simply arranged hair, and clothes chosen more for comfort than fashion. She thought of how carefully she had dressed for the ball in anticipation of capturing Mr. Wickham's heart. What a silly waste that all seemed now.
She was probably one in a long line of women who had convinced herself that Mr. Wickham's fine figure and winsome manners put him in possession of every virtue. She doubted she had nearly as much company among those who had cast aspersions upon the honour of Fitzwilliam Darcy. She hoped neither mistake would harm more than her pride, but how could she know? All she knew was that her judgement had failed her, and she owed Mr. Darcy an apology at the very least.
Did she owe him more than that? Did she want to give him more?
Elizabeth looked at Darcy until she saw that she had his attention, and then she stood watching him ride towards her, trying to make sense of her rapidly changing feelings and wondering what in the world she was going to say to him.
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