“Perhaps I was, but it does not do to be too fixed in one’s opinion of people,” she said with a pointed look.
Blast it! What has Darcy told her?“Neither does it do to be easily persuaded of an alternative opinion.”
“True, but people themselves alter so much, sometimes no persuasion is necessary.”
“I see. And were any of your friends in Kent much altered? Has Mr Darcy deigned to add aught of civility to his ordinary style? For I dare not hope that he is improved in essentials.”
“Oh no,” she replied, eyes flashing. “In essentials, I believe, Mr Darcy is very much what he ever was. Though I would say, from knowing him better, his disposition is better understood.”
Worse and worse! She actuallylikedthe starched bastard. Her dreadful taste notwithstanding, he feared she must now believe whatever version of events Darcy had spun. How to undo her faith in him? “You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr Darcy,” he began, “will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even theappearanceof what is right. His pride, in that direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by.”
That earned him naught but a raised eyebrow. He was growing excessively tired of her sanctimony. “I only fear,” he pressed, moreloudly for the music had struck up again, “that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss De Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart.”
She only inclined her head and made to step around him, but with such a glimmer of amusement in her eyes as filled him with alarm. He could not tolerate being at such a disadvantage. If she were privy to information that could ruin his good name, he would discover it. He stepped closer and reached for her hand. “Madam, we have not finished our conversation. I must insist upon this dance.”
“Miss Elizabeth, I believe this dance is mine.”
He looked around. “Mr Bingley!”
“Mr Wickham,” Mr Bingley replied brusquely, reaching for Miss Elizabeth’s hand himself and leading her away.
Wickham leant against the wall, glaring at their departing backs. For all that effort, he was still none the wiser. He knew neither how much she had been told nor how likely she was to repeat any of it. He must now live on tenterhooks, fearing the chit would out him at any moment. Damn Darcy to hell and back! The man buggered up everything!
Elizabeth was not sure she had ever seen such a pained expression on her sister’s face as when she took to the floor for a second set with Mr Bingley. It made her slightly nauseous to be the cause of it. She had assured him she was grateful for his intervention and that to dance was not necessary, but he had been insistent upon shielding her from Mr Wickham’s attentions. There was nothing to be done but complete the set and make her excuses to Jane afterwards.
She was grateful for the liveliness of the dance and Mr Bingley’s talkativeness, for both excused her from much conversation. He chattered on amiably as they came together and whirled apart, apparently content with smiles by way of response. He gained her immediate and full attention, however, when his ramblings touched upon the object of her reflections.
“…and I have yet to hear from Darcy, which is surprising. Still, he was very busy when I left him.”
After a moment’s consideration, Elizabeth enquired, “Do you correspond with him often?”
“Fairly often, yes.”
“I wonder—that is, there is something I would ask of you.” She paused, unsure how to proceed with what he might consider a vastly improper request. An explanation seemed the best way to begin. “When Mr Darcy and I spoke of Jane, we…well, it became something of a debate.”
“Was it as fierce as those you enjoyed at Netherfield?”
“Rather more so, I am ashamed to say.” They broke apart to perform a figure with several other dancers. When they faced each other once more, she continued quietly, “I wonder if you would be so good as to pass on my apologies in your next letter to him?”
“I should be happy to, but I must say he gave no indication that he was affronted by anything you said.”
Mr Darcy’s discretion only deepened her remorse. A vicarious apology seemed wholly inadequate, yet it was all that was in her power to give. Her later apology to her sister was little better received. Despite Jane’s attempts to be gracious, Elizabeth could easily perceive she was dismayed by what must have looked to all their neighbours as Mr Bingley’s marked attentions to the wrong sister. Between Mr Wickham’s persistent lies, Mr Bingley’s overzealous defence, Jane’s jealousy and her mother and younger sisters’ improper behaviour, she was ready by the end of the evening to foreswear assemblies forever.
Friday 15 May 1812, London
“It is, in every respect, horrible. What could motivate a person to do such an abhorrent thing?”
Darcy regarded Georgiana with interest as he considered how to answer. The assassination of the Prime Minister earlier that week had sent ripples of unrest throughout the country. Nevertheless, he had not anticipated that his younger, less worldly sister would wish to think on it in any detail. The discussion was a far cry from the sedate morning of refreshments and pianoforte for which he had hoped when he called on her.
“It is being reported that he believes the government have wronglydenied him compensation for some time he spent imprisoned in Russia.”
Georgiana turned up her nose. “He sounds like Mr Wickham.”
“Wickham?”
“Aye, for have both men not resorted to despicable acts because they believed they were denied their due?”
“Indeed—and neither man comprehends why he was denied to begin with.”
