He allowed himself a rueful smile. “My mother stood on the bank with a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, trying not to laugh. She said, ‘I warned you, Fitzwilliam! What will your father say?’”
Elizabeth grinned. “Whatdidhe say?”
“That I ought to be thankful I had not broken my neck and that next time I should swim in a proper lake instead of leaping about like a frog before an audience.”
Amusement danced in Elizabeth’s eyes. “’Tis rather comforting to imagine you as a mischievous boy.”
“Not mischievous—” His look turned mock-solemn—“merely…ambitious.”
She smiled at him. “In that case, I ought to confess my own folly.”
“I would be most interested to hear it.”
“When I was nine, I insisted on helping Hill carry the wash to the drying green. I loaded the wheelbarrow far higher than I could manage. Halfway down the path, it tipped—wet sheets everywhere, straight into the mud. Mama declared I had undone a week’s labor in one grand gesture.”
Darcy’s laugh was low and genuine. “I cannot imagine you idle, even in mischief.”
“It was not idleness, sir, but zeal—a good Z word by the bye—most unfortunately misapplied.”
His smile deepened. “Zeal, yes, but joined with industry, it makes a formidable combination. I trust you have long since mastered the art of balance.”
“I should ask you the same, sir,” she teased. “But some would say otherwise.”
For a time they sat in contented silence, the memory of childish misadventures warming the air between them.
“I think,” Darcy said at last, “those are the moments that shape us most. Not the times we succeed, but the times we fall into the pond or overturn the wheelbarrow and learn that we are not infallible.”
Elizabeth’s look grew reflective. “And that there is always someone—be it mother, father, or footman—whose presence steadies us if we falter, and whose hand helps us find our way back.”
He inclined his head. “Quite right, Miss Elizabeth.” Never had he felt so understood.
Soon after, the call drew to its natural end, and the gentlemen took their leave. Without, as the winter wind bit through his coat, Darcy paused beneath the skeletal trees lining the road to Netherfield and considered all Elizabeth had said. Her judgment had sharpened, her compassion deepened—and he had failed both her and himself by allowing Wickham’s misconduct to go unchecked for so long.
Back at Netherfield, he took up his pen. By lamplight he wrote swiftly, the ink scarcely dry before he set it aside. The letter was brief, direct, and spare in its wording.
Wickham,
Meet me at the glen at the base of Oakham Mount at four o’clock. There is a matter we must settle. Come, or be sought out.
F.D.
Darcy sealed the letter and gave it to Brisby.
“Please see this delivered into Wickham’s own hand at the militia barracks…and without delay.”
“Yes, sir. At once,” his man replied and departed for Meryton.
He did not expect Wickham to come. But if he did, their reckoning would begin.
The wind rustled through the bare limbs of the trees as Darcy stood alone at the edge of the glen, the winter air cutting through his great coat. His horse was tethered nearby, stamping at the cold ground and snorting his breaths into the chill. The stillness with the sound of approaching steps—light at first, then deliberate, even defiant. Wickham emerged from the shadows, his features thunderous.
“I should have known it was you,” he spat. “No one else could have turned Meryton against me so quickly.”
Wickham had ever been careful to present himself the gentleman—his attire usually arranged with studied precision, his manner calculated to charm. Yet on this day the façade was cracked. His uniform was clean, but it was evident he had dressed in haste, the fastenings misaligned so that it hung crooked upon his frame.
Darcy did not move. “I asked you here that we might speak plainly. I have as little desire for your company as you do for mine.” He brushed at an invisible speck upon his sleeve, his hands sheathed in leather gloves. Nothing provoked Wickham more than the show of indifference.
“Plainly?” Wickham gave a bitter laugh. “You mean to justify yourself? Do not feign civility, Darcy. You warned the shopkeepers. Now my debts are called in, I can no longerpurchase on credit, and my fellow soldiers, facing the same restrictions, lay the blame at my feet. Once more, you have made me an outcast.”
