He gave Wickham a long, silent look. Darcy had always knownhewas the better man, not because of his wealth or his rank, but because he was the man of character.And now I must act like it.He had to be able to look at his own reflection and look his wife in the eye.
“Why do you stare at me so?” Wickham’s voice was low and fearful.
“I am puzzled to decide whether you have abandoned good principles or whether you never had any.”
Wickham’s expression turned contemptuous. “Of course! Turnyoursoul wrong-side outward, and there is not a speck on it.”
Therewasa speck, a blemish, a fault that he had to remedy, although he would not admit it to Wickham. An unyielding temper. A resentful nature. Those defects were always there, but his sister’s seduction and suffering at the hands of the undeserving man he had always disliked had brought them to the surface.I cannot let them rule over my nature.
“I am not going to let you die,” he said quietly.
The look of bewilderment returned to Wickham’s face. “What did you say?”
“I will pay your quarterly fees to remain in the master’s side for a year.” It was thirteen shillings a quarter to keep Wickham from a certain death from typhus and in a place that was less squalorous. “If you fall ill, you need only write and I will make certain a doctor sees you. If you wish to make up your affairs with me, so be it. You will gamble in any event, to your and my father’s shame, so you can win enough to then pay for your own fees. If you ever earn half of what you owe me, I will consider your debt paid in full.”
“How gracious of you.” Wickham sounded sarcastic, but he did look relieved. “It will take me years to earn a thousand pounds and pay my own fees. Do you expect me to fall at your feet?”
“Wickham, you have been falling short of expectations your entire life. I expect nothing from you, not even gratitude. I do this for my wife’s respect and my sister’s memory.” He put on his hat and gloves. “Write to Colonel Fitzwilliam if you need a doctor, or when you can settle your affairs with me. I need never see your face again.”
Elizabeth had teasedDarcy when they first approached Pemberley House in September. They sat near to one another in the carriage, their knees touching as it swayed, and he eagerly pointed out the sights. It was clear he wanted her approval, and when the house came into view he tentatively asked, “Could you be happy in such a home, Elizabeth?” She splayed her fingers across her chest, taking in a quick breath at thesight of the house. She managed to say with an impassive face that it was a “tolerable cottage in a wood” and he gave a half-smile, but when she told him she would live anywhere so long as it was with him, Darcy had smiled radiantly and kissed her.
It sometimes struck her how Darcy had rejected Pemberley and London, independence and splendour, to remain in hiding with his pregnant unmarried sister. While protecting their good name was his priority, he still left behind influence and status out of devotion and affection for someone who the rest of the world would have told him to shun. Another gentleman of his sphere might have sent her away alone, or taken her child away regardless of Georgiana’s wishes. He was a generous man, and just as generous in a leased, small lodge near Meryton as he was at his ancestral estate in Derbyshire.
She was at her writing desk in her chamber, mending her pen with her silver knife—with its scratched handle—when Darcy entered. “Which of your many sisters are you writing to before breakfast?”
“My aunt Gardiner, to tell her about my new home. I have not gotten lost, but I do not know my way yet to every room. I wrote that I have proposed your setting up directing posts at the angles of the corridors.” She noticed her husband looked rather striking today. Elizabeth rose and was about to compliment his blue coat when she realised what caused the change: Darcy was not all in black.
“I think the black clothes, ribbons, and crepe cast a needless gloom over you, over all of us,” she said softly. “Georgiana would be the first to be glad to see you leave off mourning.”
He nodded once, not quite meeting her eye. “Today is the tenth. She has been gone three months. You ought to start wearing other colours yourself.” He tried to smile. “You look pretty in lavender, but I expect a dressmaker’s bill for something in white or yellow soon. I very much would like to see you wearing that blue gown you had made from Georgiana’s habit.”
“Does this sad anniversary have you thinking about Georgiana, especially now that you are at Pemberley where there is more to remind you of her?”
Darcy shrugged. “No, or rather, no more so than before. I am happy to be here with you. Between Georgiana’s absence from being sent toschool, and the death of my parents, it has been a long time since I have shared Pemberley with anyone I love.”
She felt a surge of affection for him as she saw how he needed someone to love him. He idly looked around her chamber, as though they had not slept in it together every night and he had not left it a few hours ago. For someone who claimed to be pleased to finally be home, and who seemed ready to be finished with mourning, Darcy looked agitated.
“Does leaving off mourning make you think of what you saw in the Fleet? You have not much spoken of it.”
After returning from Fleet Prison, Darcy had only said that he would pay to keep Wickham in the master’s side for a time as well as for whatever doctoring he ever needed. When he did not answer, Elizabeth gently asked, “What made you change your mind about Mr Wickham?”
He pressed his lips together for a long moment before speaking. “There is, I believe, in every disposition a natural defect, one that I doubt that even the best education can overcome. I suppose that pride and a lack of concern for those outside my circle might have been my particular evil?—”
“Indeed not,” Elizabeth said. He gave her a disbelieving look, and she began differently. “Fitzwilliam, I think you have improved in civility since I have known you, and you could hardly be called selfish now. You have no improper pride.” She stepped closer. “I can say now with complete honesty that you are perfectly amiable.”
“I thank you for defending me so valiantly. However, in general, I cannot forget others’ offences against myself as soon as I ought, and Mr Wickham’s transgressions . . .” Darcy shook his head. “Elizabeth, I could have hated him forever and been glad about it, and I might have found not only satisfaction but joy in knowing he suffered, and delight if he died.”
Implacable resentment was a shade in a character, but she did not fear for him any longer. Darcy must have come to fear that wrath would consume him if he willingly allowed Wickham to contract typhus and die. “Did seeing Mr Wickham in the Fleet make you realise that his incarceration for defaulting on so many debtswas as far as justice could go? That nothing could restore Georgiana to us?”
He seemed to be speaking more to himself when he said softly, “Seeing him reminded me of what it means to be a good man, a man my parents would be proud of, a man you could esteem. I am glad that I went, otherwise . . .”
“Otherwise, Fitzwilliam, you would be a young man of good fortune with everything in his favour who was remarkably sad and angry, and happiness would elude you for the rest of your life.”
“My resentment, my hatred for Mr Wickham, never went so far as to let him die in gaol, thanks to you.”
Elizabeth put her arms around him. “I might owe you the same thanks. My ire at the injustices I suffered as a dependent at my relations’ mercy might have someday been released upon a single target, like Mrs Cuthbert or Mary. I might have become a bitter woman. It already made me very ill.” She pulled away to look into his face. “I am grateful you married me when I asked.”
“I just gave you a home. Whatever resentment you were able to rise above had more to do with your own character than me.”
