There was no one but him to help and, as a gentleman, he could hardly have abandoned the Bennets. Lydia had no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from the little attention her father seemed to give to his family, thathewould do as little as any father could do.
Maybe he helped because Elizabeth had grasped his hand and begged him to. There was no way he could have left her when she looked at him like that, with eyes wide with fear, but everything in her bearing announcing her determination. She might have saddled a horse and gone after them herself.
They were a few stages from town when Elizabeth said to her maid, as they were changing the horses, “Sarah, would you ride the next stage in the box? I must have a private word with Mr Darcy.”
The maid looked at him sharply, as though deciding if he was to be trusted with her mistress. Elizabeth insisted, “I am perfectly safe with Mr Darcy.”
He was unsure he wanted to be alone with her, but he tried to appear unassuming and unthreatening. When Sarah was settled and they were back on the road, Elizabeth fixed her eye on him. “Thank you for coming to my relief.” Before he could do more than open his mouth to tell her there was no need to thank him, she added, “And now you must tell me why no woman should marry Wickham.”
She was astute, and he should have known this was coming. He explained how Wickham had forsaken the living intended for him and wasted all the money given to him in lieu of it, and then how he audaciously demanded the same position three years later.
“I do not believe you,” she said when he was done.
His mouth fell open. “I assure you, what I have stated are verifiable facts.”
“I mean, I do not believe you are so against his marrying any respectable woman and hate him so deeply because he spent extravagantlyand disrespected your family’s generosity. I know he may not have much depth but?—”
“He would be out of his depth in a puddle.”
Elizabeth gave him an emphatic look and sat back to wait for him to explain.
Darcy sighed and leant his elbows on his knees as the carriage swayed. It was not a conversation for mixed company, but there was no avoiding it now. “Wickham and I grew up in the same park, with many of the same experiences, but not with the same good principles. My father paid for his education, and although he is two years younger than me, we spent our youth in town at the same time. While I finished at Oxford and lived in town, keeping up connexions and doing all the things carefree young men do, Wickham attended Cambridge and became acquainted with every gaming hell, tavern, and prostitute in the city.”
“That sounds like you did exactly the same thing.”
He sat up and threw her a haughty look. “I assure it is not. I raced barouches too fast and played loo too high and avoided my overbearing aunt when she was in town.” And then his father had died when he was twenty-two and he became responsible for an estate and its hundreds of people along with a ten-year-old sister. He had never been wayward, but he had to grow up quickly. “Wickham is known by sight in every sordid place where a man can buy a drink, place a bet, or bed a woman.”
Elizabeth was attempting to keep her expression calm. “That is disappointing behaviour, of course, and it speaks to a weak character. But it is not, sadly, different from the actions of many young men who arrive in town. That you did not act that way speaks to your integrity, but Wickham had to make a few mistakes before he grew up, like most men do.”
He recoiled at the comparison. “I see I am not emphasising how pervasive his want of principle is. He sees nothing wrong with enticing tradesmen’s daughters or lady shopkeepers with promises and then abandoning them once he is satisfied. I once had to drag him out of a gaming den, drunk and down, when his father had come to town to see him. It was half three in the afternoon. He could not be bothered tokeep his appointment with his own father. Another time, when my father expected to see him—his greatest benefactor and friend—it took me two days to find Wickham. I eventually found him at the Blue Periwig in Southampton Street.”
“A tavern?”
He realised his mistake. “A bawdy house.”
She turned bright red. “So his, his…enjoying the company of women on the town was a, a common occurrence in his younger days?”
Darcy scoffed. “Younger days? Miss Bennet, most evenings he will pick up a friendly young damsel, conduct her to Westminster Bridge, and then completely engage her and pay her for her time, and he does not even have the sense to enjoy her in armour.”
He could tell she was trying to act like he had not shocked her. It was not the sort of topic one discussed with the opposite sex. And it was one thing to know such things happened out there in the world, in London, done by other people. It was quite another to know such a thing about her friend who had now run off with her reckless sister.
“If we cannot find them in time to stop them from marrying…” Elizabeth swallowed and began again. “Is there a chance that marriage and age will tame his character? After all, do not most men drink and bet and, and…” She gestured with her hand, unable to finish the thought.
“No, we do not,” he said quietly, insisting the point with his eyes rather than the volume of his voice. He tried not to grow frustrated with her; it was easier to argue with him than face the truth of her sister’s dire position. “Not to the extent Wickham does. And even if all men did, that is not the worst of what will happen if Lydia marries Wickham.” He blew out a breath. “The crimes of his frequenting prostitutes will be brought into his home, to his wife and his children.”
Darcy watched her question what he meant, open her mouth to ask, and then slowly shut it as she realised what he meant. “He has some secret malady?” she whispered.
“I am certain.”
“I do not believe you,” she whispered.
“I have no reason to lie, no reason otherwise to chase after Lydia to stop her from marrying him.”
Elizabeth exhaled and looked round, as though something in the coach could deny it. “Could he only—could Wickham only have caught…” She struggled to finish the thought, or perhaps she was looking for a euphemism.
“One could hope he only had bouts of the clap rather than the pox?” he supplied, pitying her acute distress at the topic. “Well, I know he got himself clapped in a bawdy house in the year seven, and again from a girl on the street sometime after. But the sweet mercury treatments he asked me to pay for before we severed ties two months ago speak to him having the pox. Have you seen him without his gloves on? He has a reddish-brown rash on the palms of his hands. I suspect it has now spread across his body.”
Elizabeth’s composure finally broke, and she covered her face with her hands. “Oh my God!” She did not seem to be crying, only breathing fast and likely with her mind spinning.
