Truffles remained pressed against Elizabeth's chest the entire time, her body rigid, her face turned away from Wickham. Once, when Wickham's hand came close to Elizabeth's arm in conversation, the pig flinched.
Elizabeth noticed. She filed it away. She did not examine it.
The conversation turned to Darcy. Elizabeth was not sure how. Perhaps she mentioned the name, or perhaps Wickham steered toward it with the skill of a man who had been waiting for the opening.
"Mr. Darcy," Wickham said, and something changed in his voice. It was subtle. A careful flatness, like a stone skimming across water. "You know him, then."
"He is Mr. Bingley's friend. He has been staying at Netherfield."
"Ah." Wickham was quiet for a moment. "I knew him once. As boys. Our fathers were great friends. His father, the late Mr. Darcy, was my godfather. He was the finest man I have ever known."
Elizabeth waited. The story that followed was delivered with the quiet pain of a man unburdening himself of something he had carried alone for too long. The promised living. The denial. The cruelty of the son, so different from the generosity of the father. Wickham's voice was steady but his eyes were sad, and Elizabeth, who was already disposed to think poorly of Darcy, felt her indignation rise like a tide.
"He denied you the living," she said. "His father's express wish."
"He did. I do not tell you this to gain your sympathy. Only to explain why I cannot look upon Mr. Darcy with the warmth others might expect."
"You have every right to look upon him with whatever feeling you choose."
"You are very kind, Miss Elizabeth." His eyes held hers. They were warm and sincere and faintly wounded, the eyes of a man who had suffered an injustice and borne it with grace. "I confess I was surprised to find him in Hertfordshire. He does not usually venture so far from the company he considers worthy of his attention."
"He came for Mr. Bingley's sake, I believe. Not for the neighbourhood."
"Ah, yes. Poor Bingley. A good man, attached to a friend who does not deserve his loyalty." Wickham shook his head with a regret that appeared entirely genuine. "I should not speak of it. I have said too much already."
But he had said enough. The story sat in Elizabeth's mind like a key fitting a lock, and everything she had observed about Darcy clicked into place.
It confirmed everything. Every cold word, every stiff response, every moment of pride and silence and distance. He was not shy, as Charlotte suggested. He was not kind, as the piginsisted. He was a man who wielded power carelessly and hurt people who could not fight back.
She looked at Wickham and saw a victim. She looked at Darcy, in her memory, and saw a villain.
Truffles pressed against her neck, making the thin, high squeal she produced when she was frightened. A small, distressed sound.
Elizabeth held the pig tighter and did not listen.
They parted at the end of the high street. Wickham bowed with his easy grace. Jane, who had been walking ahead with the other officers, rejoined Elizabeth.
"He seems very pleasant," Jane said.
"He is more than pleasant. He is everything a young man ought to be." Elizabeth paused. "And he has been very badly treated by someone we both know."
"By Mr. Darcy?"
Elizabeth told her the story. Jane listened with growing concern and the soft, troubled expression she wore when presented with evidence that a person she wished to think well of had done something unforgivable.
"There must be some misunderstanding," Jane said. "Mr. Darcy cannot be so bad as that."
"Mr. Darcy is exactly so bad as that."
They walked home. Jane was quiet, thoughtful, turning the story over with the careful deliberation she applied to all information that challenged her desire to think well of people. Elizabeth was not quiet. Elizabeth was angry, the clean, bright anger of a person who has had a suspicion confirmed, and she talked about Wickham and Darcy and injustice and privilege with a fluency that surprised even her.
"He apologised to me at the ball," she said. "For the insult at the assembly. He said he was wrong and that he had thought about it every day."
"That speaks well of him," Jane said.
"It speaks of guilt, not goodness. A man can apologise for one cruelty while committing a hundred others." She paused. "He denied Wickham a living. His own father's wish. What kind of man does that?"
Jane had no answer. Elizabeth did not need one. She had already decided.
