“From her own blindness,” agreed Louisa. “Caroline is attractive and has an acceptable fortune. If she sets her sights a little lower, she can still attract a man of some prominence, but only if she gives up this doomed pursuit of Mr. Darcy.”
“I do not disagree,” said Gerald. “You have my support.”
Louisa knew she had her husband’s support, and she appreciated it. Caroline could be so insufferable that managing her alone would have been exhausting. Though he was not a man who demanded respect, Gerald also had a keen sense of how much he would tolerate from an unmarried sister-in-law. Louisa counted on him to hold that barrier, for he was not incorrect—Caroline would not be happy when she learned where they were and what had happened. Charles becoming engaged to Miss Bennet would provoke her enough—should Darcy turn his attention to Miss Elizabeth, she might expire from apoplexy.
Chapter VII
Outlandish tales were the order of the day after Mr. Wickham was exposed. Elizabeth found she could not visit a house in the neighborhood or speak with friends without the subject rising between them. The longer it went on, the more ridiculous the tales became.
“I heard that Mr. Wickham is a French spy,” whispered Mrs. Long to Mrs. Goulding on one occasion when Elizabeth was in the same room. If that comment had escaped the notice of anyone nearby, Elizabeth would eat her bonnet.
“That is shocking!” replied Mrs. Goulding. “Letitia told me just yesterday that Mr. Wickham was spying French movements in Hertfordshire.”
Mrs. Long gasped. “A double agent! Wait until Edna hears about this!”
It was impossible not to look at the situation without feeling all the amusement it provoked, but she could not help the exasperation. Most of the matrons in Meryton were cut from the same cloth—gossipy, uninformed, and more than a little melodramatic. But Elizabeth still thought they should possess at leastsomemeasure of sense gained by years of life. Yet they passed stories that were so patently false that even speaking of them brought a person’s acumen into question.
The other thing she noticed was how self-satisfied Mr. Darcy appeared about it all. It was incongruous to the situation, for Elizabeth had long seen Mr. Darcy as a man without a sense of humor, a man who inspected the world from his lofty perch and deplored what he saw. The Mr. Darcy before her now, however, was a man who tolerated the tittle tattle, but never spread it or encouraged it. As the man who had exposed Mr. Wickham to themasses, he spoke when asked, shared his perspective, and never confirmed the accounts spread around town.
“It is quite simple,” said Mr. Darcy when she observed this to him one day. “That Wickham is receiving his just desserts pleases me—he has avoided accountability for so long that I feel the satisfaction for all his victims in their stead.”
Elizabeth regarded the gentleman, amusement mixed with asperity. “That is a little presumptuous of you, is it not?”
“Perhaps it is, Miss Elizabeth,” replied Mr. Darcy. “Yet I do not think those Wickham has hurt in the past would begrudge me of it.”
Mr. Darcy chuckled, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. “Mr. Thompson has been walking about these past few days with his chest puffed out like a peacock, and even my prim and stuffy manservant carries an air of satisfaction.”
“Oh?” asked Elizabeth, curious about his meaning. “Do they have a particular reason to resent Mr. Wickham?”
“Thompson’s wife—then a pretty girl he admired—is a maid at Pemberley. Wickham cornered her one day and was not willing to accept her repeated expressions of disinterest.” Mr. Darcy’s grin became savage. “Until Thompson caught him.”
Elizabeth winced, having seen Mr. Darcy’s burly footman.
“That was not long before my father’s passing,” said Mr. Darcy. “And one of the last times Wickham was at Pemberley. Wickham escaped, though bruised and battered. He had always had a healthy respect for Thompson, but now he is terrified of him.
“As for my manservant...” Mr. Darcy shrugged. “Snell has been with me since I was a boy, and was not ignorant of Wickham’s antics.”
“Then Mr. Wickham has been a thorn in your side for many years,” sighed Elizabeth.
“He has,” agreed Mr. Darcy. “I am not unhappy to see his downfall, Miss Elizabeth. It is many years in the making. Had I known how satisfying it would be, I might have done it long ago.”
“Why did you not?”
There was no judgment in Elizabeth’s question—nothing more than simple curiosity. Mr. Darcy recognized it as such, as he became contemplative rather than defensive.
“It is a question I have asked myself many times,” replied he at length. “My cousin would claim that it is my reverence for my father that stayed my hand, but the truth is more complicated and simpler at the same time. As boys, wewereclose friends—our association was not entirely built on expedience. Those memories, my father’s esteem for him, and perhaps a vain hope that he would find his way, all had a part in my reluctance.”
“That shows you are a good man, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, surprising herself by meaning it. Then she shook her head. “My judgment is not so infallible as I always believed.”
“If you thought your judgment infallible, I would be very much surprised.”
Elizabeth offered him a slight smile. “No, I have never been so prideful as that would suggest. Yet I have rarely found myself duped so easily.”
Mr. Darcy paused, considering her, and when he spoke, his tone was gentle. “Do not blame yourself, Miss Elizabeth. Wickham has had many years to become practiced at what he does. He kept his true self from my father, one of the most discerning men I have ever known. If nothing else, you are in good company.”
A brilliant smile came over Elizabeth’s face unbidden. “That is high praise, Mr. Darcy.”
“It is. But it is not unwarranted.”
