Darcy spoke at last. “I will do as you ask.”
Wickham’s satisfaction showed itself at once in his whole manner. “I was confident you wouldtake the wiser course.”
Darcy continued as if he had not heard him. “I will purchase every debt you have contracted, and I will do so without delay.”
Wickham leaned forward. “You are very good.”
“I am not yet finished speaking,” Darcy said coolly. “When your debts are secured, they will be mine.”
A slight wariness came into Wickham’s face. “Naturally.”
“And if I hear your name again in connection with Miss Bennet, in any form, in any place, or by any report whatever, I will call them in immediately.”
For the first time, Wickham’s composure failed him outright. “You would not.”
“I would.”
Darcy’s voice did not rise, nor was there any need that it should. The certainty of his manner made denial impossible. “You know very well what such an action would produce. You know the consequences, and you know I can enforce them. If I hear from you again, if I so much receive a letter from you, if I am told that you have spoken where you ought to have been silent, or even if I hear so much as the ghost of a rumour connected to MissBennet’s good name, I will act without further warning, and you will spend the remainder of your life in a debtor’s prison.”
Wickham stared at him, attempting to recover some portion of his former ease and finding none. “This is a harsh revenge, Darcy.”
“No, Wickham. This is justice. You mistake it because you have not encountered it before.”
Wickham’s expression shifted again, the last remains of confidence giving way to something harder and more desperate. “You cannot mean to make prison the penalty for every misunderstanding.”
“There is no misunderstanding between us. You came here to trade on a lady’s innocence. I am merely ensuring that you will not attempt it twice.” He let the words settle before continuing. “You will leave this place. You will remove yourself from every society in which Miss Bennet’s name might be introduced. You will not speak of her, write of her, hint at her, or permit others to connect her with scandal. If you do, the consequences will be entirely your own.”
Wickham tried one last time to recover ground. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“It is no bargain, Wickham,” Darcy told him. “I have merely informed you of what will happen next. If you had not brought me information of considerable value with this hideous attempt at blackmail, Iwould be harsher still.”
Wickham rose at last, not with his former air of careless civility, but with the constrained formality of a man who sees that he has overreached himself and can neither retreat with grace nor advance with safety. He made some slight effort at a concluding politeness, but Darcy, who had no wish to prolong the interview one moment longer than required, gave him none in return.
When he had gone, Darcy remained where he was. For a few moments he did not move at all, his thoughts occupied not by Wickham himself, but by what the interview had revealed to him. Elizabeth had not chosen to go, had not accepted a bribe or thought better of a marriage without the benefit of his connections. She had been sent away by his aunt without the slightest consideration for her comfort, or even for her reputation.
Darcy ground his teeth in fury, divided evenly between Lady Catherine and himself. That Elizabeth should have been dismissed in such a manner, deprived even of the common preparation due to any guest, and exposed to such treatment under his aunt’s authority, was a circumstance he had not imagined. He had believed Lady Catherine capable of interference, of violence in language, of every degree of arrogance and opposition. He had not understood until now the full extent to which her conduct had gone.
And Elizabeth had borne it all with no appeal to him. The thought struck him with greater force than anything Wickham had said.
She had submitted to humiliation rather than produce further disturbance. She had returned home with no attempt to make her suffering a claim on him. She had neither written nor complained, and while he, in his selfish uncertainty, had permitted doubt to stand where trust ought to have remained, she had acted with the same propriety and steadiness which had first distinguished her in his esteem.
He had been entirely wrong. Darcy bowed his head under the weight of that realisation. What he had once believed of her was true. What he had feared was false. He had allowed uncertainty to distort what should never have been questioned, and the recollection did not sit lightly with him.
Lady Catherine was worse than he had imagined. Elizabeth was everything he had thought her to be. More, perhaps, than he had deserved to hope.
Darcy rose at last, his mind no longer suspended between hesitation and doubt. The course before him was not yet fully arranged, but his direction was clear. He would leave London immediately, sparing only enough time to inform his household of what he did. Whatever explanation was due, whatever reparation could still be made,whatever hope remained to him must be sought without delay.
If Elizabeth could ever forgive him, he must beg it of her at once.
Chapter 26
The garden behind Longbourn had never appeared more beautiful. As Elizabeth moved slowly along the familiar path, she wished she could take her usual pleasure in the quiet peacefulness of the late morning. The air was warm, but not oppressively so; the sky was clear, and every part of the scene invited ease. Her ankle had finally healed, and the freedom she had regained would once have been enough to supply every happiness. But even with so many reasons for gratitude and enjoyment, satisfaction was entirely absent.
She had often imagined that a return to such quiet scenes would restore her entirely, and that time, joined with distance, would complete what resolution had begun. The experiment had not answered so fully as she had expected. She could command her spirits in society and attend with real pleasure to the happiness of those around her. Yet in every interval of solitude, grief and longing surfaced, returning with a constancy she could neitherwholly approve nor entirely regret.
Fitzwilliam Darcy would, she suspected, command her thoughts for some time. She must have been mistaken in him, if he would allow his aunt to persuade him into a marriage that would give him everything but happiness. That ought to have sunk him in her estimation. It ought to have made it easier to fall out of love, to forget him, but Elizabeth was finding both quite impossible.
Elizabeth did her best to fix her thoughts on happier things. That ought to have been easy, for there were two sources of considerable happiness at Longbourn. The first belonged to Mary. Only yesterday, Mr Greene had entered the drawing room almost before polite calling hours had begun, and before he had left it again, Mary had accepted his proposal of marriage. Elizabeth rejoiced in it sincerely. She had long wished to see her sister valued as she deserved, and in Mr Greene’s regard she found every assurance that her wish would not be disappointed. There was a steadiness in his character and calm good sense in his every action that recommended him more strongly than any display of feeling might have done. For her part, Mary had attempted to tell them about the engagement with cool self-command, but had instead spoken with a giddy happiness that left her family all the more pleased for her.
