It was not for want of inclination that he refrained from calling at Longbourn. Quite the contrary. The previous day’s parting lingered in his thoughts with a steadiness that made the intervening hours feel unnecessarily long.
Yet prudence restrained him.
Mary Bennet’s denunciation—delivered with the unshakable conviction of a reforming bishop—had unsettled him morethan he cared to admit. He had endured ridicule before. At Cambridge, there had been those who objected to him for the simple pleasure of objection—his height, his reserve, his refusal to join certain diversions. His faith had occasionally furnished convenient material, but it had never been the root of the hostility.
Miss Mary’s attack was different.
Her objections had not been flippant. They had been earnest. Directed. Moral.
She had not mocked him. She hadcondemnedhim.
Darcy stood at the window of Bingley’s study, a pamphlet on crop rotation lying forgotten upon the desk behind him. The quiet suited him. Netherfield’s tenants went about their business without interrogation of his soul.
A scratch at the door commanded his attention. “An officer of the regiment is here to see you, sir,” said the footman who poked his head in. “A Lieutenant Wickham.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed.
“You may admit him.”
A moment later Wickham entered, hat in hand, expression composed though less careless than usual.
“Darcy.”
“Wickham.”
They did not shake hands.
“I will not detain you long,” Wickham began. “I was at Longbourn this morning, and I heard about how… zealous Miss Mary was with you yesterday.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened slightly. “The younger Miss Bennets are not inclined toward discretion, unfortunately.”
Wickham shifted his weight. “I thought I ought to inquire after you. Catholicism is no small thing in your family. It never has been.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened.
“Yours as well,” he said evenly. “Our shared grandmother fled an earl’s household to practice her faith openly. It was not a small sacrifice.”
Wickham inclined his head. “It was not. But my father was not raised with the same firmness of conviction as your mother.”
“Nor was your mother Catholic,” Darcy allowed, “as was mine.”
“No,” Wickham agreed. “My father respected it. He did notfeelit. There is a difference.”
Darcy did not immediately answer. He had always known that distinction. Wickham had inherited the name and the blood, but not the burden.
“I respect it as well,” Wickham went on, with unexpected seriousness. “I do not deride it. But I cannot pretend it governs my conscience as it does yours.”
Darcy studied his cousin. There had been a time when he would have dismissed such moderation as weakness. Now he wondered whether it might sometimes be freedom.
“I confess,” Darcy said after a moment, “I am less troubled by the argument itself than by the intensity of it.”
He paused, searching for the right words to say. “Our beliefs are not so dissimilar that they warrant such malice. Wars have been fought over less—yet we stand in the nineteenth century. One would imagine we might have outgrown these prejudices.”
Wickham gave a short breath of something not quite a laugh. “One would imagine many things.”
Darcy folded his hands before him, grounding himself. “I find I am uncertain how to proceed.”
“With Miss Mary?” Wickham asked lightly.
