Page 46 of Bitterness of Spirit & The Painting

“What?”

“All this— Who are you? I cannot believe you are Mr Gilbert Wilson. My father spoke of his friend often, but I was still a young boy when my father became certain that Mr Wilson had died abroad. No news of him—no proof of his being alive could be found. My father tried for years. He passed away with the regret of never seeing his friend again.”

Darcy’s voice became lower; he felt trapped in a nightmare from which he could not recover. And above everything, Elizabeth’s image appeared to increase his turmoil. There were so many questions and uncertainties, and he could not decide which one was more urgent and more important to be addressed.

“That is my biggest regret too, Fitzwilliam,” Wilson responded. “I had news of your grandparents’ passing; then I was informed about your mother’s decease thirteen years ago. I could only imagine how devastated George must have been, but I knew he had you and your sister to palliate his sorrow. Then for several years, I was away from everything and everybody. When I was finally free to do as I pleased, I hired people to gather information about the people who mattered to me. And then I discovered that George—the best man I have ever known and the best friend I had in this life—was gone. Believe me, I suffered more than you can imagine.”

“Then where in hell have you been all this time?” Darcy exclaimed.

“Abroad, somewhere in the world. In wars of all sorts, in places so beautiful and frightening that I sometimes do not want to remember.”

“You were in the army. I know that.”

“Yes. In the last years I served under the command of the Duke of York.”

“Is that where you got that scar? My father never mentioned your having a scar on your face.”

Wilson gulped some brandy and averted his eyes. “It is too hot in here; you should open a window. The scar is not from the army; George did not mention it because he did not know about it. I got it right before I left Derbyshire. A memory I must be paid for,” he whispered.

“Again you speak incoherently,” Darcy said as he opened the window. “You must be clearer and provide me with more proof of your identity. You know a few things, but you could have learned them from the real Mr Wilson. It would not be the first time someone stole another’s identity.”

“I shall provide you with any proofs you wish, Darcy.”

“So…before that…why did you come here tonight? What was your reason for this strange visit? I assume you did not just happen to arrive in Town.”

“No. I returned before Christmas. And I have been in London since February.”

“Are you…? My aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh spoke of a brother of Mrs Gardiner. It seems Miss Elizabeth and Mr Collins mentioned you to her. I am not sure you know Mr Collins.”

“I do know Collins; he is a ridiculous idiot. And may I ask what your aunt said of me? Nothing good, I dare presume.”

Darcy hesitated before replying. “She did not say much as she is not interested in things and people unrelated to her. She only mentioned the happenstance briefly one evening during dinner. So you are the one.”

“Yes. But nobody is aware that I am Gilbert Wilson, the son of a poor tenant from Lambton and the one who was your father’s friend. I introduce myself as Drake Wilson to everyone outside the family. And I would appreciate it if you would keep my secrecy for a time until I decide to make the announcement. We have only met and already share two important secrets.”

Darcy watched him in puzzlement. “Maintaining secrecy is not a subject of debate. But to whom might I betray it? Besides your family, who would be interested in your identity since my father and grandfather passed away so many years ago? I doubt anyone else besides me and my sister even know of your existence. I am sorry to say it, but even those who once knew you have likely forgotten you.” He poured himself another cup of coffee. “Besides, there is nothing to say since I do not believe you are who you pretend to be.”

“Yes, you declared that. Let me know what proof you require,” Wilson replied. “Would the word of the Duke of York be enough?”

“Only if he was acquainted with you when you were young and has seen you without interruption since then. Otherwise, you might well attempt to deceive both him and me.”

“Would it be enough to show you the scar on my chest?” Wilson inquired shortly. Suddenly, he removed his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the trace of an injury spreading from his shoulder towards his heart.

Darcy paled as he watched. “The wound you received when you saved my father,” he whispered. “I cannot believe it. It must be you,” he uttered, pacing around the library.

The visitor arranged his attire with perfect composure then finished his brandy and asked for another. Darcy refilled the glass and resumed his pacing. For a long while, there was complete silence; only the sounds of the street could be heard through the open window.

“You say you have been in London since February. Why did you not call on me before now?”

Wilson threw him a sharp glance. “I intended to, but I was not certain of my reception. To be honest, I was gathering information about you since I did not know how much of your father’s character you inherited and whether you would welcome a ghost from the past.”

“I assume the information was not favourable since you have only come to see me with regard to fabricated ill behaviour towards Miss Elizabeth. You could not find any positive reason to introduce yourself to me before now,” Darcy responded coldly, aware of the grudge in his voice.

“I confess I did receive reports of various kinds that puzzled me exceedingly, especially those from Hertfordshire, and in particular those from the Bennets. I heard about little except your rude manners, haughty, disdainful behaviour, ill nature, and selfish character. I was pained and disappointed on George’s behalf, so I searched for more opinions in London and Derbyshire, and they spoke differently.”

“Really? That is astonishing,” Darcy replied uncertainly.

“Do not blame me; I only repeat what I was told, Darcy. So today, I saw Miss Elizabeth return home in perturbed spirits and hasten to her chamber. And Miss Lucas privately informed me that she witnessed a disturbing scene between the two of you in Kent. And that Miss Elizabeth had cried; she is not a lady to be easily troubled or to cry without reason. During my life, I have seen many young women abused by men of great fortune and connection; I thought that was the case. I came to confront you about your vicious behaviour.”