Page 35 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

Elizabeth was remarkably silent, and when Darcy looked away from his glass, it was to look at her. Her eyebrows bunched together, her chin tucked against her chest as though she had received a blow.

Wickham continued, “Darcy tried his best to be a worthy son, but much is expected of a gentleman born into such a prominent family.” He sighed, and Darcy began to wonder if perhaps he had judged Wickham too harshly. “Over and over, Darcy proved to be a disappointment.” Ah, there it was.

“Disappointment?” Elizabeth asked, clearly seeking more information. Darcy could not blame her curiosity, only her choice in asking Wickham for answers. Then again, who else could she ask? Certainly not Daniel Robinson.

“His father secured the best tutors for Darcy, sent him to the best school.” Bile churned in Darcy’s stomach. He had no good memories of that dreadful place. “Any other young man would have flourished under the guidance and attention given to him, but Darcy was proud and resentful.” Darcy clenched his fists under the table. There was so much more to it than that.

Mrs. Bennet frowned. “Traits of a young man not yet matured, no doubt. I am certain he has grown to become a gentleman his father would have been proud of.” Lord, Darcy prayed it were so.

Wickham produced the small smile of a person who could not bring himself to agree but was too polite to contradict, thus reaffirming the unfavorable impression he sought to give of Darcy: a haughty heir who believed himself above the work of managing his own estate. Darcy measured his breath and fixed his glare on the untouched plate of venison and potatoes getting cold before him. There was nothing he could say in his own defense, as Wickham well knew.

“No doubt, you are correct, Mrs. Bennet. While my knowledge of Darcy as a young man is as accurate as that of a brother, I cannot claim to know Darcy the man. You see, after the death of his mother and sister, he and his father had a terrible falling out. Right when his father needed his son’s support the most, Darcy abandoned his family, his estate, and the responsibilities he had been trained to undertake. He fled to the continent and nobody has heard from him these ten years.” Every word branded Darcy a coward.

“He will return now that his father is gone. He will have to, so he can marry Lizzy and inherit his estate,” pronounced Miss Kitty confidently. Elizabeth groaned.

“Your sister?” Wickham exclaimed as though he had never heard the name of Darcy’s intended bride. He looked at her directly. “You are the chosen one?” His face fell. “Forgive me. I ought to have been more selective in my choice of words. Far be it from me to give a poor impression of Darcy. He was an intelligent young man, and I am certain he has become a man worthy of the name he bears. I would stake my reputation on that.”

He knew very well the damage he had done. His acting skills had only grown stronger over the years. In one evening, he had slipped a few drops of poison into the Bennets’ minds and had done so in a way that inspired their confidence in him as a reliable source of information about Pemberley and its residents. And there was precious little Darcy could do to stop him.

CHAPTER 18

Elizabeth went down to the breakfast parlor early the following morning. As she had hoped, Mr. Robinson sat at the table with her father. She filled her father’s teacup, earning her a brief thank you before he returned his attention to the newspaper spread before him. Then she filled Mr. Robinson’s cup and took a seat opposite him. He stared at his tea just as he had stared at his wine glass the night before, only this morning, he smiled. She thought of offering him cream and sugar even though he did not take either in his tea.

Instead, she got to the point. “You were quieter than normal at the table last night.” She tore off a piece of bread, pretending more interest in the morsel than in her wish for an explanation.

“There was enough conversation. I had no need to add to it.”

She spread butter on her bread and waited for further comment, but none came. Very well, she would try a different tack. “Mr. Wickham was charming company.”

Mr. Robinson raised his teacup to his mouth. “Thank you,” he said before drinking. He said nothing about Mr. Wickham.

She was this close to scowling at him. Was he avoiding her prompting on purpose? Well, her subtle hints might be insufficient, but she was not afraid to be more direct. Not with Robinson. “What is your opinion of Mr. Wickham?”

He did not flinch or pause or choke on his tea… nothing, which suggested he had been expecting the question. He was an intelligent man, she knew. Very intelligent. Had he observed something she had not?

Setting down his cup gently, he captured her glance and held it long enough for her to begin to feel the impertinence of her question. Why should she care what Robinson thought? What made her think he would explain his silence when she was nothing to him? Perhaps it meant nothing at all. Most men were not so inclined to conversation as Mr. Wickham, or say, Sir William Lucas. It was entirely possible that Robinson had been disinclined to converse at dinner for no reason at all, and she had spent all the previous night worried over nothing.

Finally, he said, “Mr. Wickham shared his opinions freely for so new an acquaintance.”

True, but she did not like that reply, feeling the need to defend Mr. Wickham. “I, for one, am grateful for the information—what little it was, really—that he shared. How else can I learn what my life is to be if nobody speaks?”

Robinson’s look intensified. “You have decided you will marry this Darcy?”

Her cheeks heated. “Not at all.” She looked away, picking at her sleeve, frustrated and increasingly embarrassed. “I am not so selfish that I would deny the gentleman his inheritance merely to satisfy my desire for more freedom. But I know nothing about him, and I wish I could at least meet him before…” She could not bring herself to finish the sentence. Her father still hid behind his newspaper, but he had not turned a page since she entered the room. He was listening.

“What if he is as Mr. Wickham implied? Would you refuse him?”

Her father’s grip tightened around the paper. She would have to choose her words carefully, though she wished she could be more truthful with Robinson. “I mean to be fair and give Mr. Darcy proper consideration. However, that does not mean that I have no standards.”

“I am glad to hear it. A young lady such as yourself ought to hold the gentleman she intends to marry to a high standard.”

Something in Robinson’s eye made her stiffen her spine. A challenge. “I do.” His unwavering gaze encouraged her to add, “I expect him to treat me kindly, with respect and consideration. Of course, I would hold my own conduct to the same standard of respect, kindness, and, I hope in time, genuine affection.”

“You speak of love. Is it possible in an arranged marriage?”

Likely? No. Possible? She had to believe it so. However, the prospect of being trapped in a loveless marriage took the wind out of her sails. She could not bring herself to admit it aloud. “Do you?”

“You deflect the question. Do you fear the answer?”