Page 23 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Tea was laid. Mr. Collins, Mary, Kitty, and their aunt soon took to playing cards, while Elizabeth positioned herself on a settee across from the table. Mr. Wickham returned and seated himself beside her, with just enough distance to preserve propriety.

“I hope you forgive my earlier absence,” he said. “Meryton has been most welcoming, I assure you.”

“We do take some pride in our hospitality,” she said, watching him closely.

“I heard,” he continued, “that the town throws a ball for new arrivals.”

“Indeed, every October.”

“What a pity I missed this year’s. Though I did hear it yielded some stories.”

Elizabeth gave him a sceptical look. “I was in attendance and found it quite agreeable.”

“Then I have been misinformed,” he said, eyes glinting.

Curiosity sparked, she asked, “What did you hear, sir?”

“A scandal narrowly avoided. A torn gown, I believe.”

“Ah,” she said, lifting her brow. “You must refer to Miss Pritchard’s dress.”

“The very one. I understand Mr. Darcy was the cause.”

At the mention of his name, Elizabeth’s fingers curled in her lap. She hoped the flush she felt did not rise to her cheeks.

“It was an accident. He was sincerely mortified and made amends.”

“Darcy,” he mused, “ever leaving ruin in his wake.”

Elizabeth turned to look at him in surprise. “You know Mr. Darcy?”

“Oh, quite well. May I ask how long he’s been in Hertfordshire?”

“He stayed about a month with his friend, but he has been gone for some weeks now.”

“Typical,” Wickham said. “Arrive, disrupt, disappear.”

Colour fled Elizabeth's face so swiftly she felt lightheaded. Her fingers curled so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She found herself leaning forward despite herself, as if proximity might somehow make his words less shocking.

“You speak as though you know him intimately.”

“Alas, I do. He is the cause of my present misfortunes.”

Elizabeth regarded him in silence. His tone held no bitterness—only weary disdain.

“I was raised in his father’s household,” he said.

“My father was a gardener to the Darcys. From the time I was a child, the late Mr. Darcy showed me every kindness. He adopted me as his godson. He paid for my education at Cambridge and ensured I was never in want. In his final years, he spoke frequently of his desire to secure my future. He promised me a living in the church when one should become available on the Pemberley estate.”

He paused, his expression measured.

“But alas, the son did not share his father’s generous spirit.

Just six months after Mr. Darcy’s death, the living at Kympton became vacant.

However, young Mr. Darcy pronounced me unfit for the church and gave the post to another gentleman whose chief recommendation, I believe, was his eagerness to please. ”

His jaw set as if the recollection stirred fresh injury.

“I was left with a mere thousand pounds, hardly adequate in light of what had been promised for years, and turned out from the only place I had ever called home. The rest, Miss Elizabeth, is a long and painful history of disappointment and injustice that I have carried these past years.”

She blinked. The Darcy he described bore little resemblance to the man she had come to know.

“I witnessed Mr. Darcy in a few disagreeable moments,” she admitted, “but nothing that would lead me to think him so base.”

“He harms those who trust him. His wealth protects him, but his victims are not so fortunate.”

Wickham’s words echoed too precisely, too intimately. It was as if the sentiment had been plucked from her own heart and spoken aloud.

“The Darcys are all alike,” he added. “His sister, whom I loved as my own, turned against me, too. Only their late father had honour. For his memory alone, I refrained from seeking legal recourse.”

Before Elizabeth could respond, Lydia called out in a high tone.

“Come now, Mr. Wickham, do not let Lizzy keep you to herself all afternoon.”

With an apologetic smile, he rose and returned to the card table. Elizabeth barely noticed his absence. His revelations echoed in her thoughts.

Could Mr. Darcy truly be so unjust? She recalled his gaze, steady and sincere, and the kindness that had warmed his voice.

His words, though sometimes guarded, had often brought her comfort, as if he knew precisely what ought to be said.

Elizabeth felt her thoughts cloud, a quiet confusion gathering like fog.

She struggled to reconcile Mr. Wickham’s tale with the gentleman she had come to know.

At last, though it pained her to admit it, Elizabeth allowed a corner of her mind to entertain the possibility that Mr. Darcy might indeed be capable of such injustice.

And yet, there was the subject of Georgiana Darcy.

Wickham’s narrative of her did not sit well with Elizabeth.

From all Mr. Darcy had ever said of his sister, and even from the compliments Miss Bingley had offered during Elizabeth’s stay at Netherfield, the young lady did not resemble the picture Mr. Wickham had painted.

She reasoned that perhaps Miss Bingley had praised Miss Darcy only to please her brother, and that Mr. Darcy, being her brother, was bound by bias to speak warmly of her. Could it be?

Still, Mr. Wickham had spoken with such quiet conviction. There was nothing in his manner that suggested deceit. His story had felt... believable.

Two hours later, Mr. Collins declared it time to return home. The walk back to Longbourn was subdued.

As they began their walk, Elizabeth’s heart sank. Several questions swirled in her heart. Had she misjudged Mr. Darcy from the very beginning? She had mistaken his intentions once before. Had she, perhaps, misunderstood the man entirely?

***

It was late evening before the party arrived back at Longbourn.

Elizabeth's mind remained clouded with Mr. Wickham's revelations, each step homeward doing little to settle the tumult in her thoughts.

Mr. Collins had mercifully abandoned his discourse on Lady Catherine's opinions of militia officers, leaving the group to walk in relative quiet.

Jane met them at the door, her gentle countenance brightening at their return. "How was your visit to Aunt Phillips?" she inquired, though her eyes lingered on Elizabeth with the particular concern that only a beloved sister could detect.

"Most enlightening," Elizabeth replied, though she feared her tone conveyed more than she intended.

As the others dispersed to their various occupations—Mr. Collins to the library to compose what he declared would be a letter of gratitude to Lady Catherine, and Mary, to practice her pianoforte—Jane drew Elizabeth aside into her chambers.

“Mr. Bingley called,” she said as soon as they entered.

Elizabeth, still flustered by the long afternoon and its revelations, nodded with mild interest. But her composure faltered when Jane added, “He made no mention of Mr. Darcy.”

For reasons she could scarcely admit even to herself, that omission struck Elizabeth with an acute pang. She felt it more keenly than she ought.

“He did, however, bring an invitation,” Jane continued. “The ball he mentioned while we were at Netherfield is fixed for three nights hence.”

Elizabeth tried to muster the appropriate delight, but her thoughts had already turned inward, roving back to Mr. Wickham’s account.

"Lizzy," Jane said gently, "you seem troubled. Did something occur during your visit to disturb you?"

Elizabeth told Jane every word that had passed between herself and Mr. Wickham.

She repeated each accusation he had laid against Mr. Darcy with careful precision.

Jane listened with quiet attention, offering only soft sighs and thoughtful hums as her sister spoke.

When Elizabeth at last fell silent, Jane sat quietly for a moment, absorbing it all.

“That is quite a compelling history,” she said at length, “though one cannot seem to form an opinion on the strength of a single account.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, her brows drawn.

“No, certainly not,” she replied. “But Jane, you did not see his eyes. He spoke with such ease and openness, such seeming candour. It would have been difficult not to believe him.”

Jane’s gaze remained steady, her tone gentle. “However, one cannot help but notice the readiness with which this story was offered. It is rather uncommon, is it not, for a gentleman to begin a new acquaintance by airing the faults of another, particularly one of greater standing?”

“Yes, it is,” Elizabeth admitted, though her assent was not without reluctance.

“I know you feel hurt by Mr. Darcy’s sudden departure,” Jane said gently.

“And I know you have heard things since that would cause you to question all that passed between you. I cannot pretend to understand the whole of it—only what you have chosen to share. But I know you, Lizzy. You do not attach yourself easily. That you felt anything at all for Mr. Darcy speaks volumes of his character.”

She paused, as though weighing her next words. “All I shall say is this: if there is even the smallest chance to hear his side, you ought to take it. He may not be here now, but that does not mean he will not return.”

Elizabeth made no reply. Her thoughts turned over and over, unwilling to settle.

Though her heart leaned toward Mr. Wickham’s account, there remained within her a quiet resistance, a lingering unease that could not be entirely dismissed.

Jane’s counsel was gentle but persuasive.

Still, so too was the weight of every tale she had heard since Mr. Darcy’s absence.

Would he return? She did not know. But perhaps, at the ball at Netherfield, she might find occasion to speak with Mr. Bingley—carefully, discreetly—and learn what she could, without appearing forward or indiscreet.

Either way, her mind could find no peace, nor her heart any rest.