Page 17

Chapter Seventeen

E lizabeth pressed her hand harder against her mouth. Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, suspects ? Of course, they did both have motive, or at least, Wickham had bad-mouthed poor Mr. Darcy enough to make the entire neighbourhood believe they did.

“Indeed?” her father inquired mildly in response to the magistrate’s rather portentous remark. “Was there particular reason to suspect either gentleman?”

“I understand,” said Mr. Burnley slowly, “that Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy were known to have some history between them. Not a friendly one, from what I gather.”

“Mr. Darcy made no secret of his dislike for the lieutenant,” Dr. Jones interjected. “It was remarked upon by several people in Meryton.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks flush with heat, anger welling up inside her. Mr. Darcy had rarely ever said anything about Mr. Wickham, except to herself, so far as she knew! Everything the people of Meryton thought they knew had come from Mr. Wickham’s own lying mouth. But of course people would have mentioned the supposed feud once Wickham was found murdered.

“However,” the magistrate continued, “both gentlemen were exactly where they claimed during the time the murder must have taken place, verified by several witnesses we have spoken with. They could not possibly have committed the crime.”

The relief that flooded through Elizabeth was so intense it left her lightheaded. She had not even realised how desperately she had needed to hear those words until they were spoken. Mr. Darcy was innocent. He had been cleared completely. She closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment to simply feel the tremendous weight lifting from her shoulders.

“I see,” her father was saying. “That is fortunate for them, certainly. Though I confess I never seriously considered Mr. Darcy as a likely suspect, despite any antipathy between the gentlemen. He strikes me as a man who would resolve his grievances through proper channels, not violence.”

“Your assessment of his character may be accurate,” Mr. Burnley acknowledged, “but we must follow procedure, regardless of personal impressions.”

As the men continued speaking, Elizabeth’s mind raced through possibilities. If not Darcy or Colonel Fitzwilliam, then who? A fellow officer to whom Wickham owed gambling debts? One of the Meryton tradesmen driven to desperation? Or someone else entirely, with a motive as yet undiscovered?

She tried to recall everything she knew about George Wickham, every fragment of information that might help identify his killer. His charming manner that had so thoroughly deceived her. His willingness to spread malicious falsehoods about Mr. Darcy. His attempted elopement with Georgiana Darcy for her fortune. His clever trap of compromise, set for Elizabeth herself when she foolishly let him know how much she despised him. A pattern of deception, self-interest, and disregard for others emerged clearly in her mind.

How many others might he have wronged? How many lives had he damaged before his own was cut short? The questions multiplied, but answers remained elusive. For all her intelligence and observational skills, Elizabeth could not identify a single person she believed capable of such violence. Yet someone had plunged a silver carving knife into Wickham’s body and left him to die alone on a remote path in the woods.

Doctor Jones shifted in his chair; Elizabeth could hear the leather creaking. “If I may, gentlemen, this hardly seems the work of someone like Mr. Darcy. To stab a man in the belly... it lacks the, shall we say, refinement one would expect.”

Mr. Burnley let out a short, humourless laugh. “Come now, Doctor. We all know a man of Mr. Darcy’s position need not dirty his own hands. He has wealth enough to hire someone else to do his bidding. And wealth enough to ensure their silence afterward.”

The room fell into a sudden, complete silence. Elizabeth felt as though all the air had been drawn from her lungs. The accusation against Mr. Darcy hung in the air like a physical presence, poisonous and suffocating. Her mind rebelled against the very notion. Mr. Darcy, for all his pride and initial coldness toward her family, was a man of principle. His letter had revealed the truth about Wickham, but even in his anger, he had sought justice through truth rather than violence.

The silence stretched on until Elizabeth began to fear they might hear her shallow, rapid breathing. Her stomach churned with a sickening combination of disbelief and fear. Not fear of Mr. Darcy, but fear for him. How quickly reputation could be destroyed by mere suggestion. How easily suspicion could settle upon even the most honourable of men.

“That,” her father finally said, his voice unusually cold, “is a serious accusation to make without evidence, Burnley.”

The magistrate sighed. “It is no accusation, merely an observation of possibility. We must consider all avenues of inquiry.”

“Then perhaps,” Doctor Jones interjected, “it would be helpful to consider the physical evidence more carefully. Whoever killed Wickham would have been absolutely covered in blood. The artery was severed, you see. When that happens, blood spurts with considerable force, following the rhythm of the heart. The killer would have been drenched, particularly across the chest and arms.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard, fighting another wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. She had never considered the practical details of murder, the visceral, horrible reality of it. Her imagination, always so vivid, now betrayed her with unwanted images.

“Yes,” continued the doctor, warming to his professional assessment, “the killer could not possibly have walked back to Meryton without being noticed. Blood-soaked clothing is rather difficult to explain away, especially in the quantities we’re discussing.”

“So our killer must have had a change of clothes nearby,” reasoned Mr. Bennet, “or a method of concealment for the journey home. Or waited until after darkness fell, perhaps hiding in the woods.”

“Risky, to stay near the body for so long,” Mr. Jones noted. "Several hours at least; the body could have easily been discovered and somebody raised a hue and cry."

“Perhaps not, that path is little travelled,” Mr. Bennet disagreed.

“Or perhaps they did not return to Meryton at all,” suggested the magistrate. “If Mr. Darcy had indeed hired someone, they might have departed directly for London or elsewhere.”

Elizabeth bit her lower lip so hard she nearly drew blood herself. Again this suggestion of Mr. Darcy’s involvement, as though the magistrate were determined to see him implicated.

“You seem remarkably fixated on Mr. Darcy’s potential involvement,” her father observed drily, echoing her thoughts. “Is there some evidence you have not shared with us?”

Mr. Burnley cleared his throat. “No, no. Merely considering all possibilities. Lieutenant Wickham had few enemies in the area that we know of, save for Mr. Darcy, a man who returned to the area after several months’ absence on the very day Wickham was killed. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

“Few known enemies,” Mr. Bennet corrected mildly. “A man like Wickham, with his apparent talents for charming young ladies and accruing debts, often makes enemies he is not even aware of, and who might not want their shame publicly known.”

The room fell silent again, but this time it was a thoughtful silence rather than a shocked one. Elizabeth found herself nodding slightly in agreement with the doctor’s assessment. Wickham had demonstrated an exceptional talent for making himself agreeable to all, while simultaneously undermining his own position through his vices. How many angry fathers, brothers, or unpaid creditors might have harboured violent thoughts toward him?

“You make a fair point, Doctor,” the magistrate conceded. “Still, someone must have seen something. A man covered in blood cannot simply vanish into thin air. I shall have my constable ask questions in Meryton again, particularly those who might have been abroad after darkness fell on Saturday.”

“And what of the militia?” asked Mr. Bennet. “Have Colonel Forster’s men been questioned?”

“They have, and none can recall seeing Wickham after one o’clock on Saturday. Colonel Forster is most distressed by the entire affair. Wickham seems to have been quite popular among his fellow officers.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Bennet made that noncommittal sound again. “I wonder if my youngest daughter Lydia might know something of his habits. She and Wickham seemed to be on friendly terms.”

Elizabeth tensed, considering the implications. Lydia had indeed been infatuated with Wickham, as had many young ladies in Meryton. Could her sister have knowledge that might prove useful to the investigation? Or worse, might Lydia herself be in some danger if she knew something about Wickham’s activities?

Dr Jones coughed. “Ah… not Miss Elizabeth, Mr. Bennet?”

“Elizabeth has herself only just returned home after being absent for many weeks,” Mr. Bennet said glibly. “And while she had become engaged to Mr. Wickham, they have had little opportunity of late to be in company. I have already talked to Lizzy about the matter; she is as thoroughly in the dark as I regarding what may have happened.”

“By all means, you should question Miss Lydia, then,” agreed Mr. Burnley. “Though gently, of course. Please let me know if she has any information that might prove useful, though I cannot imagine she will… in my experience, gentlemen do not let young ladies of their acquaintance become aware of any troubles they might be having, especially if a criminal element might be involved. This is not a matter for delicate feminine sensibilities. Ladies are not equipped to handle such distressing information.”

Elizabeth suppressed a snort of disagreement. If these men only knew how much “ladies” actually discussed when gentlemen were not present. Still, she was grateful for her father’s discretion when he only made a wordless sound of consent to Mr. Burnley's suggestions.

“I hope Miss Elizabeth is recovering from the shock of being the one to find Mr. Wickham, along with Mr. Darcy?” Mr. Jones asked.

“Who could possibly recover quickly from such a shock?” Mr. Bennet said, in tones of some indignation. “My household will be in an uproar for some time to come, I believe.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Jones said quickly. “I left another bottle of tonic with Mrs. Hill, for your lady wife. Please let me know if Miss Elizabeth or any of her sisters should require my attendance also.”

"I shall, and thank you for your consideration," Mr. Bennet said, sounding a little mollified by Mr. Jones' quick efforts to placate him.

“Well, gentlemen,” Mr. Burnley said, rising with a grunt that suggested his legs protested the movement, “I shall continue my inquiries. Doctor, I may require your presence again if we discover any new evidence.”

“Of course, of course,” the doctor agreed, also standing. “A terrible business. I do hope it turns out to be some simple matter. A drunken quarrel among soldiers, perhaps. Such things, while regrettable, are at least comprehensible.”

“Indeed,” her father agreed, and Elizabeth could hear him moving toward the door of the study. “I shall walk you out.”

The sound of retreating footsteps told Elizabeth the men were leaving. She remained frozen in place, processing all she had heard. The accusations against Mr. Darcy lingered in her mind, so patently false yet potentially damaging. If such rumours spread throughout the county, what might it mean for his reputation? For his sister? For the possible connection between them that Elizabeth was only just beginning to allow herself to contemplate?

For several long moments after the door closed, Elizabeth remained perfectly still, listening to the fading footsteps and muffled farewells echoing from the entrance hall. Only when the front door shut with a definitive thud did she draw a deep breath and step cautiously out of the nook. Her father’s knowing gaze met hers immediately as he re-entered the study, one eyebrow raised in a familiar expression that managed to convey both amusement and mild reproof.

Elizabeth smoothed her skirts, a flush rising to her cheeks despite her attempt at composure. “I apologize for eavesdropping, Father. It was not my intention, but once I heard Mr. Wickham’s name mentioned...”

“You found yourself unable to withdraw,” he finished for her. “Yes, I imagine so, and I was hardly about to reveal your presence. The information discussed concerns you as much as it does me, after all, so I judged you might as well remain and hear it, else I should only have to repeat it all to you afterwards.” He gestured toward one of the chairs recently vacated by their visitors. “Sit down, child. You look rather pale.”

Elizabeth sank into the chair, noting with faint dismay that her hands were trembling slightly. She clasped them tightly in her lap and blurted out the thought uppermost in her mind. “The magistrate’s insinuations about Mr. Darcy were most improper!”

Her father studied her face carefully, settling himself behind his desk with the air of a man preparing for a significant conversation. “Indeed they were. And yet, given the limited information at his disposal, perhaps not entirely unreasonable. Mr. Darcy and Wickham’s mutual antipathy was hardly a secret in Meryton.”

“But to suggest he would arrange a murder!” Elizabeth exclaimed, then immediately moderated her tone. “It is beyond belief.”

“Is it?” Mr. Bennet leaned forward slightly. “You seem very certain. I’m interested to know why.”

The direct question caught Elizabeth off guard. In truth, her certainty stemmed from a deeply personal understanding of Mr. Darcy’s character, one that had evolved gradually from initial dislike to profound respect. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again. She did not even know how to begin to attempt to articulate it to her father.

“You need not appear so conflicted, Lizzy,” Mr. Bennet said gently. “I merely ask what you think, not for irrefutable proof one way or another. You truly are an excellent judge of character, however much recent events may have caused you to question yourself.”

Elizabeth straightened her shoulders and met her father’s gaze directly. “I think,” she began, her voice initially soft but gathering strength with each word, “that Mr. Darcy is far too honourable to do what the magistrate suggested.”

Mr. Bennet made no comment, but his slight nod encouraged her to continue.

“Mr. Darcy is a proud man, certainly, and at times his manners leave much to be desired,” she acknowledged, thinking of her first impressions at the Meryton assembly. “But in matters of principle, I have never known him to deviate from the highest standards of conduct. He values his family name and heritage too greatly to sully it with something so base as hired murder.”

As she spoke, Elizabeth felt a curious sensation in her chest, as though articulating these truths aloud somehow made them more real, more significant. She had defended Mr. Darcy to Jane before, but never with quite this fervour.

“And beyond the question of his moral character,” she continued, “Mr. Darcy is exceptionally intelligent. If he truly wished Wickham harm, which I do not believe for a moment, he would hardly be so foolish as to arrange it while in the neighbourhood himself, thus inviting suspicion.”

Her father nodded slowly. “Logic would suggest as much.”

“And there is more,” Elizabeth said, finding that now she had begun to defend Mr. Darcy, she could not seem to stop. “The magistrate speaks of enmity between them but knows nothing of its cause. Mr. Darcy had legitimate grievances against Wickham, yet he has consistently chosen to handle them privately, protecting his family’s reputation rather than exposing Wickham publicly. And why would he do so now, months and even years after the offences against him took place? Surely he would have acted in the heat of the moment after discovering Wickham's attempt on his sister, would he not? To wait so long makes no sense at all.”

She paused, weighing how much to reveal, though since her father had read the letter, he knew very nearly as much as she did.

“I believe,” she continued, “that a man who chooses dignified silence over public retribution, even when sorely provoked, is not a man who would resort to violence, directly or indirectly.”

“It is interesting,” her father observed, “to hear you speak so warmly of Mr. Darcy. There was a time when you found little good to say about the gentleman.”

Elizabeth could not help but smile slightly. “I was mistaken in my assessment of his character. I judged too hastily, based on first impressions and misleading information.”

“Provided by Wickham himself, perhaps?” her father suggested shrewdly.

“Indeed,” she admitted. “The point remains that Mr. Darcy is not the villain the magistrate would paint him to be. He is a man of principle and honour. Whatever his faults, and he has them as all men do, they do not include the capacity for such base connivance.”

Mr. Bennet regarded her thoughtfully. “You speak with great conviction, Lizzy.”

“Because I am convinced,” she replied simply.

The strength of her own feelings surprised her somewhat. When had her opinion of Mr. Darcy transformed so completely?

“Even if Mr. Darcy had wished Wickham harm,” she added after a moment, “which I maintain he did not, he would never risk bringing scandal upon his sister by association with such a crime. Family means everything to him.”

“I see,” said Mr. Bennet, though his tone suggested he perceived more than Elizabeth had explicitly stated. “Well, your assessment aligns with my own. Mr. Darcy strikes me as many things, but a murderer by proxy is not among them.”

Elizabeth exhaled softly, relief washing over her. Her father’s good opinion meant a great deal to her, and his agreement regarding Mr. Darcy’s character felt like a validation of her own judgment.

“I believe the magistrate will eventually come to the same conclusion,” Mr. Bennet continued. “His suspicions of Darcy seem rooted more in the lack of alternative explanations than in any substantive evidence. Once he investigates further, other possibilities will surely emerge.”

“We must hope so,” Elizabeth said fervently. “For the sake of justice, if nothing else.”

She rose from her chair, suddenly feeling the need for fresh air and solitude to process her thoughts. Defending Mr. Darcy so vigorously had stirred emotions she was not entirely prepared to examine closely, at least not in her father’s perceptive presence.

“Thank you for listening to me, Father,” she said, moving toward the door. “And for not scolding me for my eavesdropping.”

Mr. Bennet waved a dismissive hand. “Had I wished to exclude you, I would revealed your presence before beginning the conversation. I am hardly so old and distracted I would forget you were hiding in your reading nook, my dear.”

Elizabeth’s answering smile was warm, though tinged with a hint of the turmoil she felt within. As she reached for the door handle, she asked, “Father, do you think they will discover who truly killed Mr. Wickham?”

“I cannot say, my dear. But I hope so. Murder, whatever the character of the victim, cannot go unpunished in a civilized society.”

Elizabeth paused with her hand on the doorknob, something in her father’s tone making her turn back toward him. The light cast half his face in shadow, accentuating the weary lines that had deepened around his eyes in recent weeks.

“I truly hope,” he said, almost to himself, “that it will turn out to be just some quarrel between soldiers. These militiamen, for all their fine red coats and polished manners, are often rough men at heart. A dispute over cards, perhaps, or anger over an unpaid debt of honour. It would be regrettable, but at least comprehensible, as the doctor said.”

Elizabeth released the doorknob and moved back into the room, sensing her father was not yet ready to end their conversation. “Is that what you believe happened?”

Mr. Bennet sighed, removing his spectacles and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I scarcely know what to believe, Lizzy. But the alternative is far more troubling. If this was a deliberate, planned murder, then we have among us someone capable of the most extreme violence. A disquieting thought for a community as small as ours.”

“It is a bad business,” Elizabeth agreed quietly.

“Indeed.” Mr. Bennet replaced his spectacles, his expression grave. “Whatever Wickham’s faults, and they were considerable, he did not deserve such an end.”

Elizabeth nodded, thinking of the charming facade that had once fooled her so completely. George Wickham had been a man apparently entirely devoid of morals, a liar and a cheat, a man who would seduce a very young girl to further his own advantage. Yet even with all that knowledge, she could not feel that his murder was anything but a terrible crime, one that demanded justice.

“But enough of such grim topics,” her father said after a moment, visibly shaking off his melancholy. “There are other matters I have been meaning to discuss with you, Lizzy.”

Something in his tone alerted Elizabeth that the conversation was about to turn personal. She seated herself again, arranging her skirts with perhaps unnecessary care to avoid meeting her father’s eyes.

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “I hesitate to pry into your private affairs,” he began, which immediately told Elizabeth he intended to do precisely that, “but I wonder if the news of Mr. Darcy’s alibi has gone any way to helping you come to a decision.”

The question, though expected, still caused Elizabeth’s heart to flutter uncomfortably. Her father was referring, of course, to Mr. Darcy’s most recent proposal.

“I...” Elizabeth faltered, then gathered herself. “I would not wish Mr. Darcy to be connected to me if there were any shadow of suspicion upon his character. It would be most unfair to him.”

“And now that we are both satisfied of his innocence in this matter?” her father prompted gently.

Elizabeth sighed, her hands twisting in her lap. “I suppose I do not really have a choice,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady. “For my own sake, and for the family’s sake, of course I must marry him.”

Mr. Bennet’s eyebrows rose sharply. “Must? That is a curious word to use regarding marriage to one of the wealthiest men in England, Lizzy. Most young ladies would be overjoyed at such a prospect.”

“I am not most young ladies,” Elizabeth replied, a hint of her usual spirit flashing in her eyes. “And you know very well that wealth alone has never been my primary consideration in such matters.”

“Indeed I do,” her father agreed, his expression softening. “It is one of the many reasons you have always been my favourite. But if not for his wealth, then why do you speak of this marriage as an obligation rather than a choice?”

Elizabeth hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Mr. Darcy has been exceedingly generous in his willingness to align himself with our family, despite everything.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Bennet, understanding dawning in his eyes. “You feel indebted to him.”

“Don’t you?” Elizabeth countered. “Our reputation is on the verge of ruin, Papa, after my… unfortunate encounter with Mr. Wickham, and now his untimely death. For Mr. Darcy to choose to connect himself with us, despite that?”

She rose from her chair and moved to the window, gazing out at the familiar gardens of Longbourn without really seeing them. “It’s just that... I feel as though Mr. Darcy is getting a poor bargain. He deserves a wife from a family without such complications, someone who can enhance his standing in society rather than potentially diminishing it.”

There was a long silence behind her. When her father finally spoke, his voice held a note of careful inquiry. “Is that the only reason you hesitate, Lizzy? Concern for Mr. Darcy’s social standing?”

Elizabeth pressed her fingertips against the cool glass of the window, gathering her courage. “No,” she admitted softly. “I also worry that I cannot make him happy. That my initial rejection wounded him too deeply, or that the differences in our temperaments are too great to overcome.”

“And your own happiness?” her father asked. “Does that not factor into your considerations at all?”

Elizabeth turned from the window, surprised to find her father now standing quite near her, his kind eyes studying her face intently. “Of course it does,” she said. “But happiness in marriage is not guaranteed to anyone, as you well know. Perhaps the best one can hope for is mutual respect and companionship. Mr. Darcy offers that, and security as well.”

“Is that all he offers?” Mr. Bennet’s tone was gentle but probing. “Nothing more... personal?”

A flush crept up Elizabeth’s neck. “Father, really...”

“I do not mean to embarrass you, my dear,” he assured her. “But I have observed a marked change in your manner when speaking of Mr. Darcy. There was a time when his very name would elicit from you the most biting commentary. Now you defend his honour with impressive vigour.”

“Because I understand him better now,” Elizabeth said. “I misjudged him terribly at first. He is not perfect, by any means, but I now comprehend him to be good and honourable in all the ways that truly matter.”

“And do you care for him?” Mr. Bennet asked directly. “Not out of gratitude or obligation, but genuinely?”

Elizabeth found she could not lie to her father, not about something so important. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I believe I do. But that does not change the fact that our circumstances are far from ideal.”

To her surprise, Mr. Bennet smiled a little mysteriously. “My dear Lizzy, I suspect Mr. Darcy does not think so.”

“What do you mean?”

Her father shrugged, returning to his desk chair with the air of a man who knows more than he is saying. “Simply that no man goes to such lengths for a family he disdains, or for a woman he merely desires to possess. His actions speak of deeper sentiments.” Mr. Bennet leaned forward, his expression unusually earnest. “Lizzy, if you truly care for him, do not reject his suit out of some misplaced concern that you are somehow not worthy or that your family connections make you unsuitable. The man has clearly considered all of this and found it no impediment to his happiness.”

Elizabeth felt a curious lightness in her chest, as though a weight she hadn’t fully acknowledged had suddenly been lifted. “You believe he truly loves me, then? Despite everything?”

“I believe,” her father said carefully, “that he would not have renewed his addresses following what – knowing you – was an absolutely crushing rejection, if his feelings had diminished in any way. And I believe that my clever, beautiful Lizzy deserves happiness with a man who appreciates her exceptional qualities, regardless of her family’s occasional... eccentricities.”

A small smile touched Elizabeth’s lips. “You are being remarkably sentimental, Father.”

“A momentary weakness,” he assured her, his familiar ironic tone returning. “I shall be back to my usual cynical self by dinner, never fear.”

Elizabeth stared at him, feeling strangely buoyant. Her father’s words had shifted something fundamental in her perception of the situation. Perhaps she had been too focused on what she owed Mr. Darcy, on the practical aspects of their potential union, rather than on what they might build together based on mutual respect and understanding.

“Thank you, Father,” she said sincerely. “You have given me much to think about.”

“That is my primary function as a parent, I believe,” Mr. Bennet replied with a small smile. “To occasionally provide food for thought, in between managing your mother’s nerves and your younger sisters’ follies.”

Elizabeth laughed, the sound lighter than she had expected. “A role you perform admirably, sir.”

She moved toward the door once more, but paused before opening it. “I do not yet know what my final answer to Mr. Darcy will be,” she said thoughtfully. “But I promise to consider it with an open heart as well as a clear head.”

“I would expect nothing less from you, my dear,” her father replied. “And whatever you decide, you have my support.”

Elizabeth nodded, grateful for his understanding. As she left the study, gently closing the door behind her, she found her thoughts turning not to obligation or practicality, but to the expression in Mr. Darcy’s eyes when he had last spoken of his feelings for her. Perhaps her father was right. Perhaps, despite everything, Mr. Darcy did not consider himself to be making a poor bargain at all.