Page 29 of Such Persuasions as These (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

T he following evening, the Bennet family were guests in Mr and Mrs Philips’s home in Meryton.

Several officers, along with Colonel Forster and his young wife, had been invited to make up the party of dinner and cards.

Elizabeth was glad of the distraction, though she was unsure how she should behave towards one particular officer in the party after having seen the reception he had been given by a gentleman she so respected.

As the evening wore on, she found herself again and again in company with Mr Wickham.

He was the fortunate man to whom almost every female in the room directed her attention.

He had all the best parts of beauty—a fine countenance, a good figure, and a pleasing address.

Added to all this, he possessed a happy readiness of conversation.

This combination of pleasant attributes eventually resigned Elizabeth to his company, and she found herself less and less inclined to evade his attention.

“Have you known Mr Darcy long?” he enquired when they were outside of the hearing of others. “I only ask because…you must have noticed the coolness of our greeting.”

“Indeed, I did,” she said with a touch of embarrassment.

“I have not known Mr Darcy long, perhaps six weeks, but we have often been in one another’s company.

” She was not sure how much she should reveal to this new acquaintance, as it seemed evident that his views on the gentleman might be rather different from her own.

Her expression must have betrayed her positive opinion of the man, for his next question was made in an almost incredulous tone.

“You do not find him arrogant and above his company as your sister Miss Lydia does?”

“Some might find him aloof, but I, myself, do not. We get on well enough. And, as far as wealth, rank, connexions, and education, I dare say he is above his company. In stature, indeed, for he is half a head taller than most gentlemen in the neighbourhood.” She hoped her attempt at humour would discourage the gentleman from continuing along this negative path.

It did not.

“True, true,” Mr Wickham replied. “I am glad you do not find him disagreeable. I suppose I am just speaking out of bitterness…” Thus, without taking a breath, the handsome lieutenant went on to regale her with what she could only call his tale of woe.

Raised with love by Mr Darcy’s father, even supported by him at Eton and on through Cambridge, Mr Wickham had every prospect of living a respectable and comfortable life.

The elder Mr Darcy had intended him for the church and even promised him a valuable living as soon as it became vacant.

Alas, when the father died, the son, jealous and vengeful, withheld the living from him and gave it to another man.

“And so, here you fi nd me. A poor foot soldier with barely enough to live on,” he concluded, clearly anticipating Elizabeth’s sincerest sympathy.

“So, after his father died, he gave you nothing of what that gentleman intended for you?” she asked, astonished that the honourable Mr Darcy could even be accused of such baseness.

“A paltry sum, hardly enough to survive. Of course, he was never intending for me to be around long enough to receive it. Indeed, Darcy’s last treachery towards me was much worse than his first. He wishes me dead, you know.

Tried to kill me himself.” His final words were whispered, but Elizabeth could not restrain a loud gasp.

“He what?” she replied in a hushed, frenzied tone.

“That brute circulated a rumour about me, libel so diabolical that if true, I would have deserved every ounce of his ire. I shall not repeat it; it would not be proper for a lady such as yourself to hear. Then, as soon as his slander was well-known, he had the audacity to call me out.”

“Mr Darcy challenged you to a duel over an accusation he himself created?” She could not believe it. The Darcy she knew—the man who so detested lies—would never commit such calumny, especially not with a view to taking a man’s life.

“Oh yes, that was his aim all the time. He has wanted me out of the way since I was a lad; his father favoured me over him from a very young age, and he has always teemed with jealousy. He missed my heart by just a few inches, and my bullet caught him in the leg. I am surprised he was even walking when he arrived in Hertfordshire—that was in September, was it not?”

Elizabeth could not form a response; her thoughts were too full of a miserable Mr Darcy, wincing in pain as he hitched through the Meryton Assembly .

All of this.

Could it be that all of this was a result of an injury Mr Darcy had sustained in a duel?

No , she thought. No, it cannot be!

Elizabeth’s head reeled with disbelief. She peered into Lieutenant Wickham’s countenance in an effort to search out any indication of prevarication or malice.

She saw none. The man was perfectly ingenuous, never grasping for words or weaving about details.

There was truth in his looks as he proffered names and facts, all mentioned without ceremony.

This was disorienting indeed. She had always prided herself on her ability to read people, but this man was an enigma—how could he speak things so shocking, so out of character about Mr Darcy, of all people, and without the smallest hint of cunning?

Elizabeth felt compelled to defend the man who held her heart. “This does not sound like the gentleman I know, Mr Wickham. You astonish me exceedingly.”

“I am sure it does not. Among those he views as worthy, he can be pleasant, generous, amiable even. You will have no such report from his servants or his tenants, for he values nothing more than the Darcy name, and with that name brings the obligation to treat those beneath him as his father did. Indeed, this familial prideoften leads him to be liberal and generous; to give his money freely, to display hospitality, assist his tenants, and relieve the poor.And, as I said, his father was one of the best men who ever breathed, so he must maintain that outward show of liberality, no matter how he despises them internally. And I assure you, Miss Elizabeth, despise them he does. Every last one of them.”

This, Elizabeth knew to be wrong. Had Mr Darcy not practically rhapsodised over his Mrs Reynolds and how pleased he was to have her in the service of his family? This claim must be false. Still, the look of unimpeachable verity in the lieutenant’s countenance could not but abrade her confidence.

Elizabeth hesitated to advocate for the absent gentleman and risk hearing yet more vehement claims of his heartlessness, some of which might cause her resolve to totter.

She therefore extricated herself from the uncomfortable conversation as elegantly as she was able and drew nearer her eldest sister.

She longed to be home that she might acquaint her with these claims and have Jane’s good opinion of Mr Darcy soothe her worries and put out the small flames of doubt Mr Wickham had so skilfully set.

And she must speak to Mr Darcy.

“Surely you do not credit this tale?” Jane’s face was wrought with the confusion that overcomes one who cannot allow either side of an evil to be truly guilty. “But, then, why should Mr Wickham invent such dreadful slander?”

“Can it be that Mr Darcy has been acting a part? Pretending to be a man of principle, claiming to abhor deceit, disguising his true character all the while?” Elizabeth gave voice to the worries she had been inwardly entertaining throughout the evening.

She had related Mr Wickham’s words as faithfully as she could remember, and they had affected Jane as they had herself—disbelief, astonishment, and anxiety for Mr Darcy’s good reputation.

“I cannot believe that of such a fine gentleman,” she answered.

“Think of how well you know him. You know how honourable he is. You see the prodigious amount of care he takes of Mr Bingley and of his own young sister. You have heard him in unguarded moments. Surely your keen eye would have picked up on such inconsistency of character. No, Mr Wickham must be mistaken.”

“Not about everything, I know. I saw Mr Darcy’s agony the night of the Meryton Assembly. He was in real and true pain. He even told me he had been shot.”

“He told you he was shot?” Jane cried. “You said he was injured in a riding accident—a horseshoe or some such thing?”

“He did. I thought it was a joke; indeed, I teased him over it. It was only after I made it clear that I would not believe it that he told me of the ill-shod horse.”

“Poor Mr Darcy. This cannot be so. I hate to speak ill of anybody, but I simply cannot believe Mr Wickham’s story to be true. No doubt he has been deceived himself.”

Elizabeth loved that Jane would continue, despite all evidence, to attempt to acquit Mr Wickham of wilful perfidy. But Elizabeth could not. The more she thought about it, the clearer it was to her that the lieutenant’s accusations were patently false.

Still, there was more to the story. She did not know if it was her place to ask for all the facts, but she had to bring this to Mr Darcy’s attention—if for no other reason than to inform him of the rumours that would soon be circulating about him in Meryton.

And to allow him to deal with his accuser in the way he would think best.

She had convinced herself that this was the only motive in her intention to seek him out the next morning.

She had seen his expression, the frigid glare, and she knew he would not be receiving her attentions in the friendly manner to which she had become accustomed.

Perhaps if he knew she had his best interests at heart, he would realise she truly was his friend .

If nothing else.

Elizabeth was ready to blow out the candle when Jane spoke up. “I need not fear that you are entertaining the thought of accepting Mr Collins, do I?”

“Mr Collins? Never,” she answered in horror. “To what does this question tend?”

“He has been paying you marked attentions, and I am afraid you have been too distracted to notice. I wonder, if you were more vocal with him, might it dissuade him before he declares himself? I would hate to see him disappointed.”

Could Jane be correct? Elizabeth had often over the last two days looked up from some abstracted reverie or another to see the parson hovering nearby or staring at her from across the room.

At each meal, Mr Collins had contrived to sit next to her.

She had not given him the least encouragement, but, considering it, he did not seem like the type of man who needed any.

“You are correct, I suppose; I have been doing my best to ignore him,” Elizabeth said. Upon reflection, she added, “I thought Mary was meant to marry a clergyman.”

“I do not think Mr Collins is aware of that, though I have seen them in conference over Fordyce more than once. That is an idea, though. Do you think she really likes him?”

“I think she would certainly accept his suit if it was given,” Elizabeth offered. “Perhaps, with a little help, we could divert his attentions in hopes of a happier ending?”

Jane did not like anything that hinted at subterfuge, but if Mary were truly interested in their cousin, she was happy to help bring them together.

As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were consumed with the conversation she must have with Mr Darcy on the morrow.

She could only think she might need a distraction in the coming week should that interview not go as she hoped.

Hope . What was it she hoped for? The best she could hope was that he would apprehend her sincere concern for his good name.

There was no reason to hope he would renew their friendship, nor indeed that he would ever respect her again.

And there was certainly no hope that he would once more look at her as he had in the library only days before.