Page 5 of The Power of Refusal

M r Bingley appeared in the parlour of her aunt and uncle Gardiner’s home on Gracechurch Street just days after Elizabeth’s arrival.

Whilst Jane gathered herself and removed her smock worn to protect her gown whilst playing with the children, Mr Bingley addressed Elizabeth.

“I thank you, madam, for your trouble in speaking with Mr Darcy. He and my sisters had utterly bamboozled me. For their own purposes, and against my wishes, they nearly convinced me Miss Bennet was indifferent to me.” His words were clipped, anger simmering beneath the surface.

Elizabeth was taken aback. Mr Bingley spoke more forcefully than she had ever heard him. A fierce determination replaced his usual gentle demeanour. His brows furrowed and his mouth set in a hard line.

“I must speak to Miss Bennet myself. I ought to have done so months ago. My thanks for standing up to Darcy. My former friend has an inordinate disdain for the feelings of others. I know not whether I resent his interference or my sisters’ more.” Bingley swept his walking stick about as he spoke, as if preparing to do battle. His eyes flashed with barely contained rage.

“Jane will be down momentarily. Shall I call for tea?” Elizabeth nervously brought Mr Bingley to seat himself on the settee and introduced him to Mrs Gardiner. Mr Bingley seemed to

settle himself, his anger fading as he took a deep breath. He engaged in a civil discourse with Mrs Gardiner until the sound of Jane’s footsteps on the stairs reached him.

Mr Bingley sprang to his feet. Bowing, he said, “Miss Bennet, I thank you for seeing me after so long.” His voice was warm and sincere.

Jane’s blush and smile should have been sufficient for any man to recognise her affection.

If the pink tinge to her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes were not enough, Elizabeth and Mrs Gardiner involved themselves in an intricate matter of sewing on the far side of the room. This permitted Jane and Mr Bingley a modicum of privacy. The rise and fall of their voices was low and intimate. Although the words did not reach her ears, Elizabeth knew the reunion was fruitful.

So, Mr Darcy had readily corrected his error. He took her words to heart and admitted his deceit to his friend. Only a gentleman of good character would seek to make amends, though it must have required no small measure of humility . Jane and Bingley were now whispering together on the settee, as much admiring one another as ever. Their eyes locked on one another. Mr Bingley’s gaze was unquestionably admiring.

From Mr Bingley’s words, Elizabeth deduced Mr Darcy had lost the good opinion of a dear friend by acknowledging his failings.

As time passed, Elizabeth had come to view Mr Darcy’s every previous deed and remark through the lens of what he had called “the utmost force of passion.” He was willing to put aside her low rank, lack of dowry, and unruly relations because he loved her. Nonetheless, he was remarkably willing to disparage her family.

After his lovely first sentence, his proposal had been abysmal. His words were at best clumsy and ill-chosen as he expanded on his own degradation at the match. Her face yet burnt with the recollection of her own words. Elizabeth had allowed her own feelings to overtake her manners, her civility, and her good sense.

But even when cruelly rebuffed, he had not lashed out at her. He never lost control. He did not demean her so much as question her thinking. And he had been entirely correct when she thought of it rationally. Why should a man of his stature, fortune, and connections feel anything but degradation at the relative situation she inhabited?

Her foolish, cruel championing of Mr Wickham’s false claims, he forgave, despite the near mortal injury that the blaggard had inflicted on Darcy and his beloved young sister. That he would overcome in the face of his ardent admiration and love. How wildly, desperately had he loved her to surmount such objections and ask for her hand? How had she been such a fool?

Elizabeth had lost hope of a future with Mr Darcy, yet she still loved him. She regarded the promising pairing of her sister and Mr Bingley across the drawing room with a strange sensation. Whilst grateful for Mr Darcy’s excellent character, she felt slightly envious of her sister’s good fortune.

∞∞∞

The summer heat lingered over London like a thick, oppressive blanket, causing the city to swelter. Darcy, ensconced in the cool confines of his study, found little respite from the turmoil plaguing his mind. The once-anticipated visit from the Bingleys to Pemberley was scuttled due to the rift that had torn their friendship asunder. He sought solace in the company of his sister, Georgiana. Her gentle presence was a balm to his troubled soul.

In June, the newspaper had delivered news of Bingley’s marriage to Miss Bennet. Darcy had always expected to stand up with Bingley at his wedding. The impersonal announcement was a sharp reminder of the distance that now stretched between them. Darcy remained in London well into the summer, attending to pressing business and without a certain path forward.

Chief amongst the businesses he attended to was the matter of George Wickham. The previous year Georgiana had nearly eloped with the dastard. His poor sister’s misery and fear that Wickham would destroy her reputation made him reluctant to chance Wickham’s silence.

Somehow, however, Wickham had turned up in Meryton, having joined the militia. Darcy’s horror that he might malign Georgiana had rendered him silent in Hertfordshire. That Wickham might impoverish the merchants or ruin their daughters was not his first thought. But having confessed in his letter to Elizabeth his knowledge of Wickham’s history and propensities, he realised he had not done enough. He now understood of the gravity of his mistake.

Darcy wallowed long enough in his misery that the arrival of his cousin and closest friend, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, triggered a lengthy confession about Wickham’s presence in Meryton. The words poured out of Darcy like a torrent.

“I have long held, Darcy, we ought to have run him through when he came to seek the living the second time. Think of it. At Pemberley, no one would look unfavourably on his demise. Your people would have dug a grave for him with relish and never said a word. He has only doubled down on his malefactions since then.” Richard’s eyes flashed with a dangerous glint.

Darcy sighed. Richard’s bloodthirsty side did not sit well with his more rational, dispassionate nature.

“Yet we did not. Now he has likely done further mischief, and I failed to act. Had I stooped to his level and maligned him to the village, perhaps he could not have caused further harm,” he said, his voice tinged with regret.

Richard shook his head. “I do not agree that you are the cause, but I cannot say you should leave it be. I can find a fellow to investigate how Wickham had conducted himself in Meryton. You refused to defend yourself from Wickham’s defamation, and I doubt we can remedy that. But if he has run up significant bills and left without paying, that news will damn him with the merchant class, and likely their betters.”

Darcy nodded, his mind already turning over the possibilities. “I am happy to collect more of his markers. I am more concerned about whether any young lady was sent to the country or was fortunate enough to only be jilted.”

Richard’s lips curled into a mirthless smile. “He ruins lives like I ruin handkerchiefs. I should like to stop him with a quick flick of my blade”

Darcy fixed him with a glare. I know, I know, leave the battlefield to the battlefield. Let us see what we can learn about his current debaucheries and decide then how to act.”

The two men sat in silence, the weight of their shared history and the task ahead settling over them. The summer heat continued to bear down on London, but inside the study, an icy determination took root. They resolved to bring George Wickham to well-deserved justice.