Page 41 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived
T hat night, Darcy lay in his bed, considering the events of the day. He had not expected Elizabeth to be of much assistance with Mrs. Engel’s cords, but once more, she had surprised him.
His thoughts shifted to Georgiana and to the part she had played, examining the pain as though he were a small child wiggling a tooth. It was still there. He had spent so much time trying to absolve Georgiana—unsuccessfully—and now he knew why: she still had to shoulder her own mistakes.
Shouldering one’s own mistakes. He shook his head, smiling ruefully in the dark. It was a value his father had instilled in him from his earliest memories and yet... he had not followed that value with Wickham.
Had his father known about Wickham’s real character? Or had the man remained blissfully ignorant until his dying day?
What pain could have been avoided had Darcy simply allowed Wickham to be exposed when they were young!
The fear had been real though—his father’s health had suffered after his mother’s death and Darcy had not known if the man could have borne the loss of his favourite.
Darcy blinked back tears, forcibly turning his attention to the moonlight that danced around his room as trees bowed and swayed in the wind until he had regained control. Why had his father been so enamoured with Wickham?
A memory flitted back to him—the first and only time he had tried to talk to his father about Wickham’s poor behaviour. His father had brushed off Darcy’s concerns, arguing that boys would be boys and that Wickham did not have to uphold the Darcy name.
Yet, if Darcy had learned anything over the past few months, it was that all mankind owed a debt of kindness and civility to one another and that there was no room in the world for behaviour such as Wickham’s. One might brush it off, arguing that the hurt was not being done to one’s immediate family, but, as he had discovered to his detriment, that inaction would return tenfold, the destruction rippling back through even one’s own life.
And perhaps... perhaps understanding that his father had been burdened, bowed down with grief, still did not absolve him from his behaviour either.... His father might have loved Wickham more than his own son. It seemed likely, regardless of what Lady Matlock had said. Might more peace be found in simply accepting that it might be the truth, rather than constantly re-examining the matter and trying to disprove the conclusion that left him swallowing down bitter grief? He could not change whether his father had loved Wickham more than him. Nor could he learn the truth anymore.
Regardless of whom he had loved more, Mr. Darcy senior had coddled Wickham. For the first time, Darcy could admit that. In a way, it had been a disservice to Wickham that he had not been reprimanded in his youth—certainly, his current circumstances were testament to his lack of self-control. And running from one bill collector or angry relative, after another, after another, would not result in a fulfilling life for anyone.
Darcy’s stomach squirmed, and he threw the bedclothes off and strode to the window. Leaning against the chilled pane, he tried to cool the heat that was even now flooding his cheeks as he recalled, for the umpteenth time, the number of mortifications he had endured at Wickham’s hand.
Just let go.
Trust that Wickham would face consequences. Providence had gone to great lengths to help him—could he trust that Providence would likewise take Wickham in hand? His rage had not changed the man one iota, and yet, could he really let go of it?
It felt nearly impossible. Had he even gone a day without cursing the man’s name since Ramsgate? More than an hour? Even on the Tuesdays when he had ridden out and tried to avoid Meryton and Elizabeth and Wickham, he had been avoiding the man—ergo, Wickham had affected his actions and remained in his thoughts.
He could not change so drastically, could he?
Elizabeth’s admonition from weeks ago returned to him. He had appeared unfriendly and proud when they had first met and now—now the man who had stomped around the edges of that assembly ball was an unlikeable stranger to him. He had already changed.
Darcy took a deep breath. Just as learning small talk had been a skill that required practice, he could begin practising letting go of Wickham. It would not be easy. But the thought of not having Wickham in the forefront of his mind, of not flooding his soul regularly with the bitter rage and grief that had become synonymous with Wickham’s name.... The more he dwelt on it, the more attractive such a future had become.
Mrs. Engel’s offer of freedom was a boon, despite how little her method of achieving it had felt like one.
And if he was able to rescue Elizabeth’s sister, it was apparently necessary to do so. For Elizabeth, for himself, he would do it.
Taking one deep breath after another, Darcy concentrated on allowing the pain and rage to rise and fall like ocean waves gradually receding. Wickham was responsible for his own actions, and internally railing at the man would not change the past. His father was also responsible for his own actions; he had chosen to believe Wickham over his own son. The truth settled through his soul like a deep knowing, and then a flare of light left him blinking spots from his eyes.
The bundle of cords had reappeared briefly, one burnt-red cord brightening before turning a cleaner red and then vanishing as quickly than Mrs. Engel. He straightened, an unfamiliar lightness buoying up his shoulders. He took a deep breath and then gustily let it out. One of his father’s cords must have been tied to Wickham.... He had long blamed Wickham for his father’s actions. Elizabeth’s surprise that he had not blamed her rose to the surface of his thoughts. What if he had merely buried the blame, hiding it even from himself?
He took another deep breath, trying to isolate the moment when he had realised Elizabeth had sided with Wickham. Yes, there it was. Almost too quickly to register, anger towards her had raised its head and then immediately he had turned that anger on Wickham.
He returned to the memory, mentally grabbing hold of his feelings and examining them with deliberate curiosity. It had stung. Partly because it was Elizabeth who had believed Wickham, and partly because it was yet another instance where someone had chosen Wickham over him. What had he done with his father’s cord? He took a deep breath, trying to just let the feelings be, without redirecting them towards Wickham. The bundle of cords reappeared and another cord flared brighter then disappeared.
Elizabeth had, unintentionally, hurt him. She was remorseful though and knew the truth. He sighed, wishing for a moment that he could continue blaming Wickham for all his life’s ills. It would be easier than forgiving the many people who had chosen Wickham over him. Besides, the man was certainly no saint—was it such a bad thing to blacken his reputation further?
Yes. If it kept him tied to Wickham, yes, he reminded himself. Eventually, Wickham would get into a situation that he could not talk his way out of and would learn consequences. He could not live his life scot-free forever. How said consequences had not caught up with the man yet was a mystery.
Darcy shivered, the winter air suddenly turning his lungs to ice. Wickham had learned a lack of consequences because Darcy had gone behind him, mitigating every negative consequence lest his father learn the truth.
His selfishness had created the monster.
Darcy’s hands grew tight on the windowsill. How had he not realised that his actions and inaction had not only allowed Wickham to appear a gentleman, but they had also shaped him into the man he was today? And how could he have been so selfish?
How could Elizabeth still say he was good? He had ruined a man’s life with his blunders!
No, what was it she had said? He had done the best he could. He had done his best. He had not saved Wickham out of malice, and Wickham could have chosen to change.
Still, he had played a part in shaping Wickham, and despite Elizabeth’s assertion that Wickham was responsible for his own actions, he owed it to the world to hobble him—somehow.
Darcy took a deep breath. Hobbling Wickham was a problem for another Tuesday. Mrs. Engel had said that getting rid of Wickham would not free him—nor would it prevent him from ending up with a wretched brother. Instead, he needed to work on Elizabeth’s sisters. But first, he needed to woo Elizabeth.