Chapter Thirteen
It was all too much; I lost every bit of control, and suddenly the hand upon my cheek was nothing but a target for my attack.
I bit him as if I were a rabid animal, feeling bone in between my teeth; his glove prevented much, if any damage, but it did startle him into dropping his hold.
He recovered swiftly enough. “Oh, my darling wishes for rough play,” he murmured, just under his breath but loud enough to be audible. “You needn’t act the injured maiden, my dear. Darcy is used to sharing his wives with me.”
I dove for the candlestick, coming up swinging. But Mr Darcy was a step ahead; a solid punch to the face put Wickham to the floor. The next moment, he was dragging the unconscious scoundrel by the neck of his coat out the door. Just like that, I was alone.
My knees gave way then, and I collapsed to the rug. I curled up, trying to make myself small. There were no tears. I only wanted to disappear, to crawl into a hole, or perhaps fade away. Wickham had ripped open my scars, humiliated me before my husband, and resurrected the worst of my mourning. I had never felt such hatred, such vitriol, and it was like poison in my blood.
A part of me urged myself to get up before de Bourgh arrived to gloat over my misery. Before Mr Darcy returned to enquire as to why I had been wrapped in the arms of his enemy. Before I had to speak of my sister.
And yet, there I sat. I ignored my inner voice, calling me to action. Everything felt…ruined.
It was a good half an hour before a pair of men’s mud-splattered riding boots appeared before me; my husband had returned, and all I could think was how dismayed Mrs Reynolds would be when she saw the dirt he had tracked in. I did not want to think of anything beyond the inane. I did not want to see what was in his face, to defend myself from his accusations. I wanted to bury my face in my knees. In truth, I wanted him to go away. I forced myself to look up instead; I am certain my expression was defiant.
His was impassive; to my surprise, he handed me a glass of water. Until that moment, I had not realised how much I needed to drink, to cleanse my mouth of the ugly taste of dirty leather. I drank thirstily, then set the cup aside. “May I bring you another?” he asked, but I shook my head. To my further surprise, he sat down on the floor beside me, leaning his head back against the settee, examining the ceiling. I am not sure how long we sat together like that; it seemed like a long while. I mirrored his position, for some time simply staring at the ceiling’s masterful paintings of miniature landscapes and sleeping putti. But at last, I decided there was no sense in delaying the inevitable confessions; I pretended I was telling the putti my sad tale, rather than an estranged husband.
“I do not know if you remember Colonel Forster,” I began. “His name is engraved upon my mind, but had not circumstances unfolded as they did, I would likely have forgotten him. It has been many years, I am sure, since you met him.”
“I remember,” he said quietly.
I continued as if he had not spoken. “His wife, Harriet, was much younger than her husband, and enjoyed my sister Lydia’s lively company. When the encampment moved from Meryton to Brighton, she invited Lydia to go with them. I begged Papa not to send her, but Mama…” How to explain? How to defend my poor, dead mother? I certainly had felt anger enough at the time.
I sighed. “After Mama’s death, I found three much-read letters she kept, tied with a satin ribbon. They were from an old lover, an impoverished officer who was completely inappropriate and wrote her bad poetry. I think she…relived her youth through Lydia’s. Lydia was so pretty, so vivacious, and all the officers made much of her in Meryton. It is so easy to believe that life would be a certain way, a much more desirable way, if only this or that had happened, is it not? Mama gave Papa no peace until he agreed to the Forsters’ invitation. Papa ought to have known Lydia was not ready for such independence. I certainly knew it. But perhaps he saw Mama in her, too, the pretty girl he once loved and took away from a life that might have suited her better. Who can know?”
I was glad my husband had nothing to say to this. If he remembered my parents at all, it would not be with admiration, and I forgave them years ago for their mistakes. They had both died too young, and I had plenty of better memories to dwell upon instead.
“I remember, you know, how you hated Wickham. He gave out some trumpery story about you cheating him of his inheritance, telling it to everyone in the neighbourhood. We all believed him at first. However, he owed so many, so much, upon his departure, I gave leave to doubt that he was quite as much the victim as he had explained.”
There followed a long silence, while I struggled to find words to explain the next, most bitter part of the story. I was almost startled when Mr Darcy spoke instead.
“George Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates and whose good conduct in the discharge of this trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him. My father, also George’s godfather, supported him at school and afterwards at Cambridge, a most important assistance, as his own father—always poor from the extravagance of his wife—would have been unable to give him a gentleman’s education. Father was not only fond of George’s society, but had also the highest opinion of him. He hoped the church would be his profession, always intending to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. His vicious propensities and the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of my father, could not escape my own observations. Father died in 1806, and in his will, he particularly recommended to me to promote Wickham’s advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow, and, if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. Wickham’s father did not long survive mine. Within half a year from these events, George wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage in lieu of the preferment. He pretended some intention of studying the law. I rather wished than believed him to be sincere, but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that he ought not to be a clergyman.”
I made a contemptuous noise.
“Yes. Well. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, accepting in return three thousand pounds. All connexion between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley or admit his society in town. For about three years I heard little of him, but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had once been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation.”
“The blackguard,” I muttered. “I hope you told him to stubble it.”
“I did. However, many are the times since when I have wondered if, for the price of another three thousand, much sorrow and trouble might have been avoided.”
I turned my head to peer at him, but he continued to watch the ceiling. “You cannot believe that. He only would have demanded more.”
He shrugged. “My sister, not many months later, went to Ramsgate for the summer with her companion, a Mrs Younge. Thither also went Mr Wickham, undoubtedly by design—there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs Younge, in whose character I was most unhappily deceived. By her connivance and aid he so far recommended himself to Georgiana that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen. I arrived in Ramsgate unexpectedly a day or two before the intended event. Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending me, acknowledged the whole. Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which was thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement.”
“Poor Georgiana,” I breathed.
“I stayed with her in Ramsgate for a month, finding a very good companion for her. It was while there that I was introduced to Anne de Bourgh, through some mutual acquaintance. She was very beautiful, very charming, and of good fortune and family. I also knew she was interested in me. The near ruin of my sister underscored the importance of finding a bride and settling down. But I did not love her. I told myself that Georgiana had learnt caution, and threw myself instead into the project of helping Bingley find an estate.”
It was odd to consider; if he had not prevented Georgiana from making a disastrous elopement, my sister’s life might have been saved. His unpleasant demeanour during his time in Meryton was also much explained, what with all he had recently endured. Odder still to think of the deviousness of it all—that his marriage to Anne de Bourgh might only have been a continuation of the plots against his family, if any of what Wickham revealed was truth.
“You were betrothed to her when you were in Meryton? I thought I heard rumours of something like it.”
“I was not. As I said, I did not love her, though my family all pushed for the match.”
“Do you believe Wickham followed you to Meryton?”