Page 39 of Undone

"I had met Mr. Wickham only a short while before you passed us," she said. "He was introduced by Mr. Denny, who knows something of my family through my sister Lydia. Just before you came upon us, Mr. Wickham informed me that the two of you had long been acquainted. From what I observed when you met, and from what he afterwards related, I could not suppose the acquaintance had ended upon friendly terms."

She paused, hoping he might offer some explanation, but Mr. Darcy remained silent, his gaze fixed upon the path before them, as though aware she had not yet finished.

"Yesterday, at my aunt Phillips's, I had another opportunity of conversing with him." She lowered her eyes for a moment before continuing. "He spoke of you, sir... and said the most shocking things."

Darcy's step faltered, though only for an instant.

"He spoke of me."

It was not a question.

"He did." Elizabeth clasped her hands before her, uncertain how to proceed without increasing the pain already visible in his countenance. "I believed you ought to know what was said, though I fear the account can afford you little pleasure."

"I should be grateful to hear it."

She related the substance of Mr. Wickham's account without repeating every particular by which he had sought to recommend it. She spoke of the long connexion between their families, and of the provision which, according to him, had been withheld. Nor did she conceal the most painful part of his narrative, that he had gone so far as to suggest the late Mr. Darcy himself might not have been the benevolent gentleman the world believed him to be, but had privately encouraged the injustice afterwards laid at his son's door.

Darcy neither interrupted nor attempted to defend himself. Only once, when she spoke of his father, did his composure visibly falter. The alteration was slight, yet unmistakable, and Elizabeth immediately regretted the necessity of repeating words that had so plainly caused him pain.

"There was one thing more," she continued after a moment. "He said he had already heard something of the rumours concerning you before ever he came into Hertfordshire."

Darcy looked at her then.

"He claimed a connexion in London had spoken of the misfortune of dealing with the Darcys." She hesitated, unwilling to repeat the last part, yet convinced concealment would now serve no purpose. "He even ventured the opinion that whatever had occasioned the present rumours perhaps did not begin with you, but had attended your family for many years."

The colour slowly left Darcy's face.

He turned away so abruptly that Elizabeth could no longer see his expression. For several moments he remained silent, absently turning his hat between his hands, as though steadying his thoughts before trusting himself to speak.

"I see," he said quietly.

Nothing more followed.

Elizabeth watched him with increasing uneasiness. She had expected resentment, perhaps even indignation, but not this profound disturbance. Whatever Mr. Wickham had intended by those insinuations, she suspected they had struck far nearer than she could comprehend.

"And that," she said gently, "is all he told me."

Darcy inclined his head in acknowledgement, though he did not immediately look at her. At length he drew a measured breath.

"I thank you for telling me."

"I thought you ought to know."

"You were right."

His gratitude was sincere, yet it carried none of the relief she had expected. If anything, he appeared more troubled than before, and Elizabeth found herself wondering whether the source of his disquiet truly lay in Mr. Wickham's accusations, or in something else altogether.

She remained silent, unwilling to press him into a confidence he might not yet be prepared to bestow.

At length he spoke, offering it of his own accord.

"My father employed George Wickham's father for many years. He served Pemberley faithfully, and my father rewarded that service with a generosity which often exceeded prudence. Wickham benefited from it throughout his youth."

"That much corresponds with his account."

"As it must. A falsehood is most readily believed when it is supported by sufficient truth." Darcy's hand closed briefly at his side before he mastered the movement. "My father intended him for the church and expressed his wish to present him with a valuable living when it became vacant. That intention, however, depended entirely upon Wickham's taking orders."

"And he did not choose to do so?"