Page 147 of A Question of Character

No.

He was not wrong.

Georgiana had nodded.

Still, he rang for his man.

Fletcher appeared within minutes, neat, grave, and prepared for whatever task might be required of a gentleman who had not slept well in days.

“You will make discreet inquiries in Meryton,” Darcy said. “Discreetly, Fletcher. I do not wish my name attached.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Concerning Mr. George Wickham, presently employed in Mr. Philips’s office. I wish to know whether he has contracted debts in the neighborhood, whether he frequents cards or gaming of any kind, whether he has formed any improper acquaintance, whether any tradesman complains of him, and whether there are ladies whose families might have cause to regret his attentions.”

Fletcher’s face gave away nothing. “Yes, sir.”

“You will speak to servants where possible. Shopkeepers if necessary. No threats. No coins large enough to invite invention.”

“Small coins invite invention too, sir, but less elaborate.”

Darcy smiled. “Then use judgment.”

“I shall, sir.”

“And Fletcher—if you hear nothing against him, I expect you to report that as faithfully as any accusation.”

This time Fletcher’s eyes lifted briefly. “Certainly, sir.”

When the man departed, Darcy stood alone beside the desk, irritated by the necessity of the order and more irritated by the relief that followed it. He had done something. Not enough to satisfy Elizabeth, perhaps, and certainly nothing that would repair what had already been whispered, but inquiry was better than mere brooding.

A quarter hour later, he ordered his horse.

He told himself he intended a mere ride. The air might clear his head. Netherfield, with Miss Bingley’s pointed concern and Bingley’s good-natured attempts at cheer, had become nearly intolerable. A road, a horse, and several miles of countryside required less explanation than human company.

His route, however, took him not across the open fields toward Longbourn, but through Meryton.

He recognized the choice when the village came into sight.

There was no reason to turn back.

Meryton wore the ordinary business of a market town: carts before shops, women pausing beneath signs to exchange intelligence, a boy running with a parcel under one arm, the smell of bread from the baker’s, damp straw near the yard. Darcy slowed his horse at the edge of the street.

Then he saw him.

Wickham emerged from Mr. Philips’s office with a folio tucked beneath one arm and his hat pulled low against the wind. He did not saunter. There was none of the old careless ease in his step, no performance for women at windows. He crossed to a shop two doors down, spoke briefly to the proprietor, and went inside.

Darcy remained mounted at the corner, half-screened by a cart drawn up before the apothecary.

Several minutes passed.

A woman came out of the shop with a wrapped parcel. A boy followed carrying a ledger. Then Wickham appeared again, shaking the proprietor’s hand. The man accompanied him to the door, speaking earnestly. Wickham opened the folio, showed him a paper, indicated a line, and waited while the proprietor examined it. Whatever answer he gave seemed to satisfy, for the man clapped him upon the shoulder before returning inside.

Wickham stood alone on the step a moment, rearranging the papers with care before setting off toward the office.

A clerk.

A diligent, useful clerk.