Page 193 of A Question of Character

“He did.”

Wickham flinched.

“He paid it,” Darcy said. “He told me afterward.”

“Ah.”

The word held old shame.

“I told myself it was nothing. A boy’s foolishness. A debt that would have been paid eventually. One lie among many little lies. I was very skilled at making sins smaller when they were mine.”

Darcy had no answer to that.

The road opened again, and they urged the horses faster. After some time Wickham spoke once more.

“I would never have used your sister so.”

Darcy’s chest constricted.

“I know that now.”

“No.” Wickham’s voice roughened. “I need you to know it. Yes, I was selfish, vain, idle, dishonest with money, careless of the people who trusted me. I will own every part of it. But Georgiana was a child when I last saw her. A shy little girl who followed you with her eyes as if you were the pattern by which every good thing was measured. Whatever I became, I was not that.”

The words struck too deep.

Darcy remembered Georgiana at ten, hiding behind his father’s chair when visitors came; Georgiana at twelve, grave over her music; Georgiana at fifteen, frightened of society and eager to please. He had imagined Wickham smiling at her, persuading her, arranging trunks.

He had built the scene so completely that it had become memory without ever having happened.

“I believed I was protecting her,” Darcy said.

“I know.”

“And I failed to ask the one question that mattered.”

“Yes.”

No consolation. No flattery. Darcy deserved neither.

“I am sorry.” The apology did not restore in a moment all that years of resentment had destroyed. Darcy knew better than to suppose it could. Yet he trusted Wickham in the present crisis, and for the first time since their boyhood, the prospect of repairing what lay between them no longer appeared impossible.

They rode on.

By the time they stopped to change horses at an inn along the London road, both men were mud-spattered and stiff. Wickham went inside to inquire after fresh mounts while Darcy sent a hurried note to Richard at Darcy House, urging that inquiries begin at coaching inns, posting houses, churches willing to perform irregular marriages, and any lodging house where a gentleman traveling with a young lady might seek privacy.

When Wickham returned, his face looked grim.

“What is it?” Darcy demanded.

“The landlord remembers a gentleman asking after the northern road yesterday morning.”

Darcy’s pulse thudded.

“With a young lady?”

“No. Alone. But he asked whether a post-chaise might be hired privately and whether a lady could be collected farther along the road.” Wickham hesitated. “He paid well for discretion.”

“Description?”