Page 13 of Mr Darcy Bets on Love

"Mr Wickham," said Denny, behind him. "Just joined us from town."

Wickham. She had heard the name somewhere lately. She could not think where.

He was very easy to talk to. That was the first thing she noticed. He sat down beside her at the lottery table and in five minutes they were laughing about Sir William and the prints of Brighton. He told her an amusing story about a colonel's horse. He asked about her sisters with every sign of interest. He listened to her answers, or seemed to. It was delightful. It was almost too delightful, as if he had practised it.

Then, in a pause between games, he glanced towards the door and said, very casually, "I understand you have a Mr Darcy staying in the neighbourhood."

"At Netherfield, yes. Do you know him?"

"Know him!" He gave a short laugh that did not reach his eyes. "I was brought up with him. His father was my godfather, the best man that ever breathed. You will think it strange, perhaps, to hear me speak of it, when we have only just met..."

Elizabeth did think it strange. She said nothing, and he took her silence for encouragement.

"The truth is, Miss Elizabeth, I have been very ill used by that family. Old Mr Darcy meant me for the Church. He left me a living in his will, the best in his gift. And when it fell vacant, his son gave it to another man. Out of jealousy, I have always believed. His father loved me, you see, and he could never forgive it." He shook his head with a rueful smile. "But I do not complain. I only mention it so that you may understand, if you see me avoid him."

It was a sad story, and he told it well. A month ago, Elizabeth thought, she would have believed every word of it. She would have gone home burning with indignation on his behalf and told Jane all about it before bed.

But a month ago she had not stood in a muddy lane while a proud man examined a scratch on her glove. She had not heard him ask Mary about Handel. She had not seen his face when she told him Jane's fever had broken.

She looked at Mr Wickham, and his soft sad eyes, and thought: you have told this story before. To other girls, at other tables. You told it to me because you saw him dance with me twice.

"I am sorry to hear it," she said politely. "It seems a great deal to tell a stranger, Mr Wickham. I hope you will not regret your confidence."

Something flickered in his face. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his warmest smile. But she had seen it, and he knew she had.

The door opened, and the Netherfield party came in.

Elizabeth watched Mr Darcy see Mr Wickham. She saw him go white, and then very red, and then utterly still, his face closing like a shutter. Mr Wickham, beside her, touched his hat with a kind of insolent cheerfulness. Mr Darcy did not return the salute.

For a long moment nobody in that corner of the room breathed.

Then Mr Darcy looked away from Mr Wickham, as though he were not there at all, and found Elizabeth's eyes. And she saw, beneath all that stillness, something she had never expected to see in his face. He was afraid. Not of Wickham. For her.

Mr Wickham excused himself ten minutes later, pleading a headache, and did not come back.

#

Darcy called at Longbourn at ten the next morning, which was far too early, and asked whether the Miss Bennets would care to walk.

Bingley came too, of course, and within a quarter of a mile he and Miss Bennet had fallen behind, which Darcy suspected had been arranged between them with no words at all. That suited him. What he had to say was not for Bingley. It was barely for himself.

Elizabeth led the way up the lane towards a low wooded hill she called Oakham Mount. She did not chatter. She walked with her hands in her muff and her eyes on the path, and let him be silent, and he was grateful to her for it. He had rehearsed this most of the night and none of it was any use.

At the top of the hill the trees opened and the whole of the country lay spread beneath them, fields and hedges and the smoke of Meryton, grey and gold under a thin autumn sun. There was a fallen oak there, worn smooth by years of people sitting on it. She sat down on it. He did not. He stood with his back to the view and his hands clasped behind him, and looked at her, and began.

"Mr Wickham spoke to you last night. About me."

"He did."

"May I ask what he said?"

She told him, simply and exactly: the godfather, the living, the jealousy. She did not dress it up and she did not soften it. When she had finished, she said, "I did not believe him. Not entirely. But I should like to hear your side, if you are willing to give it."

He let out a breath he had not known he was holding.

"The first part is true," he said. "My father was his godfather, and loved him. The rest is a lie, or half of one, which is worse." He made himself go on, steadily, the way he would lay out an account for his steward. "My father did recommend him for the living, if he took orders. When my father died, Wickham wrote to me that he had no intention of taking orders, and asked for money instead. I gave him three thousand pounds. He was to study the law."

"And did he?"