Note: Sorry if this shows up as a new chapter; it's the prologue that's new! :)
Thank you so much to everyone who engaged with the story this week! I'm afraid my schedule is packed for the next couple of weeks. I still intend to post on Tuesdays, but it might not be until later in the evening and I definitely won't have time to reply to reviews. I really do appreciate you guys' input on the story though! And your encouragement has really made working on the story much more fun :)
Thanks to my betas, Sara and Dawn!
Please do let me know if you notice mistakes—I really appreciate having them pointed out now!
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Frerichs
Elizabeth tore a leaf off the bush she stood by and rolled it around in her fingers. In an effort at politeness, she was curtailing her morning ramble and so had taken the path to a nearby stream rather than hiking all the way to Oakham Mount. Ice and water contended for possession of the stream much as her thoughts of Mr. Darcy contended with those regarding the Letter-writer.
She had needed to escape, unable to think clearly in the midst of Mr. Collins's unending chatter. The man had been punctual to the minute, causing Elizabeth to wonder if he had instructed the coachman to halt for several minutes out of sight before reaching their house. From the moment he had alighted to the moment he retired for the night, he had scarcely stopped speaking. Every thought must be expressed in as many words possible, every item in Longbourn was in need of admiring, and praise must be heaped upon the ladies of the household in overflowing measures—after he had told her father that he practiced compliments, the uncharitable thought that he appeared to be attempting to utilise every single one in his arsenal in the space of an evening popped into her mind. And when he had offended her mother by asking which of his cousins ought to be thanked for dinner (despite Mrs. Bennet's firm belief that young ladies did not learn how to cook—they learned to manage a kitchen), he had apologised for a quarter of an hour.
If only metaphorical ice would stop up the man's wellspring of comments as the ice had stopped up portions of the stream, forcing the water below the smooth surface.
A mere six weeks ago, she would have found the whole thing as diverting as her father did; his eyes had positively danced with suppressed glee as he watched Mr. Collins throughout the evening—though perhaps her father's amusement was due to the fact that he could escape Mr. Collins's drivel by claiming estate business and retreating to his library.
Regardless, Elizabeth had desperately needed a moment alone to think. Mr. Collins had inadvertently provided another piece to the puzzle of the Letter: Rosings, whence the Letter had been written, was Lady Catherine de Bourgh's estate in Kent. How Mr. Darcy was connected to such a place remained a riddle. Not to mention that Mr. Darcy's capricious behaviour, seemingly attempting an awkward compliment one night and then acting as though he could not care less that it might be some time before he saw her again on her last day at Netherfield, had left her baffled and once more questioning his identity as the Letter-writer. Perhaps a servant had forged his handwriting?
But no, that was absurd. No servant would go to so much trouble, and besides, the Bingley household had not been in Hertfordshire when she had found the Letter. In fact, neither had Mr. Darcy. Once more the disturbing possibility that it had not been placed by human hands broke free from where she had locked it away. No, time enough to consider that later. For now, proving the Letter's veracity was more important than concerns about how and why it was at Oakham Mount.
Well, Mr. Collins would be glad to expound on Lady Catherine should she desire to listen to endless examples of the lady's beneficence. Perhaps hidden amidst all that chaff would be another clue.
Or perhaps not, Elizabeth thought with a sigh several hours later. Mr. Collins had accompanied them to Meryton and, in search of clues, she had led the conversation towards Rosings and Lady Catherine. Unfortunately, she had not even been able to mention Mr. Darcy's name as her cousin rambled on and on, scarcely allowing even monosyllabic answers to his enthusiastic descriptions of Rosings itself, Lady Catherine, and "the many charitable acts she, in her beneficence, had showered upon those in the surrounding countryside." At least they would soon reach their Aunt Phillips's house and there would be a break in the man's blathering while he was introduced.
Desperate for distraction, her attention was caught at once when her sisters pointed out a young man of most gentlemanlike appearance walking with an officer on the other side of the road. Both gentlemen bowed as they passed.
Lydia proclaimed the officer to be Denny, whom she very much wished to speak with, and so, without any regard for propriety's sake, she and Kitty hurried across the street, ostensibly in pursuit of a bonnet in the shop opposite them. The rest of them followed—Jane and Elizabeth in hopes of curtailing their unruly sisters, and Mr. Collins trailing behind them like a lost puppy. The two young gentlemen obligingly returned to where the Bennet party stood by the shop.
Elizabeth studied the gentlemen in front of her. When she had met Lieutenant Denny, he had seemed like a respectable young man. He had entered the militia out of true concern for his country and hopes of earning enough money to support his aged mother and was, supposedly, a model soldier. Mrs. Bennet had even expressed once or twice that were not for his near-penury, she should have tried to secure him for one of her daughters. The gentleman accompanying him was quite handsome, and the man's open smile, elegant clothes, and polite bearing left little doubt that he was a true gentleman. Lydia and Kitty would be wild to attract his attention.
Her youngest two sisters greeted Lieutenant Denny the moment they were reasonably close; Elizabeth could not prevent the comparison to hounds setting upon a fox from springing to mind.
"Miss Kitty. Miss Lydia," Lieutenant Denny replied, beaming at them. He greeted the rest of them and then turned to the young man beside him. "May I introduce my friend, Mr. Wickham, who has just accepted a commission in the corps?"
Mr. Wickham was real.
Elizabeth's thoughts spun, and she only just managed a credible response to the introduction. The thought repeated over and over in her mind like a mantra, nearly drowning out the surrounding conversations. Fortunately, Lydia and Kitty immediately attempted to monopolise the young man, leaving Elizabeth free to calm herself and attempt to gather her thoughts. Mr. Wickham was real, but there might be many Misters Wickham in all of England. It could still be coincidence, she thought without any real conviction. But, given the severity of the Letter-writer's charges, she ought to make certain of his identity.
"And where are you from, Mr. Wickham?" Elizabeth asked the moment there was a break in the conversation.
"Up north in Derbyshire," Mr. Wickham replied, his very tones couched in such sweet elegance that she believed he could charm the birds from their nests should he desire it.
Elizabeth suppressed a tingle of unease—she did not yet know that this man was a cad of the worst sort. Indeed, were she to judge only on her feelings and his manner, she would not have taken him for a wolf in sheep's skin. Just because he had resided near Mr. Darcy did not make him culpable of the awful things the Letter-writer had professed. "Do you miss the peaks then?"
"I do," he admitted, his eyes taking on a faraway cast. "But I am quite happy to be here," he continued, his gaze returning to her and then encompassing the group. "Everyone has been so friendly in Meryton that I already feel quite at home; it is balm for any homesickness I might be tempted to indulge."
"That is just because you are such a good fellow, Wickham," Lieutenant Denny said.
Mr. Wickham smiled. "I try."
The sound of horses filled the air, and Elizabeth turned to find Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley approaching. She glanced at Mr. Wickham, but he was speaking to Lydia, his head bowed to catch her words as though they were the most important things he would hear in his life.
Mr. Bingley immediately dismounted and drew near Jane, bowing over her hand. "I was on my way to Longbourn to inquire after your health, Miss Bennet. I do hope you are fully recovered."
A blush stole over Jane's cheeks. "I am. Thank you, Mr. Bingley."
Mr. Darcy bowed, murmuring the usual civilities.
Elizabeth could not tear her eyes away from his face as he surveyed the group, waiting for him to notice Mr. Wickham. The moment when Mr. Darcy saw Mr. Wickham (and Mr. Wickham likewise became aware of Mr. Darcy) was so fraught that a blind man could have seen the tension at once; Mr. Darcy's face grew ruddy, his expression stonier than normal (something Elizabeth would not have believed possible had she not seen it), and Mr. Wickham turned white.
A breath later, Mr. Wickham touched his hat and Mr. Darcy returned the salutation disdainfully. Elizabeth studied both of them, attempting to puzzle out the emotions that evidently bubbled so close to the surface of both men. Mr. Wickham seemed just as genial as previously, continuing his conversation with Kitty, Lydia, and Mr. Denny; however, in addition to his pale countenance, a slight tremor passed through his frame every so often—so slight that Elizabeth doubted anyone else noted it or even that she would have noted it had she not been looking for fear. Mr. Darcy's flint-like expression moved only when the muscles in his jaw bunched as though he were grinding his teeth, and his eyes flashed with what appeared to be barely suppressed rage.
If Mr. Wickham had indeed attempted an elopement with Miss Darcy, one would expect such a rage on Mr. Darcy's part and such fear on Mr. Wickham's. But if it were true, why had not Mr. Darcy ensured Mr. Wickham was no longer free to prey on innocent young women? He could not publicly expose the situation involving his sister, but surely he could have done more than write him a letter after discovering the cad's behaviour with Miss Darcy?
If only she had a window into his thoughts on the matter.
Darcy's head spun. He could not pay attention to anything save that—that blackguard! How dare the man enter his presence! Only his love for Georgiana prevented him from throttling Wickham here and now—that and the fear that he might lose control of himself and be liable for murder.
Fortunately, Bingley's manners came to his rescue. His friend refrained from keeping the young ladies endlessly standing on the street and began taking his leave.
Darcy's only thought was to escape Wickham, and so he gave his own curt goodbyes and stalked back to his horse. He immediately kicked Caesar into a rapid trot, trying to get as far from the dastard as quickly as possible without causing a scene. It wasn't until they reached the outskirts of Meryton that he noticed Bingley trying to get his attention.
"I say, are you all right, Darcy?" Bingley asked. "I will be surprised if you have heard a word I have said in the past five minutes, and you ignored Lady Lucas altogether."
Darcy suppressed a grimace. "I am fine. Merely annoyed that Wickham has seen fit to inflict his person upon me once again."
Bingley's eyes widened. "You know Mr. Wickham?"
"He is the son of my father's late steward. His father was an honourable man, and my father attempted to further young Wickham's career by paying for his schooling, but Wickham squandered the money on vice and attempted to—steal from us."
"What a wretch! I am not surprised you do not wish to be bothered by him. It is too bad he has taken a commission—although perhaps he will not last. Or he may have reformed," Bingley suggested in cheery tones. "If not, we will just avoid him."
Darcy nodded, not trusting his tongue; Wickham would never reform. His fingers curled around the reins until they creaked. He would do nothing to bring even a hint of scandal to Georgina's reputation, but, oh, he wished he could ensure that man never entered his presence again. How Wickham had found him and what mischief he intended remained a mystery.
Bingley began expounding on Miss Bennet's increased health, prattling on about how her complexion had improved and how he was pleased she had walked to Meryton without fatigue. Surely that indicated she would be able to attend his ball if he held it next week. Didn't Darcy agree?
Darcy responded at the appropriate moments, but his thoughts continued to wander back to what Wickham was doing here until Bingley finally fell blessedly silent as they finished the ride to the fields they were inspecting.
Blackmail? Wickham was intimately familiar with Darcy's dislike of gossip due to Darcy's many opportunities to silence the scandal that clung to Wickham. Darcy had been unwilling to pain his father with the knowledge that his favourite was a wretched human being, and so he had spent his school years constantly smoothing over and hiding the "school boy tricks," as Wickham called them, that followed Wickham at every turn.
If it meant saving Georgiana's reputation, he might pay Wickham to keep quiet. Fortunately, it was not entirely up to him. As Georgiana's other guardian, Colonel Fitzwilliam had a say in what occurred with her, and Wickham knew it. Colonel Fitzwilliam had longed to run Wickham through for years, and even the mention of him left Wickham sweaty and shaking. No, Wickham would not dare blackmail the Darcys lest Darcy remove the constraints he had placed upon Fitzwilliam.
Nor would Wickham dare to make Georgiana's indiscretions public—largely for the same reason, but also because he would lose the use of said indiscretions without having gained much personally. Wickham preferred to hold such things over his victim's heads until the moment when they could do the most damage.
Could it be simple chance that had brought them both to Hertfordshire? After all, if the man were here merely to wreak havoc on Darcy's life, he would hardly have needed to risk military discipline when he inevitably deserted. Nor was it Wickham's style to give advance warning to his victims—he preferred to seduce and befuddle them, and only when victory was in his grasp did he show his true colours. If he had been planning retribution on Darcy for imagined wrongs, he would not have stepped out of the shadows until the damage had been done. So perhaps it was simply ill-fated chance.
Regardless, Darcy intended to assiduously avoid Wickham for the rest of his visit, and he only hoped that Miss Elizabeth would be wise enough to see through the man's deceptions.
Elizabeth forced a smile as Mr. Wickham took the seat next to her. She had half-hoped, half-feared that he would avoid her this evening. After their introduction yesterday, the group had continued on to Aunt Philips's where her aunt had invited them all, including Mr. Collins and Mr. Wickham, to a small party tonight.
Mr. Collins had spent much of yesterday gushing over Aunt Philips's kindness, first to the lady herself upon her invitation and second to Elizabeth's mother last evening. Tonight had followed the pattern as he spent the entirety of fifteen minutes expounding on how lovely Mrs. Philips's drawing-room was, how very like the small summer breakfast-parlour at Rosings it was, and how lovely (and expensive) Rosings was in general.
As Mr. Wickham sat, Elizabeth could not but notice the discontented looks that spread over almost every young lady's features. The man wore his uniform well—the red and gold only enhancing his already handsome features, elegant manners, and graceful carriage. Truly, were it not for the character evils she suspected, Elizabeth would have said he put all the other officers to shame. Hopefully, the night's events might shed some light upon whether said evils existed.
Despite choosing a commonplace topic—the weather—Mr. Wickham infused it with such zest that she wondered whether he had studied small talk. It would be a useful skill for presenting oneself as respectable. Then, when the card tables were brought out, Mr. Wickham remained at her side, apparently delighted to play lottery with her and Lydia.
"How far from Meryton is Netherfield?" Mr. Wickham inquired once Lydia was fully engrossed in the game.
"Within an easy distance."
"And—and how long has Mr. Darcy been staying there?"
Elizabeth hesitated—although she longed to hear Mr. Wickham's side of the events in the Letter, she highly doubted he would admit to any wrongdoing if the Letter-writer were correct. "About a month. He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand," she prompted.
"Yes, his estate there is a noble one," he said with a nod. "A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself; for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy."
Elizabeth widened her eyes. "Oh?"
"You may well be surprised, Miss Elizabeth, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably did, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?"
"Only a very little. I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I—" Elizabeth hesitated, unwilling to speak ill of the man to one who had apparently injured him most intimately. "He is not as affable as Mr. Bingley, is he?"
"I have no right to give my opinion as to his being affable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your own family," he said with studied nonchalance.
Elizabeth examined him from under her lashes as she ostensibly scrutinised her cards. Mr. Wickham appeared to be almost eager for her response. If she defended Mr. Darcy, Mr. Wickham would surely conceal whatever quarrel he had with the man. If she denigrated his character, surely Mr. Wickham would be less on guard and might let fall some clues. Yet, after the tangle her heart and mind were in over Mr. Darcy's true nature, she could not imagine speaking ill of him. Perhaps the bare truth would suffice.
"As I say, he is not the most agreeable of men. His pride prevents him from being well-liked in Hertfordshire."
"I cannot pretend to be sorry that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with him I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen."
Elizabeth's heart sped up as she saw his implication—those who believed Mr. Darcy to be a good man were blinded or frightened. And, of course, Mr. Wickham was implying that she herself had been intelligent and brave to see the "truth" about Mr. Darcy. The manipulation was so slight, a mere shift in perspective, that she doubted she would have even noticed had she not been paying close attention.
She forced a smile. "I should take him, even on my slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man." Except of course for when he was concerned about her. She reminded herself of his insult upon meeting her and subsequent ambivalent behaviour. Just because he had given her a glimpse behind his facade, that did not excuse his arrogance and poor behaviour the rest of the time.
Mr. Wickham only shook his head, as the game required attention, though Elizabeth could scarcely spare thought for a mere game in the midst of this conversation. When he had chosen to sit next to her, she had believed it to be the sight of a friendly face, a person he had already met, that had drawn him. Now, she wondered if he had an ulterior motive—perhaps the fact that Mr. Darcy had chosen to speak to her first among her sisters yesterday had convinced him that she knew Mr. Darcy better than the rest of Hertfordshire?
"I wonder," he began, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer."
Elizabeth considered how best to gather the information she desired. "I do not know; I heard nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. Although I have heard he has a sister to whom he is devoted; perhaps he will not long absent himself from her."
Mr. Wickham gave her a lopsided smile. "Yes, I believe that his pride in being proclaimed an excellent brother has made him a kind and careful guardian."
"Mr. Darcy does seem to possess an abundance of pride," Elizabeth agreed. "What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?"
Mr. Wickham shook his head mournfully. "I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me great pain to speak ill of a Darcy—"
Despite his having already spoken ill of Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth only nodded encouragingly.
"—but she is too much like her brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her and superintends her education."
Elizabeth swallowed down the wave of disgust that swept over her at Mr. Wickham's comments. If, as seemed now very likely, the man had plotted to ensnare the girl he had known as a child and then followed through—what an absolute snake! It was only with the greatest willpower that she managed to keep her voice level as she replied. "How unfortunate that she should follow in her brother's footsteps in this matter—particularly at such a young age. You must be distraught by such a change in her."
"Yes, it was with great sorrow that I witnessed the change in her."
"People often change as they grow into adulthood, of course. Perhaps she needs only an example, other than her brother's, to follow—particularly if the change is of but little duration."
Mr. Wickham tensed before shaking his head sorrowfully. "I am afraid that my break with her brother has forever put her out of my reach, so I will never know if such a thing occurs."
Elizabeth frowned, trying to convey only empathy for the man, despite the thoughts that raced through her mind.
"We are not on friendly terms," he continued, "and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding him but what I might proclaim to all the world—a sense of very great ill-usage and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father."
Could such an explanation be reasonable? Mr. Wickham had looked positively terrified for an instant yesterday morning when he had first seen Mr. Darcy. But perhaps she had seen what she had expected to see? If Mr. Wickham were really cut to the heart by the loss of a dear friend and merely reminded of that fact by Mr. Darcy's presence . . . but then why would he speak so of Miss Darcy?
Mr. Wickham moved on to more general topics—Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society—appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially with gentle gallantry. Eventually, he introduced the topic of why he had joined the Meryton corps and how he ought to have instead been in possession of a most valuable living were it not for Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth blinked at him as though she had not read the tale a hundred times since the advent of the Letter and tried to disguise the slight tremor in her fingers. His tale was alarmingly close to the Letter-writer's—much more and she would no longer be able to discount any part of the Letter's accuracy, save for misunderstandings on the part of the Letter-writer. "Indeed!"
"Yes. The late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply and thought he had done it; but when the living fell it was given elsewhere."
Her breath caught as another fact was confirmed—Mr. Wickham was Mr. Darcy's godson. "Good heavens! How could that be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?" The Letter-writer's words played through her mind. He resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. No legal redress would be necessary or possible if such an exchange had been made. "He ought at least to have provided you with some monetary recompense if he refused to give you the living!"
Mr. Wickham's eyes widened before his features once more settled into gentle sorrow as he explained that the bequest had been informal and thus no legal redress was possible. Mr. Darcy had refused him for no discernable reason simply because "we are very different sort of men, and he hates me."
"How shocking! You must be so distressed to have completed your education only to lose that which had been its end goal."
"Unfortunately, due to Mr. Darcy's intransigence, I was unable to pursue such an education. Thus you see me now, a mere lieutenant, resolved to serve my fellow man as I serve my Queen instead of serving in a parish."
Which left years of his life unaccounted for—did he truly believe her to be a simpleton? With an internal sigh, she pasted on a look of empathetic distress. "Such a person deserves to be publicly disgraced!"
"Some time or other he will be—but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him."
What did he suppose he was doing now? she thought with annoyance. It certainly sounded as though he was exposing Mr. Darcy for a proud, disagreeable, unworthy man of the lowest order.
"But what can have been his motive? Why would he have behaved so cruelly?" she asked.
"A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy," Mr. Wickham said seriously. "Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was often given me."
Mr. Wickham must never have heard that those emotions which one accuses another of are very often those which one is experiencing; the man must suffer the cruellest jealousy towards Mr. Darcy to speak of it so explicitly. And perhaps it was not so odd if he had grown up as Mr. Darcy's steward's son, the doors open to luxury at all times and yet never quite belonging there . . . the Letter-writer had even freely admitted that Mr. Darcy senior had been very fond of the younger Mr. Wickham.
"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this," Elizabeth said slowly. "Though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him. I do not suppose you have any proof of your assertions?"
Mr. Wickham visibly started.
"Forgive me, sir," she said hastily, scrambling for words. "I did not mean to imply I doubt your word as a gentleman. It is only that—the tale is so horrid. I would like to know that I did not think ill of an acquaintance without pretext."
"Well, that is, I am sure that I do not know what kind of proof I might provide. Forgive me if I have offended you with my tale of woe."
Mr. Wickham looked both unnerved and insulted, and Elizabeth supposed that it had been a long time since a recipient of his charm had dared to doubt a word that came from his mouth.
There was a moment of awkwardness, and neither knew how to continue. Fortunately, Lydia required their attention and the subject was dropped until after the whist party broke up. Mr. Collins, apparently unable to remain silent for moments at a time, began enumerating his losses to Mrs. Philips and once more tied the topic to Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Mr. Wickham, rallying from his earlier upset, leaned closer. "Is Mr. Collins intimately acquainted with the de Bourgh family?" he asked in a low voice.
Elizabeth's attention was caught immediately; perhaps Mr. Wickham could explain how Mr. Darcy was connected with Rosings. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long. Are you acquainted with the de Bourghs?"
"I have not seen them for many years; however, Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters. Consequently, she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy, and thus I have had several occasions to meet her. I am afraid she is very like her nephew; her pride and insolence make her difficult to like. Very disagreeable."
And that explained why Mr. Darcy would be at Rosings; although it did little to explain why he would write to her from there. The Letter sounded very immediate, as though written in the heat of the moment rather than crafted and mailed—not to mention that it lacked an address. How frustrating that the answers she was gathering so often spawned new questions. "That is too bad. It is fortunate you are not often required to be in her presence then."
"Indeed." He paused for a moment. "Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and Mr. Darcy will unite the two estates."
Elizabeth suppressed a frown. If that were so, then why had Mr. Darcy purportedly proposed to her? She could not imagine him doing such a thing; he was too bound by duty and propriety. "I am surprised Mr. Collins did not inform us of such."
"I do not believe it is common knowledge yet, but to one who has been intimately connected to the family for so many years, it is no secret."
"And how old is Miss de Bourgh? From what my cousin has said, she is very beautiful—although his gratitude towards Lady Catherine may have influenced his perspective."
Mr. Wickham gave a quiet chuckle. "Perhaps. She is nearly Mr. Darcy's age; however, her health has made a marriage impossible at this time."
Though not unheard of, such a scenario seemed highly unlikely. Miss de Bourgh's illness would have to be long-standing, and were Miss de Bourgh too unhealthy to attend her own wedding for the past several years, she would not be able to bear Mr. Darcy heirs—something that would be of great importance to a man of property.
Fortunately, the game once more required her attention, and Elizabeth devoted herself to it until supper was announced, putting an end to cards. The other young ladies then demanded their share of Mr. Wickham's attention.
Elizabeth could not think what ought to be done next. Mr. Wickham's manners were impeccable, but the inconsistencies in his story indicated that he was not a man to be trusted. Despite Mr. Darcy's pride and disagreeable manner, the Letter-writer's account seemed more in line with Mr. Wickham's assertions than the man's story. Should Mr. Darcy be warned that Mr. Wickham was slandering him? Certainly, the community ought to be warned if Mr. Wickham was likely to leave behind debts and to take advantage of young women. But a letter from the future was hardly the sort of witness she wished to support in public. Nor could she make the entirety of the Letter public.
If only Mr. Darcy had not managed to make himself odious to everyone in Hertfordshire. Mr. Wickham would find fertile breeding ground for "evidence" of Mr. Darcy's evils. Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. Perhaps her aunt would be able to provide counterevidence of Mr. Wickham's character.
With that hope, she forced herself to pay attention to the party.