Page 21 of Such Low Connections

“Do you happen to know, Miss Elizabeth, how long Mr Darcy plans to stay in the area?”

“Mr Darcy? Do you know him?” she asked curiously, recalling now how the two men had looked at one another so coldly, and yet with apparent recognition, before Mr Darcy had ridden away that day down by the river. “He is a good friend of Mr Bingley, the tenant of Netherfield Park, and seems likely to stay there as long as it pleases him.”

At the time of their meeting, Elizabeth had ascribed the reaction between Mr Wickham and Mr Darcy only to the latter’s naturally unsociable character and tendency to find all public social encounters distasteful. Likely, whatever the nature of their acquaintance, Mr Darcy counted Mr Wickham as his inferior, and would feel no more obligation to seek his good opinion than that of society in Hertfordshire generally.

“I know him far better than our manner of greeting that day might lead you to imagine,” said Mr Wickham carefully, his eyes meeting Elizabeth’s as though to better assess how this news was received.

“I would presume to imagine nothing where Mr Darcy is concerned,” Elizabeth responded with a short laugh. “Mr Darcy has made it clear that Hertfordshire society does not meet his expectations. Hertfordshire has responded in kind.”

Mr Wickham smiled to hear this verdict, a small tension in his shoulders relaxing.

“I cannot say that surprises me. Darcy’s excessive pride often produces such results.”

“Then you are not friends, I take it?” Elizabeth probed, and Wickham shook his head, a tinge of sadness now entering his affable smile.

“Once, we were friends, more than friends,” he revealed with a heartfelt sigh. “I was the son of his father’s steward and, after my father died, brought up alongside Darcy. Old Mr Darcy was the best of men and like a second father to me.”

This did surprise Elizabeth very much, and Mr Wickham swiftly read her astonishment in her features.

“Yes, I know that this must puzzle you, after what you saw, Miss Elizabeth. The loss of friendship between myself and Mr Darcy is a perpetual source of grief to me, and yet beyond my own powers to remedy.”

Intrigued by these statements, Elizabeth allowed Mr Wickham to lead her slightly aside into a corner where they could talk more confidentially. There, he told her the tale of his life so starkly and yet so touchingly that all her wrath was immediately aroused against Mr Darcy on Mr Wickham’s behalf.

It seemed that old Mr Darcy had intended George Wickham for the church and had even promised him a living that was in his gift, once Mr Wickham had completed his education and taken holy orders. Sadly, his foster father had not lived to see this day.

After the old man’s passing, and despite the clear wishes expressed in his will, the promised living near Pemberley had not been given to Mr Wickham, but to another man chosen by Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. His expectations dashed, and without other resource or prospects, Mr Wickham had been left penniless and unsupported to make his own way in the world since then.

“How truly awful,” she told Mr Wickham, Mr Darcy’s character now fallen even further in her already limited estimation of him. “How could he do such a thing? How was it even possible when his father’s will expressed his intention so clearly? Why was he not publicly censured?”

“An expressed intention is far from a legally binding order, I suppose,” replied the officer with a shrug. “As for public censure, my respect for old Mr Darcy was such that I could never expose his son, nor let his actions be widely known. It is only with a disinterested friend of good understanding that I can be so honest about the truth.”

Elizabeth was touched, both by this story of woe and by Wickham’s trust in her as his chosen confidante.

“I promise you my discretion,” she assured him, and Wickham looked suitably grateful.

“Thank you. Mr Darcy will doubtless receive his just deserts one day, but it must not be at my hand.”

“Hi there, Wickham, did you say you knew Mr Darcy?” interrupted a somewhat tipsy fellow-officer, his cheeks rosy with brandy and merriment. “Is it true what they are saying around here about his father? A certain young lady just told me something very juicy about his parentage.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Denny,” Mr Wickham said with becomingly calm dignity. “Why not take some tea and cake?”

“But is it true?” the other young man insisted, seeming unaware either of Elizabeth’s presence or Mr Wickham’s reluctance. “Is it true that his father wasn’t really his father?”

Elizabeth gasped and then looked across the room furiously for her younger sisters, guessing that Lydia was the one responsible for spreading this pernicious gossip.

Mr Wickham, meanwhile, frowned and stiffened.

“I have never heard such rubbish in my life,” he stated firmly. “Never repeat that again in my presence.”

Taken aback, the officer Mr Wickham had called Denny seemed to recall himself and notice Elizabeth for the first time.

“Ah. Pardon me,” he said with an unsteady bow and walked away toward the card table under George Wickham’s narrowed gaze.

“I am sorry you had to hear that,” the lieutenant told Elizabeth. “My colleague Denny is young and cannot hold his drink. I beg that you will think no more of what he said.”

“Then he is rather like my younger sister in that regard,” returned Elizabeth, still shaking her head as she watched the laughing and blissfully unaware Lydia playing a triumphant hand to round applause at the card table. “I must say, Mr Wickham, that your reaction to such evil gossip does you credit. I wish that others without your provocations could be as circumspect.”

At this compliment, George Wickham’s sunniest smile returned to his face, and if his principled comportment had not already raised him in Elizabeth’s esteem, his handsome countenance might well have done.