Page 49 of Bitterness of Spirit

“My grandfather did not want that money. My father kept it in a box at Pemberley. He said you might use it to purchase a small estate on your return.”

“Dear Lord…I did not know that…”

“My father waited for you and made plans for your return. He even found some estates that he thought you would like within a short distance of Pemberley. When years passed and he had no news of you, when his doubt about your disappearance was replaced with sad certainty, my father’s sorrow was beyond words. He needed more than five years to recover after the death of my mother, and losing any trace of his oldest friend was difficult to bear. How is it possible that you were alive and had too little consideration to write a few words? I know my reproach sounds harsh, but I believe it is well deserved.”

“Your reproach would be deserved if I had no reason beyond dishonourable silence. Again, I had no choice. For a while, I was in jail—locked away somewhere in India, unfairly accused of betrayal. When I regained my freedom, the first people I inquired after were your father and my sister. George’s death broke a part of my own soul—already in pieces due to events I cannot even describe.”

“You were in jail?”

“I was many places and in many situations that caged my freedom, one way or another.”

“Then why did you not return? You said you always had an income. And if you did not have one, you could have asked my father. Why did you persist in staying abroad among strangers when friends were expecting you home?”

“I first needed to accomplish my purpose. I am not certain whether it was a good decision, but it was the one I made back then, and I cannot change it now.”

“Yes—one cannot change the past. We all have wounds to prove that and remind us of decisions—good or bad.”

“True words. The wound on my face reminds me of the many battles I fought, but there are others less easy to notice yet equally painful.”

“Battles? You were in the army?””

“Yes—after several years on the sea. I had a good education due to your father and grandfather, acquired knowledge, and a sum of money that helped me buy a commission. Army life suited me quite well for a while. Between 1793 and 1798, I served under Frederick, Duke of York. Until this year, when he deservedly regained his position and his responsibilities, I prided myself on being closely acquainted with him.”

“The Duke of York? I know he was reinstated recently. I remember that my uncle, Lord Matlock, and Sir Lewis de Bourgh, my aunt’s late husband, were on friendly terms with Gwyllym Wardle, the man who instigated the accusation of adventurous life and adultery against the duke. There was something about selling commissions for money and allowing his mistress to interfere in army business… I confess I am not very familiar with the story; I only know what I read in the newspapers. It all looked like gossip to me, and I restrain myself from expressing an opinion on things I do not know in depth.”

“I cannot debate the duke’s private life. But I know he is a brave man and an excellent, courageous commander, and he did quite a lot to weed out corruption and jobbery in the army’s administration.”

“I have no reason to argue with that, Mr. Wilson.”

“Good. Is your curiosity somewhat satisfied, Mr. Darcy? Are you more comfortable now that I have shared some of my secrets with you? I know you still have many doubts and questions.”

“It is enough for now, thank you. I appreciate your honesty.”

“It is I who should thank you for the patience you have shown me. I am certain we shall talk more about all this, starting tomorrow. It is already dawn. This is my address.” Wilson handed Darcy his card. “Write to me tomorrow morning about the way you prefer to continue our discussion.”

Chapter 13

The night passed slowly for Elizabeth, and she welcomed the dawn that broke through the curtains. Careful not to awaken Jane, she dressed and went downstairs. She planned to have a cup of tea and then take a stroll in Hyde Park before breakfast. She momentarily thought that it was rather imprudent for a woman to walk alone in the park at such an hour, but it was already full daylight, and people could be seen on the street.

To her utter surprise, a maid informed her that Mr. Wilson kindly asked to see her in the library whenever she was willing to speak to him.

She went there immediately, wondering about the gentleman’s interest in talking to her privately. She could not imagine a single subject of mutual interest that could not be shared with the others during breakfast.

The library, however, was empty. There were sounds indicating a human presence, but nobody could be seen.

“Mr. Wilson?” she called, glancing around.

“I am here,” a voice responded from the right corner of the room, hidden behind a half wall. She moved in that direction and, with surprise, saw a narrow door revealing a small room with a desk, a chair, and more books.

“Miss Elizabeth, so delighted to see you. You are an early morning person, I see.”

She laughed. “Not always. But last night I slept rather poorly, and I saw no reason to stay in bed longer.”

“I hope you feel well. I noticed you were in low spirits even at dinner,” the gentleman said.

Her answer was delayed an instant. “I am perfectly fine, thank you. What is this room?” she asked, changing the subject.

“It is a hide-out,” he responded, much to Elizabeth’s puzzlement. “I discovered it after I rented the house. A secret room with a secret hall that continues along to one of the guest chambers.”