Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

T he two were silent as they walked the gravelled path between aisles of shrubbery. It was too late in the year and much too cold for blossoms, but the garden had its own beauty despite grey skies and inclement weather.

Miss Elizabeth, Darcy noticed, wore a warm pelisse, along with a small chip hat adorned with becoming silk flowers—it was obvious she did not fear rain.

“I brought an umbrella, in case of showers,” he said, stupidly—unable to think of one suitable topic of conversation, as if he were a green lad who had never before been alone with a desirable female.

“It will not rain. John Stevens has sworn it will not, today nor tomorrow, neither one.”

“John Stevens?” Darcy asked, curious. “Who might he be?”

“Oh, he is Netherfield’s chief gardener. He has held the position for many years and came with the house. His weather predictions are amazingly accurate. The entire neighbourhood relies upon them.”

“Ah. Well, perhaps I shall keep hold of the umbrella, just in case he fails us.”

She grinned, undoubtedly finding his faithlessness foolish, looking pretty as springtime in her little hat. “How long have you known the Bingleys?” she asked conversationally.

“I met Bingley at school. Eton.”

“Really? He is several years younger than you, is he not?”

“Yes.”

She glanced at him with her own curiosity, but she asked nothing.

“Our friendship did not begin conventionally. It is somewhat of a lengthy tale, and probably an uninteresting one,” he added discouragingly. He did not wish to spend any of these few moments alone with Elizabeth upon the hated Wickham.

“I would be honoured to hear it,” she replied, and he believed there was real interest in her tone. Irresistible interest.

Hardly able to believe he was talking of all this, he cast his mind back to a time he had not thought of in years. “It all began, I suppose, when I went off to school with my good friend, my father’s godson.” He was struck by a sudden thought. “In a way, one might say that my own father was responsible for the entire situation, by paying for my friend’s schooling.”

“The situation?” she asked, observably puzzled by this apparent non sequitur.

“I have never before considered it in that light,” he explained. “My father and his were great friends—his father held the management of Pemberley, but could not afford to send his son to Eton. If he had not gone to Eton, Bingley and I would never have become acquainted.”

“Your friend…he was the one who introduced you to Mr Bingley?”

“Not exactly.” Darcy sighed. “He was the one who tormented Bingley until I was forced to intervene.”

“Oh, dear.” Miss Elizabeth’s brow furrowed as her quick mind caught upon a salient point. “I would think Pemberley’s land agent to be an excellent position.”

“Oh, yes. His wife was to blame, I thought at the time. She was always extravagant. And yet, my friend, I can see now, held some fault. She would never refuse him anything, and I believe she took the blame for money squandered by her son, at least in later years. At the time, I could not conceive of going off to Eton without him. But within a year or two, Wickham and I had grown completely estranged.”

“Wickham was your friend?”

Hearing Wickham referred to as his ‘friend’ touched off his inner fury, but he somehow managed to keep his tone even. “Yes. He fell in with a crowd of boys who were older, and whose main pursuits had very little to do with education. It was difficult, in the beginning, for me to accept. But I cared for little beyond my classes and cricket. He preferred more…worldly pursuits.”

“You mean, gambling and girls,” Miss Elizabeth said bluntly.

Darcy glanced over at her, and she grinned. “I am, of course, a fragile flower and have no idea to what I refer. I understand if you cannot confirm my supposition, lest you fear I swoon. ”

He frowned, trying to think how he felt about her words; he was undeniably accustomed to thinking of young ladies in general as delicate—they were supposed to be. But of course, a young lady who would tramp three miles across muddy fields and rocky paths to reach her sister’s bedside was hardly fragile. No other woman of his acquaintance would ever think of doing such a thing. Why did the idea of it enchant him? Was it so awful to be able to talk to this woman as he might speak to any of his friends, without weighing every word? What did it matter if he did?

I am hardly trying to impress her.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Those were his chief amusements.”

“He began his pursuit of a life of pleasure early, then,” she remarked pensively.

He shrugged. “Many do. There is a pecking order at school, based upon a number of things—birth, wealth, one’s friends, one’s manners and address. He stuck with me until he was firmly entrenched in the upper hierarchy, and then proceeded to work his way into friendships with boys I did not like and who, as a general rule, did not like me.”

“Because they embraced fewer ‘general rules’?”

He nodded. “Most definitely. As he grew older, he adopted the worst habits of the crowd he ran with, eventually becoming its leader, as his elder classmates left Eton for Oxford or Cambridge. Our final year was the height of his reign.”

“His reign ?”

“Yes—his tenure as one of the most influential of his class, with a large crowd of cronies willing to follow him into whatever exploits he demanded. ”

Too late, Darcy remembered her calling him a ‘decaying dullard’. Wickham had certainly accused him of the same often enough over the years—that he was staid, stolid, and stiff. Probably, he sounded like a prig. He glanced at Miss Elizabeth, expecting a smirk or some sign of condescension. It was not there. Instead, she looked back at him, her expression serious.

“I suppose, if he used that influence to be helpful, or if his antics were harmless, that might not be a bad thing,” she observed. “I gather he did not and was not, since he became a tormentor.”

Remembering, he could not keep all of his anger concealed. “Wickham harassed all the first-years mercilessly, frequently, but of course, that happens so often, it barely is noticed—sixth-years expect the services of younger students. Polishing boots, serving tea, clearing up, running errands—’tis required. I was able to protect them, for the most part, from the sort of humiliation he enjoyed doling out. Of course, I could not be everywhere at once, but Wickham knew which lines he could not cross.”

“Until he crossed one?”

“Yes. I am unsure as to why young Bingley drew his attention so frequently. Barely thirteen years old, he was a short, skinny, freckled little thing.” Darcy clenched his fist in hated recollection. “I believe Wickham resented that Bingley—whose father earned his wealth in trade—was there at all.”

“Why should he? He was there because of your father’s good will, not because he was the heir of a noble house.”

“That was all part of it, I suppose. He acted as though he were a son of Pemberley, but his father was a steward, the son of a vicar. Although his heritage is completely respectable, Wickham was revelling in the company of young lords. Perhaps he realised his little kingdom must eventually crumble. It did not help that Bingley was a touch…obtuse. The poor lad could not tell, usually, when to speak up and when to remain silent. That, and his natural clumsiness made him an easy target.”

They turned to a pathway that narrowed, walking between tall, trimmed hedges. “It sounds as though Mr Wickham’s entire life was a lie,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “Somehow, turning what power he possessed upon a boy younger, weaker, and his social inferior provided him with an odd sort of…balance, perhaps, to his feelings of pretence. Something like a proof, to himself, that he really was superior. That he belonged with the nobles he had courted so assiduously.”

Darcy glanced over at her again; he had never met anyone of her understanding. Until speaking of this aloud, he had not really recognised it himself. Her words felt like truth. “Probably,” he agreed.

“What did he do to cross that line?”

He paused mid-step. He could never say, aloud, to a lady, the foul, contemptible thing Wickham had attempted. Straightening, he began walking again, shoving the filthy memories firmly back into the past. “You may take me at my word,” he said quellingly, “it was an inexcusable act, and not one a lady would wish to discuss.”

Her expression immediately changed from interested and reflective to closed off, shuttered, as if she had slammed a door between them. “Of course,” she answered mildly. “Enough of such topics. How do you find our Hertfordshire weather? I assume Derbyshire is much cooler at this time of year.”

Darcy very nearly replied something about precipitation. It was an automatic response; a lady commented upon the weather, and the gentleman answered her with an equally inane, obvious remark guaranteed to send them both into paroxysms of monotony.

Unfairly, she had placed him back into the ‘decaying dullard’ category—yet another who treated her as a fragile flower. He was surprised at how little she valued the nuances of civility; despite the proprieties she followed in all other ways, her mind brazenly travelled unallowable paths. Proof, then, that she was not wellborn enough to practise a true ladylike manner; her essential self was ungoverned.

He could never trust Miss Elizabeth to remain remote, aloof, and reserved, as the mistress of Pemberley ought to be. As his own mother had been. The perfect lady.