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Elizabeth squinted at her reflection in the glass, adjusting a curl, lamenting the lack of another gown, and pretending not to notice the restless figure of her husband who paced behind her.
“If you do not sit still,” she murmured. “You will be exhausted before the evening begins.”
“And if I do not burn off some of this energy I shall say or do something we shall all live to regret.”
She turned, then, to see Darcy’s pace was only matched by the ferocity of the scowl he wore. He must have sensed her attention, though, for when he turned to continue his progress, he caught her eyes, and wrested his features into something that might have been a smile, were it not for the knitted brows that accompanied it.
“I thought this dinner was your idea?” Elizabeth asked, reaching out her hand and gratified when he stopped his ceaseless marching and came to sit opposite her, taking her hand in both of his and turning it over to examine the palm, as if he might divine the tone of the evening that stretched out before them.
“Bingley’s.” He sighed. “It seemed wise at the time. Now that the hour is upon us, I am not so sure. What have Wickham and I to say to one another that can be said in the presence of ladies? How can we pretend all is well, that I am happy to see such a match take place?”
“But it has already taken place,” Elizabeth reminded him, gently. “Continuing to oppose Wickham means to oppose Anne, and I rather think she faces opposition enough in the shape of her mother.”
Darcy nodded, his gaze straying, reflexively, to the letter that had arrived mere hours earlier, addressed to Elizabeth from Mary and sent with all haste. They had been delighted to hear of Richard’s ongoing recovery, but the news of Lady Catherine’s sudden and surprising arrival in London made his heart sink. She would know, then, for an addendum in Richard’s scrawl indicated his intention to tell her, if she had not already been privy to rumours concerning her daughter’s activities. Darcy had known they could not keep the secret for long, particularly when the worst was confirmed. An indiscretion might be concealed, but a marriage?
“Is it really so very bad?” Elizabeth asked. It was a question she had posed several times, but her husband’s answer had remained the same. Bad or not, it cannot be helped. “I think Anne truly loves him -”
“It is not Anne’s affections I doubt,” he said, shortly. “She would never have made such a decision if her heart were not utterly lost to that man. I fear she sees only a part of what Wickham is, though, for he is adept at concealing his true self from those he wishes to deceive.”
“I do not know Wickham as you do,” Lizzy said, carefully. “And, certainly, do not imagine to understand his true character. But...surely there is some comfort to be sought from the fact that they are married. If he wished only to ruin her...” Darcy’s eyes flashed and Elizabeth said no more.
“Matrimony is far more advantageous to Wickham’s pocketbook than a mere dalliance would have been.” His lips quirked. “Although he may come to regret it, for if my aunt does not take the news well, and I have no reason to believe she would, she may yet contrive to prevent Anne’s dowry from passing into his hands.”
“She wouldn’t be so callous, surely?”
Darcy raised an eyebrow.
“You have met my aunt, have not you? In fact, I fancy you, more than anyone, knows precisely how callous she might be when she chooses.” He stood, with a sigh. “No, I think there are difficulties ahead for the new Mr and Mrs Wickham far more than the damage to Anne’s reputation such a stunt affords.” He glanced at his fob-watch. “Well, my love, we can tarry no longer.”
Standing, Lizzy took the arm her husband offered, and the two walked in silence down to the small private room they had secured for the evening.
“You must forgive me my bad temper,” Darcy muttered, as they approached the door. “I am aware of my moods and whilst I strive to correct them, at times these concerns make moderation impossible.” He smiled, fleetingly at her. “I should reserve such behaviour for Wickham, for he surely deserves it.”
Lizzy pinched him lightly on the arm, and he looked at her in confusion.
“Were you not angry at this I should wonder at your being entirely sensible. Yet we must strive to accept the circumstance, to be the best friends we might be to Anne, and by extension to Mr Wickham. Promise me you will try.”
Darcy considered her request a moment, before permitting her one more wry smile.
“I promise I will attempt to try...will that suffice, Mrs Darcy?”
“For now.”
Reaching the room, Lizzy was glad to see that Caroline and Mr Bingley were already present, and the four friends greeted one another, making polite conversation on the surprising comfort afforded by this small room, the promise of a hearty meal, and their plans for the morrow. A knock brought their affectation of comfortable conversation to a halt, and as the door opened everyone stood.
“Good evening, sir.” Their proprietor’s eyes sought out Darcy. “Your guests ‘ave arrived, sir. Mr and Mrs George Wickham.”
“Thank you,” Darcy spoke for everyone in welcoming the new arrivals and Lizzy was pleased to note that his voice remained calm and modulated. Indeed, were she not as well acquainted with the moods of his face, she would presume him entirely unruffled by the presence of their guests. It was only the stiffness to his manner, the eyes that glanced too quickly to Anne, widened fractionally at her appearance, and fixed with a glare on Mr Wickham that indicated anything was amiss at all.
***
“GOOD EVENING MR AND Mrs Darcy. Mr Bingley, Miss Bingley.” George turned a wide smile around the room, his hand holding tight to his bride as if she were some prize granting him admittance to this inner sanctum of respectability.
“What a lovely room this is!” Anne said, breaking the moment of awkward silence that accompanied their entrance. Wickham had not been insensible of the warm conversations that had faded to nought upon their arrival, and he would have to be half blind or stupid not to notice the ferocity of the stare Darcy had fixed him with. Ignoring him, he pulled out a chair for his wife, and everyone returned to their seats.
“I see you found us without difficulty, Mr Wickham,” Bingley said, leaping headlong into the fray.
“There being so many alternatives to choose from in so small a town as this,” Wickham remarked, with a wry grin. “As soon as William arrived I knew there was but one inn that would meet with his satisfaction, and even then only by virtue of it being the best, locally.” He flicked his eyes to Darcy’s. “Tis hardly Pemberley, is it, William?”
Darcy said nothing, but Wickham knew that his comments infuriated his old friend just as well as if he had offered some response. He turned his attention to the young lady sitting beside him.
“And Miss Elizabeth - or Mrs Darcy, as I must address you now. How surprised I was to hear of your marriage to my old friend. Surprised and pleased, of course. It seems to me when we met that you were rather less fond of the gentleman who is now your husband.” He shrugged his shoulders. “How fast things change.”
“Indeed, Mr Wickham.” Elizabeth smiled, politely, lowering her gaze a moment before speaking again. “In your case, too, things seem to have changed quickly. Where do you and Anne intend to make your home?” She fixed him with a gaze that was not easy to shrink from. “I cannot assume you intend to stay long in your current location. Surely Anne, if not you, will be eager for some pleasant society?”
There, she had lingered on the word “pleasant” as if to imbue it with meaning. Wickham’s grin faded fractionally. So, your husband has passed judgment on the company I keep and told you of all of my misdeeds. He ought not to be surprised. When would Darcy ever pass up the opportunity to run him down?
“We have not decided yet, have we, my dear?” he said, feeling the sudden need for Anne’s voice to join the conversation. Of all those present she, and only she, was forever on his side. Even when he disappointed her - and he was not foolish enough to imagine their current cramped accommodations and lonely living were not at least in part a disappointment to her - she would not own it, and offered him such unconditional love and affection that it was a security for him, even when all else was gone. “But we are happy together, and that is more than can be said for many newlyweds.”
“I rather think most couples accomplish happiness at first, though it may be fleeting.” Darcy’s words were muttered under his breath, quietly enough that they would not reach Anne’s ears, but Wickham discerned them and recognised his old friend’s predictions for the future. You expect me to tire of marriage and abandon my wife ere we are even settled. He bristled a little, but could not deny he had a reason for such a supposition. William had known him long, must know of the love affairs he had begun and cast aside without a thought. That was before, he thought. Things are different now. He turned, on impulse, to look at his new wife and was startled to see her pale, though the room was small and more than adequately heated by the open fire in the hearth. She shivered, and he glanced over towards the fire, wishing they had taken a seat nearer to it.
“Do you intend on returning to London, William?” Anne asked, finding her voice at last. “Or perhaps Pemberley is next on your tour, for it is nearer, now.” She smiled, but there was a note of sorrow in her features.
“Perhaps,” Darcy said, never lifting his eyes from Anne’s face. “I have not yet entirely decided.”
“Of course.” Anne nodded. “Elizabeth will be eager to see her family again, I do not doubt.”
Anne’s voice was tinged with sadness and not for the first time Wickham felt a flare of guilt for the future he had condemned her to. It had been folly, thinking that once they were married things would fall pat to please him. Lady Catherine’s silence had weighed heavily on his new wife, and whilst he had considered his skills unrivalled in winning over ladies of means and merit, he now recognised that such a feat would be rather more difficult with Lady Catherine de Bourgh than he had previously considered, particularly with no support from other quarters within Anne’s family. You knew it would not be an easy path, he counselled himself. But the money... Yet that thought, too, had become hollow. The promise of financial recompense was less enticing as it became less likely. He did not regret the marriage, but the future that lay ahead suddenly seemed altogether colder and poorer than he had previously imagined.
“Have you heard from your mother, Mrs Wickham?” Caroline Bingley asked, in a curious tone. Wickham’s eyes flashed over to her, feeling all of a sudden how unkind it was to raise such a matter at the table when the issue clearly pained his wife. Miss Bingley’s face, however, was a studied picture of innocence, and he wondered if it had been the scent of gossip or true friendly inquiry which had prompted the question.
“No,” Anne said, quietly. “I have written to her, but...there has been no reply.”
“Why, she has likely not received your letter!” Caroline remarked. “For did not you hear tell she was in London, Charles?”
Bingley was sensible enough to say nothing, taking an extraordinary interest in his dinner-plate, but the tips of his ears flashed red and Wickham felt a flare of anger that brother and sister had been idly discussing events and people as if they were mere fodder for entertainment. Darcy’s expression, too, reflected his own thunderous anger and he felt a strange kinship with his old foe. Their eyes met, and neither gentleman looked away until Anne spoke again.
“She is?” Stricken, she reached for Wickham. “Oh, George! She will see I am not there and fret, for my letter surely missed her at Rosings. Oh, what shall we do?”
“You need not do anything,” Darcy muttered. “Colonel Fitzwilliam will ensure she knows the truth.” He lifted his eyes to Anne, wide and ringed with sympathy. “I am afraid she will not delight in the news.”
Not delight. Wickham might have laughed. He could well imagine any older lady being less than thrilled by the news her daughter had run away to Scotland to marry an itinerant scoundrel. But he felt Anne’s fingers slacken on his arm, and when he looked at her all trace of humour vanished from his face. Anne’s pale face was blotchy, her eyes filling with tears.
“It is done, then,” she whispered. “I knew she would be unhappy, but hoped she might hear the news from my own pen. If she heard...gossip...”
“Not gossip, dear,” Wickham said, speaking as tenderly to her as if she were a child. “Colonel Fitzwilliam will have told her as gently as he knew how.” This was no certainty: for Colonel Fitzwilliam was no admirer of Wickham’s, yet he felt certain the fellow would move heaven and earth to spare harm coming to his cousin, as he and Darcy had both done for Georgiana. Wickham blinked, then, seeing all too clearly the pain his rash actions had caused to this family, not once, but again and again. The sale of his living, the squandering of his wealth, the payment of debts over and over again by Darcy, without comment or complaint. Georgiana had been the last straw, Wickham knew, and yet Darcy had done his utmost to conceal the affair. He had acted to spare his sister’s reputation, certainly, yet it had also permitted Wickham the opportunity to move on, unscathed, and continue on his mission. My mission. He railed at his own selfishness. And what was that? To do exactly as I pleased? To destroy myself, and anybody foolish enough to care for me?
“Excuse me,” he said, gruffly pushing back from the table. He set Anne’s hands gently, so very gently, on the table-top, disturbed by their frail whiteness against the heavy cloth, and stood. “I must just take a moment’s air. Do - do please continue with your meals.” He hurried to the door and out, through the raucous interior of the inn and into the night.