But when they reached the centre of London and the trees and green expanse of Hyde Park were behind them, Darcy felt that he was entering an alien state, breathing a stale and sour-smelling air, and surrounded by a large and menacing population. Never before had he felt so much a stranger in London. It was hard to believe that the country was at war; everyone seemed in a hurry, all walked as if preoccupied with their own concerns, but from time to time he saw envious or admiring glances cast at the Darcy coach. Neither he nor Elizabeth were disposed to comment as they passed into the wider and better-known streets where the coachman edged his careful way between the bright and gaudy shopfronts lit by flares, and the chaises, carts, wagons and private coaches which made the roads almost impassable. But at last they turned into Gracechurch Street and even as they approached the Gardiners’ house the door was opened and Mr and Mrs Gardiner ran out to welcome them and to direct the coachman to the stables at the rear. Minutes later the baggage was unloaded and Elizabeth and Darcy walked into the peace and security which would be their refuge until the trial was over.
2
Alveston and Jeremiah Mickledore came after dinner to give Darcy brief instructions and advice, and, having expressed their hopes and best wishes, left in less than an hour. It was to be one of the worst nights of Darcy’s life. Mrs Gardiner, unfailingly hospitable, had ensured that there was everything in the bedroom necessary for Elizabeth’s and his comfort, not only the two longed-for beds but the table between them with the carafe of water, the books and the tin of biscuits. Gracechurch Street could not be completely quiet but the rumble and creaks of carriages and the occasional calling voices, a contrast to the total silence of Pemberley, would not normally have been enough to keep him awake. He tried to put the anxiety about tomorrow’s ordeal out of his mind, but it was too occupied with even more disturbing thoughts. It was as if an image of himself were standing by the bed regarding him with accusatory, almost contemptuous eyes, rehearsing arguments and indictments which he had thought he had long disciplined into quiescence but which this unwanted vision had now brought forward with renewed force and reason. It was his own doing and no one else’s that had made Wickham part of his family with the right to call him brother. Tomorrow he would be compelled to give evidence which could help send his enemy to the gallows or set him free. Even if the verdict were “not guilty”, the trial would bring Wickham closer to Pemberley, and if he were convicted and hanged, Darcy himself would carry a weight of horror and guilt which he would bequeath to his sons and to future generations.
He could not regret his marriage; it would have been like regretting that he himself had ever been born. It had brought him happiness which he had never believed possible, a love of which the two handsome and healthy boys sleeping in the Pemberley nursery was a pledge and an assurance. But he had married in defiance of every principle which from childhood had ruled his life, every conviction of what was owed to the memory of his parents, to Pemberley and to the responsibility of class and wealth. However deep the attraction to Elizabeth he could have walked away, as he suspected Colonel Fitzwilliam had walked away. The price he had played in bribing Wickham to marry Lydia had been the price of Elizabeth.
He remembered the meeting with Mrs Younge. The rooming house was in a respectable part of Marylebone, the woman herself the personification of a reputable and caring landlady. He remembered their conversation. “I accept only young men from the most respectable families who have left home to take work in the capital and to begin their careers of independence. Their parents know that the boys will be well fed and cared for, and a judicious eye kept on their behaviour. I have had, for many years, a more than adequate income, and now that I have explained my situation we can do business. But first may I offer you some refreshment?”
He had refused it with no attempt at civility and she had said, “I am a woman of business and I never find it harmed by a little adherence to the formal rules of courtesy, but by all means let us dispense with them. I know what you want, the whereabouts of George Wickham and Lydia Bennet. Perhaps you will begin negotiations by stating the maximum you are prepared to pay for this information which, I can assure you, you will be unable to obtain from anyone but myself.”
His offer had, of course, not been enough, but in the end he had settled and had left the house as if it had been infected with the plague. And that had been the first of the large sums which it had been necessary to provide before George Wickham could be persuaded to marry Lydia Bennet.
Elizabeth, exhausted after the journey, retired to bed immediately after dinner. She was asleep when he came into the bedroom to join her, and he stood for some minutes quietly at her bedside, regarding with love her beautiful and peaceful face; for a few more hours at least she would be free of worry. Once in bed, he turned restlessly in search of a comfort which even the softness of the pillows could not provide, but at last felt himself drifting into sleep.
3
Alveston had gone early from his lodgings to the Old Bailey and Darcy was on his own when, shortly before half-past ten, he passed through the imposing hall which led to the courtroom. His immediate impression was that he had entered a birdcage of chattering humanity set down in Bedlam. The case was not due to be called for thirty minutes but the first seats were already packed with a gossiping crowd of fashionably dressed women, while the back rows were rapidly filling. All London seemed to be here, the poor crammed together in noisy discomfort. Although Darcy had presented his summons to the official at the door, no one showed him where he should sit or, indeed, took the least notice of him. The day was warm for March and the air was becoming hot and humid, a sickening mixture of scent and unwashed bodies. Near the judge’s seat a group of lawyers stood talking together as casually as if in a drawing room. He saw that Alveston was among them and, catching Darcy’s eye, he came immediately over to greet him and to show him the seats reserved for witnesses.
He said, “The prosecution are calling only the colonel and you to testify to the finding of Denny’s body. There is the usual pressure of time and this judge gets impatient if the same evidence is repeated unnecessarily. I will stay close; we may get a chance to talk during the trial.”
And now the hubbub died, as if noise could be cut with a knife. The judge had entered the court. Judge Moberley carried his honours with confidence but he was not a handsome man and his small-featured face, in which only his dark eyes were prominent, was almost extinguished by a large full-bottomed wig, giving him, to Darcy, the look of an inquisitive animal peering out of its lair. Groups of conferring lawyers separated and reformed as they and the clerk took their appointed places and the jury filed into the seats reserved for them. Suddenly the prisoner, with a police officer on either side of him, was standing in the dock. Darcy was shocked by his appearance. He was thinner, despite the food that had been regularly provided from outside, and his taut face was pale, less, Darcy thought, from the ordeal of the moment than from the long months in prison. Gazing at him Darcy was hardly aware of the preliminaries of the trial, the reading of the indictment in a clear voice, the selection of the jury and the administration of the oath. In the dock Wickham stood stiffly upright and, when asked how he pleaded to the charge, spoke the words “Not guilty” in a firm voice. And even now, in fetters and pale, he was still handsome.
And then Darcy saw a familiar face. She must have bribed someone to keep her seat in the front row among the female spectators, and she had taken it quickly and silently. She now sat there, hardly moving, among the flutter of fans and the rise and fall of the fashionable headdresses. At first glance he saw only her profile, but then she turned her face and, although their eyes met without acknowledgement, he had little doubt that she was Mrs Younge; even that initial glimpse at her profile had been enough.
He was determined not to catch her eye but peering from time to time across the courtroom he could see that she was expensively dressed, with an elegance and simplicity at odds with the gaudy ostentation around her. Her hat, trimmed with purple and green ribbons, framed a face which seemed as youthful as when they had first met. So had she been dressed when he and Colonel Fitzwilliam had invited her to Pemberley to be interviewed for the post of Georgiana’s companion, presenting before the two young men the picture of a well-spoken, reliable and well-born gentlewoman, deeply sympathetic to the young and aware of the responsibilities which would fall upon her. It had been different, but not so very different, when he had run her to ground in that respectable house in Marylebone. He wondered what power held her and Wickham together, strong enough to make her part of the
