These Three Remain

Hinchcliffe inclined his head and then, for the first time in both their lives, made him a full bow. “Your father would be very proud, sir, very proud.” So saying, his secretary turned from the surprise and flush of appreciation on Darcy’s face and left the room, shoulders set to do financial battle with the world in his master’s interest. Hinchcliffe’s words, Darcy knew, had not been lightly spoken. Accompanied by his bow, they were the first tokens of a deep and genuine esteem that his secretary had ever offered him. Oh, the man had always been exceedingly polite and patient, even when, at their first meeting, when he was twelve years old, Darcy had bowled over the young, new secretary in the hall outside this very door. Your father would be very proud. Darcy’s eyes traveled to the small portrait of his sire on the wall and nodded his acceptance. “Yes, thank you, I believe he would.”

With the financial pledges he had made Wickham set into motion, it was incumbent upon Darcy that he speak with Wickham again before he could present it all as a fait accompli to Elizabeth’s relatives in London. Entering once more into a rough hired cab, he believed himself prepared for any dodges or demands that might arise. Wickham was ever one to surprise his fellows with erratic actions, depending on their sheer audacity to confound his adversaries. But such tricks were become old to as long an acquaintance as lay between them. This time Wickham had ever so much more to lose; and Darcy, a host of allies that could pin him down whichever way he might jump.

Darcy arrived at the inn just before three. Ducking his head to enter the public room, he spied his “shadow” watching for him from the doorway leading to the stairs. With a toss of his head upward and a broad wink, the boy silently informed Darcy that the pair was still to be found above. Casually placing a guinea on a nearby table, Darcy acknowledged with gratitude the urchin’s information and was rewarded with a look of surprise that, he imagined, rarely crossed the world-weary child’s face.

This time, the place was set into order. Wickham opened the door upon a room where clothing had been packed away, bottles removed, and a sturdier table and chairs had replaced the former hazards. “Darcy,” he greeted him awkwardly and motioned for him to enter.

“Miss Lydia Bennet.” Darcy bowed to the young woman perched on the windowsill. At a look from Wickham, she scrambled down and offered him a curtsy. “Mr. Darcy,” she replied guardedly.

“Lydia, my love, go down to the cook and bespeak something to eat.” Wickham took her hand and led her to the door. “Wait for it and bring it up yourself; there’s a good girl. Darcy and I have some things to discuss.” With a face that clearly indicated her displeasure at such a task, Lydia pulled her hand away and flounced from the room, slamming the door behind her lest there be any doubt of her feelings.

“Disagreeable chit!” Wickham grimaced. “See what you wish to chain me to!”

Darcy would not allow it. “That was determined when, by your own choice, you bundled her into your carriage in Brighton.” He sat down on one of the chairs. “She is little more than a girl, George, and you encouraged a girlish fantasy that you have yet to fulfill. It is not to be wondered that she is disappointed and behaves like the child she is.”

Wickham granted the possibility with a grunt and took the other chair. He did not look well, even though his clothes were in order and he had shaved. He ran his hand through his hair several times before sitting back into the chair, but even then he did not relax. Noticing Darcy’s observation of him, he laughed self-deprecatingly. “Nervous as a cat! Could not sleep last night, and I do not know why, but I feel as if I am being watched. Makes my skin crawl.”

“ ‘Something in the wind…,’ ” Darcy quoted.

“Yes, that is it exactly! Damned sick of it.” He bit his lip. “Yesterday, you agreed to cover my debts no matter the source, yes?”

“Yes, from your time in Meryton until your wedding day, I will cover them all.”

“It may take some time to collect them. Except for what is owed the officers, I really have no notion of the amount.”

“That shall be yours to accomplish in the next week.” Darcy brought forward the leather case he carried and took out paper, ink, and pens. “Write what you can remember and send for those you cannot.” At Wickham’s alarmed look, he amended, “Have them sent to Erewile House.”

“Oh,” Wickham breathed out, “that will answer.” He looked at the items laid out for him for a moment and raised his gaze back to Darcy’s. “And when I have done all this and married the girl, what next? If you will not give me a living in one of your parishes…” He paused, but when Darcy did not naysay him, he continued, “Then how am I to support this new style of living you insist upon?”

Here was the second hurdle, and to make it all work, Wickham had to be made to jump it with some degree of willingness. “I have purchased you a lieutenancy in the army,” Darcy answered him.

“What!”

“In a regiment that will likely never see action abroad,” he assured him.

Wickham fell back against his chair, his face twitching as he absorbed the revelation of his future. Slowly, he appeared to come to some terms with it. He looked at Darcy. “But I shall need —”

“I know what you shall need and shall provide you the credit to purchase it — what is needful and no more. With prudence, you should be able to live comfortably; with advancement, quite well.”

“Comfortably!” Wickham laughed derisively as he rose from his chair. “And what is your idea of comfort, Darcy? Would you be ‘comfortable’ living so?” He spread his arms, indicating their current surroundings. “I think not!” He leaned against the frame of the room’s one small window and turned his face to the courtyard below.

“There is also your wife’s dowry —”

“A trifle!” Wickham spat.

“— and what I will settle on her as well.” Darcy offered the inducement without pause. Wickham spun around, his interest rekindled.

“Two thousand pounds!” he demanded, as if the amount were negotiable. Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Fifteen hundred, then, and I’ll ‘turn Methodist,’ if you like, in the bargain.”

“I doubt that it would ‘take,’ George, or that you could sustain it for long.” He shook his head. It was time to bring this to a close. “No, I will not bargain with you. One thousand pounds in addition to her dowry, your debts covered, your profession secured, your character reformed, so to speak, and your wife provided for — that is what I offer to enable you to do what is right by this girl and her family.”

“As long as I ‘behave like a gentleman,’ I believe was the condition?” Wickham mocked. He did not seem to require a response, for he turned back to the window to consider what had been laid before him and did not notice Darcy’s silence.

…had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner. Wickham’s derisive words merely echoed Elizabeth’s charge, but it was close enough. How ironic that Darcy should demand of Wickham what Elizabeth had declared so lacking in himself!

“You have thought of everything, Darcy. I congratulate you.” Wickham’s voice brought him back to the matter at hand. “Try as I might, I can find no flaw to exploit or contingency to hold over you. Remarkable!” He crossed the room and sat down at the table. “You have hemmed me in quite well, you and Lydia, but in truth, the prospect is not so bad. Much to be preferred to debtors’ prison or a court-martial, certainly.” He wiped his hands upon his trousers and laid one, palm up, on the table between them. “I believe I must accept your offer, Darcy. Here’s my hand on it, one ‘gentleman’ to another.”

“On behalf of the young woman’s family,” Darcy amended, extending his hand.

“As you wish.” Wickham shrugged, and it was done.

Darcy did not allow himself the great sigh of relief that pressed against his chest until he was alone and the hired cab’s horse set into motion. His mind cast back to the beginning, to the inn at Lambton and his discovery of Elizabeth in such heartrending distress that it had been all he could do not to hold and comfort her, to dry her tears. He’d had no right, although every feeling in him had urged him toward her in the name of sympathy and love. Her tears had rent him, for he had known instantly where the blame for them lay; but it had been the awful resignation in Elizabeth’s voice to the shame and disgrace that lay ahead which had truly devastated him. He had vowed then that it would not be so, and though great patches, dearly bought, had been sown over the tatters of her family’s name, he had succeeded, ensured that the weave would hold, and the fabric of her family’s honor would once again be whole.