“Wickham could not charm your father into believing every assurance that of course this time he would dedicate himself to his studies, and of course he would never again trifle with one of the maids, and of course he would cease to drink.”
“Did he do so with your father?” Mrs. Wickham asked.
“Yes, though...I hid from my father the chief part of his dissolute habits. Did you know nothing of them when you married?”
“I knew that he liked wine, that he liked cards, and that he admired beautiful women. But the last was a virtue, since I had no notion that he would not treat the marriage vows as binding.” Mrs. Wickham sighed. “But he was a handsome fellow. And well used to talking his way into anything he liked.”
“Not into everything.”
Mrs. Wickham was silent for a minute, and then she fed Darcy the end of the broth. As promised she now gave him two dry crackers. Her face was pale in the flickering candlelight and the sad look to her cheeks made him long for some happier world.
“My father,” Mrs. Wickham said, “told me that if Wickham returned in three or four years with his studies at the Inns of Court complete, and with a settled practice, and three witnesses of known character who would attest to his virtuous behavior over the past years, then hemightreconsider his refusal, but as Mr. Wickham was a worthless fellow who could never make anything of himself, he need not worry about impossibilities.”
“I believe I might like your father,” Darcy said.
Mrs. Wickham laughed. “We were so close. And he could make me laugh. I always felt as though it was the two of us against the rest of the family. But chiefly I remember those last weeks. How angry we were with each other. How I refused to speak with him, and he walked about with a satisfied air of knowing better. He did of course, but, zounds, I did not like it at the time. And he did not realize that I would defy him.”
“Mr. Wickham convinced you to elope?”
“No. I mean yes, but I had more than half convinced myself before he suggested it. I wanted to prove to my father that I was right about Mr. Wickham. What a foolish young Miss. What a fool.”
“You are still young.”
Mrs. Wickham laughed again. “I am. Yes, you are right. It can be easy to forget how young I am. I have two children who depend for their bread upon my work.”
“You were raised a gentlewoman,” Darcy replied, unsettled by this. He had robbed her of any hope that she could gain the support her position deserved.
“As the years pass that seems to be of less significance. That ordinary obsession of an old maid of gentle birth with always keeping up appearances...I cannot flinch from humbling myself. Not with the difficulties I have faced, and with my children to worry upon.”
“Any man who abandons their children deserves to be despised,” Darcy said.
“Do you then have no bastard by-blows?—I see you are shocked by the question. But I have been informed, by no less an authority than Mr. Wickham, and his friend Mr. Denny, that every gentleman in the world keeps a woman besides their wife. At least every one who has the means to afford her.”
“I was not raised in such a manner.”
“Neither was Mr. Wickham, and that certainly did not preventhiscavorting.” Mrs. Wickham yawned widely. “For three years we were quite happy. In a way. And then—when I learned that he had spent all themoney—he lost the majority while gambling, or while...visiting courtesans. Yes. Yes, I learnedthat. I was incensed. And he had made barely any progress in the study of law. I demanded he find something to do. I yelled at him. I shouted. I was quite heavy with Emily at the time. And George was so young. And then...after three days of my scorn and demands he left.”
The candlelight burned low. It flickered in her fierce dark eyes.
“Youshould not blame yourself. He made you his wife. He promised to care for you. And he had failed to do his utmost.”
“He was weak.” Mrs. Wickham stared at her hands. “Mr. Wickham tormented himself greatly. He despised himself. Not at first, but at the end, when I held George and pointed at my belly and cursed him for failing to provide. I was not the sort of wife who sweetly endures every insult, every failure of her husband. I was not like that. I was the termagant. The only reason I did not punch him is that he was stronger than me, and I feared that if he struck me back, I would collect a knife to stab him—then what would have happened to the children after they hung me? Mr. Wickham had no application. And he could not cease to gamble. Or attend onthose women. Or anything else. Hehaddone his utmost, but that was very little. I always hoped that one day he would return, that one day he would become the man whom...whom I thought I had married. Butthiswas the most likely way for him to end. Shot because he had taken the virtue of another woman. Damn him. And I’ll not cry. Tears do no good for anyone.”
Mrs. Wickham fiercely brushed at her eyes. “Damn him.”
Mr. Darcy wished that he had a handkerchief to hand to her, but he suspected that she would have been unhappy with the gesture.
The woman stood and paced the drawing room several times, from the empty fireplace to the door out to the hallway. Back and forth. Back and forth.
One more time she wiped at her eyes. “Since then, I’ve shifted about, earning money this way and that. I sold everything but a few clothes with which we can visit friends who are quality; I paid many of his debts to tradesmen with that. And I’ve survived.”
“Your family refused to help you?”
Mrs. Wickham opened her mouth. She then shut it and frowned. Her brows furrowed.
Watching her mobile face, Darcy was once more struck that she was a special woman, one who deserved far better from life.
“When Papa refused to let me marry Mr. Wickham he explained at length to me the difficulties in matters of money that we faced. The estate is entailed, and I have four sisters. If I married someone who could not support me and the children we would have, then it would be necessary for him to take money that should help my sisters to support us.”
