“Come, Darcy,” called his jolly cousin. “We are merely attempting to extract you from your brown study before you return to your lady love.”
Richard was correct, but the afternoon had been replete with frustrations. First, the empty hovel with no clues other than a few boot prints which could have belonged to anybody. Then, they had gone to Lucas Lodge to secure more help, and Sir William’s offer of Mr. Collins’ assistance meant that the clergyman had not departed as Darcy had incited him to do the day before. What was Sir William thinking, offering his useless son-in-law’s help? Mr. Collins could not open his mouth without giving offense or lulling his audience into a stupor.
But that was not the extent of Darcy’s grievances. He had made the mistake of calling at the inn where his aunt informed him she had followed through on her threat to write to the director of Bethlem Hospital. Her interest, she claimed, was to do her duty by “that girl” in securing her the treatment necessary for her recovery. In reality, she held no qualms in having Elizabeth committed to Bedlam to be poked at and experimented on and studied like one of Galvani’s frogs. Lady Catherine’s moral obligation extended also to him and Anne, whose interests she boldly defended.
Darcy had objected.
She had retaliated with spite. “Are you so ungrateful when my only consideration is for your peace and prosperity? Do you really believe you could be happy attached to a woman doomed to insanity? I swore to your mother on her deathbed that I would watch over you in her stead.”
Bringing his mother into the argument had been too much. “With such delusions you suffer, you will be hard put to direct the doctor’s attention to Elizabeth. He would sooner haveyoucommitted.”
It had been necessary to point out the presumptuousness of her interference, but he ought to have done so with less threat and venom. His harsh words haunted him.
Lastly, and worse of all, Wickham had escaped. Darcy had sacrificed a day of wooing to chase after that ingrate for naught.
Elizabeth met them where the drive to Longbourn met the road. She smiled, and even as Darcy slid to the ground, his heart soared, his disappointments assuaged.
“Did you leave Wickham with the constable?” she asked, looking between him and his companions.
“No. He could be hiding in London by now,” Darcy replied.
She took his arm. “No matter. We will find him, and when we do, not even Wickham will be able to worm his way out of the consequences of his actions. The evidence is irrefutable.” She told her audience about Wickham’s indiscretions (no great surprise there), Lydia’s injuries (deplorable, but again, not entirely unexpected), her faked pregnancy (what a relief!), and then, of Lydia’s poisoned tonic. Horrifying.
“So, you see,” Elizabeth concluded, leading her dazed audience into the house where the rest of her family and Dr. Sculthorpe were huddled together, “Wickham is the only one who would have poisoned Lydia’s tonic, and when that did not work, he filched Father’s beehive. And since his preferred hiding place was behind the carriage house, it is reasonable to assume he also sabotaged the carriage.”
Richard flicked his coat tails aside, taking a seat. “The proof is there, but something does not quite ring true. Wickham is lazy. He is the first one to take advantage of an opportunity, but he has never been one to do the dirty work when he could get someone else to do it for him.”
Darcy agreed. But a desperate man might go to desperate means. How desperate had Wickham been?
Dr. Sculthorpe drummed his fingers on top of hisbelly. “This Wickham — does he, by chance, possess a grandiose sense of his own self-importance?”
“Absolutely,” Darcy and Richard answered in unison, Darcy adding, “He presumes to have been the favorite of my father, a better son than I was.”
The doctor nodded gravely. “Does he suffer delusions of grandeur, believing himself entitled and thus shamelessly exploiting others?”
“Yes.” Darcy said nothing of Wickham’s attempt to elope with Georgiana for her dowry, nor his many means of extracting money from the Darcys over the years.
Looking at Lydia, the doctor asked, “Did he constantly require praise and expressions of admiration?”
She shrugged. “Of course, but is that not normal? I quite like being praised and admired.”
Dr. Sculthorpe smiled at her. “Of course, to a degree. Your father will have to recall our Greek studies, but I am certain he recalls a certain hunter renown for his beauty.”
Mr. Bennet fiddled with his spectacles. “You refer to Narkissos?” After a confirming nod, he added, “He fell in love with his own reflection and was turned into a flower, the narcissus, for his vanity.”
Dr. Sculthorpe tap tap tapped his fingers against his stomach. “Narkissos has since been used as a figure to represent the dangers of an exaggerated love of self. People possessed of such a character, if left unchecked,become so absorbed in themselves, so thoroughly selfish in their pursuits, they become callous and often lash out against anyone and anything depriving them of what they feel is their rightful due.”
Darcy exchanged a look with Richard. The doctor had not met Wickham, and yet he had described him perfectly. “What can we expect from such a man? Is he truly capable of evil?” he asked.
“What can you tell me about your past dealings with this Mr. Wickham?” Sculthorpe asked, the drumming of his fingers slowing as he listened intently for a good half of an hour to the various accounts Darcy, Richard, and Mr. Bennet narrated. There were many from which to choose.
Several times, Darcy’s gaze flickered to Elizabeth, praying their stories might restore some of her memories and fearing what she might add to their conversation if she did. Georgiana’s greatest mistake was unknown to the majority in the room, and Darcy meant to keep it that way.
But, if Elizabeth remembered, she gave no evidence of it. She remained quiet, soaking in the conversation, only asking the occasional question.
“What do you make of him?” she finally asked. “Is he a danger still?”
The doctor clasped his hands together and sighed. “I am afraid this is only the beginning. He possesses the same peculiarities of some of the accused criminals I interviewed in one study. My aim was to discover ifthere was a connection — a family trait or characteristic, innate or learned — which could predict whether a man was more likely to commit a violent crime or not. I saw many of his kind.
