Mr. Darcy, however, understood at once, and his attention fixed upon his aunt with sharpened concern.
Lady Catherine turned her head only slightly, and the movement alone restored obedience.
“I believe I spoke plainly. Mrs. Fairfax, the footmen—out. Mr. Darcy, you also. I require no witnesses for what must now be said, and I have no desire to repeat myself in my own house.”
Mr. Darcy stepped forward immediately, the instinct to oppose stronger than etiquette, stronger even than prudence. His voice, when he answered, was respectful, but the resistance beneath it was unmistakable.
“But, Aunt, I cannot think it wise to leave you alone with him, particularly after what has just been discovered. I would ratherbear your displeasure than answer later for having obeyed too easily.”
Lady Catherine raised one gloved hand, and though the gesture was slight, it carried the full force of lifelong command. Darcy stopped at once, not convinced, but checked.
“Indulge me, Darcy. I have been made a fool in my own house by a man whom I received with favour and defended with confidence. I think I have earned the right to hear his explanations without an audience, and perhaps he may discover that privacy is less agreeable when it belongs to someone else.”
There was something in her expression which made further argument not only useless, but faintly absurd. Darcy hesitated only a moment longer, then inclined his head with visible reluctance.
“As you wish, Aunt. I shall remain immediately outside the door, and I do not pretend the distance will recommend itself to me.”
“I do not doubt it,” Lady Catherine replied, with a dryness that proved her temper had not entirely abandoned her. “Indeed, I should be astonished if you trusted him at a distance of more than twelve feet, and I should think less of your judgement if you did.”
Even now, the severity retained enough of herself to make Darcy’s mouth almost move toward a smile, though it vanished before becoming one.
Mrs. Fairfax withdrew first, pale and deeply offended on behalf of the household itself, as though theft were not merely a crime but an insult to domestic order. The two footmen followed with that solemn discretion servants adopt when scandal has exceeded curiosity and entered the realm of family history.
Mr. Darcy was the last to leave, and before he did, he looked once at Wickham—not with anger, but with that settled contempt which no defence can soften and no apology can repair. Then the door closed behind him.
Lady Catherine remained standing beside the open trunk, one gloved hand resting lightly upon its lid, as though the mere contact helped preserve the distinction between judgement and outrage.
Wickham, deprived at last of spectators, straightened slowly and adjusted his cuffs with deliberate calm, as if elegance itself might still function as a species of defence. His colour had altered, but not enough to be called fear; he was too practised for that. Yet there was now in him the unmistakable awareness of a man who had discovered that performance no longer governed the room.
For several moments neither spoke. The silence lengthened until it ceased to be awkward and became instead a deliberate instrument. Lady Catherine had always understood the uses of silence when humiliation required assistance. At length she spoke, and the quietness of it made every word land harder.
“I confess, Mr. Wickham, I had believed you merely ambitious. It would have been vulgar, certainly, but vulgarity is common enough and can often be corrected by proper distance, proper refusal, or proper marriage elsewhere. I did not immediately suspect you of being stupid, which was perhaps my only real error.”
Wickham inclined his head slightly, preserving the outline of civility even when substance had become impossible.
“Your ladyship is severe. I had hoped, at least, for the courtesy of being considered ambitious before I was condemned as incompetent.”
“No,” she replied, without raising her voice, “I am precise. A clever rogue steals elsewhere. He does not steal from the woman whose table he dines at, whose patronage he solicits, and whose daughter’s dowry he has already begun dividing in his imagination. That is not villainy, sir. It is vanity with bad arithmetic, and I dislike bad arithmetic almost as much as I dislike ingratitude.”
For the first time, something sharper entered his expression, for contempt, when deserved, wounds far more deeply than accusation.
“You speak as though I had planned to rob you like a highwayman upon the Dover road. Surely even appearances deserve a little refinement. I sought advancement, not burglary. Many gentlemen of excellent family have done as much with considerably less elegance and considerably more success.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes flashed, though her voice remained composed enough to make the anger more dangerous rather than less.
“Do not mistake me for society, sir. Society forgives a handsome liar because it hopes to be entertained by him and later excused by him. I do not require entertainment. I require obedience, discretion, and the absence of embarrassment. You have failed in all three, and failure, unlike charm, leaves a lasting impression.”
She moved a step nearer, not dramatically, not loudly, but with the terrible composure of a woman who has entirely ceasedto care whether she is feared and is interested only in whether she is obeyed.
Wickham, for all his ease, did not retreat, but the effort of remaining still had become visible.
“You came here with recommendations, humility, and that polished gratitude men wear when they intend to be dangerous later. You courted my confidence, installed your woman in my house, encouraged the removal of Mrs. Jenkinson by inconvenience rather than dismissal, and believed that if you smiled long enough, Rosings would simply become yours by habit. It was not an unambitious design. It was merely a badly judged one.”
Wickham’s smile returned, though it had become harder now, and less useful even to himself.
“And if it had succeeded, your ladyship would very likely have called it prudence. Success improves morality in the opinion of most families, and advantageous marriages have long been forgiven where affection was absent.”
“No,” she said, with perfect contempt, “I would have called it marriage, which is the usual respectable name for theft among ambitious men. But even thieves ought to possess judgement. I was never in love with you. My daughter never liked you. My nephew never trusted you. My servants disliked you and it was entirely your fault. You had against you every warning except your own vanity, and vanity, I observe, is a very deaf adviser.”
