He could do little but remain where he was, exposed beneath the steady regard of his judges.
“Well?” Mr Bennet demanded.
Wickham inclined his head and parted his lips to respond—only to falter as the latch of the door lifted behind him with a distinct click.
The door opened slowly, as though in cautious hope of going unnoticed. The hope was misplaced. A tall, broad gentleman in clerical dress attempted to edge into the room with what was evidently meant to be discretion. His shoulder caught against the doorframe; the panel rebounded softly, yet audibly, against the wall. In his effort to correct himself, he trod heavily upon the carpet and nearly upset a small side table before regaining his balance.
Every eye in the room turned towards the newcomer.
Wickham shifted half a pace towards the opening, calculation flashing through him. The footman nearest the door moved scarcely at all, yet his considerable frame altered just enough to render passage impossible. Their eyes met briefly.
Wickham remained where he was, knowing that escape was still unwise. He would have to wait until there was less attention being paid to him.
Despite the charged stillness that had settled over the room, Wickham found himself faintly amused by the newcomer. He had been briefly introduced to the Bennets’ cousin—a Mr Collins, rector, and, most ironically, a dependent of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Mr Darcy’s aunt. That particular connexion alone rendered the intrusion diverting. He wondered what business could have brought the man here at such a moment; he had his answer soon enough.
“Mr Bennet, I must insist that I be involved in this matter, since it was my intended whom this gentleman carried off,” the parsondeclared, swelling with self-importance. “It is my solemn duty to ensure that her reputation suffers no lasting injury, and I stand prepared—most willingly prepared—to repair any damage which may, however unjustly, attach itself to her name. I cannot, in conscience, stand aside while the honour of a lady so nearly connected to me is brought into question. To do so would be both ungenerous and unbecoming in one so situated.”
A faint tightening at Darcy’s mouth betrayed his displeasure. Captain Denny shifted in his chair with scarcely concealed impatience. As for Colonel Fitzwilliam, he did not move at all; yet the stillness he assumed suggested something far less tolerant than mere irritation.
“She is not your intended,” Mr Bennet replied sharply, the words bitten off with effort. “Jane’s reputation remains entirely unblemished, and there is no danger to it—however frequently you choose to suggest the contrary. We have discussed this matter in great detail, and I beg you to say no more of it now.”
Observing all this, Wickham felt his interest sharpen. The colonel’s composure was too deliberate to be mistaken for indifference. Now that he knew who Jane Bennet was, he understood she possessed little fortune to recommend her, and that Fitzwilliam, however agreeable he might appear, must eventually secure a wealthy bride. If Collins imagined himself triumphant, he might yet find that triumph hollow.
To witness a lady of evident sweetness claimed so officiously—and to be unable, for want of means, to contest the presumption—was a hardship indeed.
The irony did not escape him.
While the others bristled, Wickham watched, considering how the disruption might yet be turned to his advantage.
The reprieve was short-lived. The murmurs faded, the air tightened, and the room’s attention shifted decisively back to him. At last, he was obliged to answer for what had transpired.
“Officious oaf,”Fitzwilliam muttered under his breath as he listened.
The judgment was not new. It came as no surprise to him that Lady Catherine’s choice of clergyman should prove a fool of the most determined description. Collins delivered his declaration of connexion to Jane Bennet with solemn triumph, wearing the self-satisfied expression of a man convinced he had performed some noble service. The display might have been laughable, had the subject of it not been Miss Bennet.
Opposite him, heat rose in Fitzwilliam’s chest, and he forced it down at once. To claim her so publicly—and at such a moment—was not gallantry but presumption of the highest order, vanity parading as duty. His shoulders drew back almost imperceptibly, his spine straightening as though bracing against an unwelcome blow. One hand tightened against his knee before he deliberately relaxed it, smoothing his glove with his thumb in a controlled, habitual gesture.
However greatly he admired Miss Bennet, he knew he could not offer for her. He possessed neither the fortune nor the independence to provide what she had been raised to expect, and she deserved more than a soldier’s uncertain prospects.
Within only a few minutes he had listened to Collins assert an engagement that did not exist, heard Mr Bennet’s strained correction, and watched the room absorb the absurdity of it all. The presumption alone was enough to set his temper on edge.
Jane Bennet’s composure and quiet sweetness rose unbidden in his thoughts. He was certain she would have endured the afternoon’s ordeal with remarkable grace; she deserved protection from such folly, not this officious display from a man who mistook entitlement for generosity. He longed to see her himself, to assure himself that she was well after the violence and confusion of the day, but even that simple wish felt beyond his proper claim.
What could he say in her defence against Collins? He had no right to demand an interview, no authority to insist upon her presence.
He possessed no claim he could advance without inviting scrutiny he could ill afford. Should Collins repeat his assertions beyond this room, hinting at injury where none had been done, society might conspire to press her towards a marriage she neither desired nor deserved, merely to silence whisper and speculation. Honour restrained him where instinct urged him to intervene.
The effort of that restraint showed only in the deeper draw of his breath and in the faint tightening along his jaw before he mastered himself once more.
Darcy was not astonishedthat Lady Catherine’s choice of clergyman should have produced such determined folly. Thespectacle before him was intolerable in its timing and the very ridiculousness of the display.
Fitzwilliam’s muttered words might have been laughed at under other circumstances. At present, Darcy found nothing in the scene to invite amusement.
He had no patience for Collins’s officious interference and still less for the delay it imposed. The matter of Wickham was serious and required immediate attention, not this absurd parade of presumption and folly.
Still, as the parson swelled with self-importance, Darcy’s gaze shifted briefly to his cousin to see how he was holding up.
Richard’s composure was too exact, too rigid.
