Page 76 of A Quiet Affection

Mr. Taylor replied, “IfIwas married, I would not let my wife look at a gentleman in such a way.”

“It is merely Bingley. He is harmless,” Wickham replied, not turning towards them.

“Hahahaha.Youare a trusting one. But, look at how she talks to him. That woman likes him better than she likesyou.”

This was of course likely to be true. Wickham knew very well that despite his wife’s great effort toloveMr. Wickham to avoid beingforesworn, Mrs. Wickham had no greatlikingfor her husband. However, Mr. Taylor’s words awakened Wickham’s jealousy, and he turned to study his wife and Mr. Bingley.

Over the course of several minutes of observation as that lovely woman smiled at Mr. Bingley, Wickham decided that Jane did like Mr. Bingley too much.

There was a thing in her eyes.

“That damned bitch,” Wickham muttered. A heady rush of rage went through him.That damned bitch.

This brought a laugh from Mr. Taylor, who was in fact considerably drunker than Wickham. This gentleman was owed more than five hundred pounds in debts of honor by Wickham, and he was generally a man who paid close attention to his financial interest. It can only be his drunkenness which explains why he goaded Mr. Wickham into actions that he ought to have known might cause substantial financial losses to all of Wickham’s creditors.

“I wonder if they’re rutting in the stables when you are out playing cards,” Mr. Taylor said. “Bet she sneaks into Pemberley’s park to meet him, when she says she’s meeting her sister. Mrs. Wickham always pretends to be virtuous. So high and above us all. But mud sticks to every boot.”

Mr. Taylor’s sneer had, on more than one occasion, made crude remarks at Mrs. Wickham, or attempted to paw her while her husband pretended not to see. In all such cases he was gently avoided, but there was something about the look in her eyes when she escaped his attentions that made Mr. Taylor know that she thought very little of him.

“No. Worse. She wishes she could,” Wickham said. He had no reason to imagine that Jane was straying. He knew her better than that. “She admires him. God, I swore. I once swore.”

“Hahahaha,” Taylor laughed. “You swear a great deal. But there is nothing thatyou’lldo to her. We all know you are a coward. Barely a gentleman.”

Wickham stomped across the room towards the couple, walking right through the dancing floor, and shoving a Miss White to the side as he went past. “Step away from my wife, you damned cur.”

Bingley was quite surprised to be approached in this way by Mr. Wickham. “I have no notion what you are talking about.”

“I see you—hic—trying to seduce her. I see how you look at her! I see it.”

“Mr. Wickham, I certainly have no dishonorable intentions towards Mrs. Wickham.”

“Mr. Wickham,” Mrs. Wickham said to her husband, “what is this about? I was simply telling Mr. Bingley about Rosy.” At her husband’s blank look, she added, “Mrs. Brown’s little child.”

“A brat. You were speaking about a brat. Of course. You wanted to tell him that you’d let him put a brat in you to scorn me. Never, ever speak to Bingley again. You hear? By God, you said you’d obey me. If you ever speak to Bingley again, I’ll beat you till your back is blue.”

A crowd was gathering, which included both Mr. Darcy and his wife, and all of the party presently at Pemberley, including Bingley’s sisters and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner.

Darcy walked out and put his hand on Bingley’s shoulder, “I believe that Mr. Wickham is drunk, and we ought to ignore what he says. Mrs. Wickham, if you would wish to remain safely with Mrs. Darcy for the evening I would—”

“Darcy, damn you. You have always spat on my honor. Fight me. If you are not a coward. Trying to arrange a tryst betweenmy wife and your friend. Damn you. I’ll not see you make me a cuckold.”

A hush fell. The music stopped. Everyone stared between Darcy and Wickham. Darcy said in a slow, precise voice. “Wickham. You are drunk.”

“Fight me; I’m not a coward. You are the coward.”

“No.”

It was widely known in the neighborhood that Mr. Darcy had sworn to his father, when old Mr. Darcy was nearly on his deathbed, to never fight a duel with Wickham. This challenge made Wickham seem more cowardly, rather than Mr. Darcy, since everyone knew that he would respect such an oath.

Several footmen had approached, and Darcy said to them, “Help Mr. Wickham to his carriage.”

Mrs. Wickham said to her sister and Mr. Darcy, “I shall of course go with him.”

Matters likely would have ended here, if Mr. Taylor, who was more entertained by these events than he had been by anything in the past month, had not shouted out while sloshing his glass of punch onto the floor, “That’s right, Wickham! Slither home like the skulking coward you are.”

A rage went through George Wickham.

They all laughed. They all sneered at him. He had become an object of sport, a man considered by his nearest neighbors to be worthless. He had become like his father. And all because other men cheated at cards when they played with him—they must cheat, otherwise he would not lose so much.