Page 146 of A Question of Character

She believed Darcy. She believed Wickham. Somehow, impossibly, both convictions occupied the same heart.

And until one yielded, neither love nor judgment would grant her any peace.

eighteen

A Possibility of Error

Darcy had a letter from Georgiana around a week after he sent his last. He hurried to his chambers, eager to read his sister’s words. The seal, engraved with her initials, broke easily.

Dear Brother,

I confess, I am all astonishment that Mr. Wickham is in Meryton. I had thought all our dealings with him concluded. It would seem that Providence has other schemes of which we are not aware.

My heartache over Mr. W. is at an end, I assure you. I find myself quite content at home with Mrs. Annesley. My work with the masters proceeds apace, and I dutifully attend to my correspondence. I am not yet ready to speak of the events of the summer. There were misunderstandings all around, and when it is time, I shall confide all. Please believe me when I inform you that I am hardly the young and foolish girl you think me to be.

Do not let the presence of your old friend distress you; perhaps he has decided to improve himself and even now works to repair his character. You say he is courting Miss Elizabeth’s sister? It is altogether shocking how paths cross in such a manner.

Now, tell me, brother—am I to have a new sister soon? I should like that above almost all things. And Elizabeth is an exceptional woman—absolutely perfect for the position of Mrs. Darcy.

Warmest affection,

Georgiana

Darcy read the letter twice.

Then a third time.

By the fourth reading, the words had ceased to arrange themselves into any order he liked. Georgiana’s hand was familiar, her phrasing affectionate, her humor restored; and yet the letter left him less at ease than if she had confessed herself miserable.

My heartache over Mr. W. is at an end.

Too unaffected. Too carefully indifferent. Darcy knew very well that Georgiana, when truly at peace, did not announce it with such precision. She wrote of music, Mrs. Reynolds, some new ribbon, an opinion cautiously formed about a book. She did not declare old wounds closed as if addressing a physician across a sickroom.

There were misunderstandings all around.

He thought of that sentence more than once.

What misunderstandings? Wickham’s presence in Ramsgate admitted no charitable explanation. Mrs. Younge’s treachery admitted less. Georgiana had been deceived, persuaded, and nearly carried toward ruin by a man who knew precisely what advantage he pursued. Darcy’s mind rejected every softer interpretation before it could fully form.

And then, with equal unwillingness, Elizabeth’s words sounded in his thoughts.

Your account of Mr. Wickham bears almost no resemblance to the gentleman my family has known.

He set the letter upon the desk and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

Elizabeth was not foolish. Obstinate, yes. Too proud of her discernment perhaps. Too inclined to trust the evidence of her own eyes when those eyes had just seen a portion of a man. But not foolish. And Georgiana, in this letter, spoke of Wickham as Elizabeth had done: perhaps he has decided to improve himself.

Perhaps.

Darcy disliked the word.

It opened doors he preferred closed.

What if Wickham had indeed come to Hertfordshire for honest work? What if, by some unlikely exertion of conscience, the man had begun to repair what he once wasted? The thought did not absolve him. Three months of industry could not erase years of dissipation. But rumor did not distinguish between degrees of guilt. If Meryton had taken Darcy’s contempt and fashioned it into public judgment, Wickham’s prospects might be damaged past easy repair before any proper inquiry could be made.

And if Darcy were wrong about Ramsgate—

He rose so abruptly that his chair scraped against the floor.