Page 148 of A Question of Character

Darcy’s teeth ground together.

Happy manners. Useful hands. A civil word in a village street. None of it proved innocence. Wickham had always known how to look the part required of him.

Still, Darcy directed his horse toward Longbourn with less confidence than he had possessed an hour before.

The welcome at Longbourn did not improve his mood.

Hill admitted him with correct civility, though he thought even she regarded him with a measure of caution. In the drawing room, Mrs. Bennet received him in a manner determinedly polite and somewhat strained, as if she had resolved to be gracious while reserving the right to remember every injury at a later date. Miss Bennet greeted him kindly, but her eyes carried concern. Elizabeth rose from beside the window, relief and apprehension mingling in her face.

The younger ladies offered less diplomacy.

Lydia, seated with Kitty over a basket of ribbons, gave him a look of such open disapproval that Darcy respected her for the courage of it.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said, and returned to her ribbon as if his name had exhausted her courtesy.

Kitty followed her sister’s lead, though with less severity and more curiosity.

Mary, who sat with a book upon her lap, regarded him through spectacles of moral purpose. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy. I have lately been reading that a whisperer separateth chief friends. It is from Proverbs.”

“Mary,” Mrs. Bennet said weakly.

“I thought it applicable, Mama.”

Darcy bowed. “Miss Mary Bennet, Scripture is rarely inapplicable, though perhaps not always comfortable.”

Mary considered this, then nodded once, apparently satisfied that he had not rejected correction.

Elizabeth crossed the room, gathering her gloves and bonnet from a chair. “Mr. Darcy, shall we walk? The weather is fine enough, and Mama has just declared the room too warm for sense.”

Mrs. Bennet fluttered. “I said no such thing.”

“You implied it by opening three windows.”

“It was close.”

Darcy offered his arm. Elizabeth took it, though the gesture held less ease than it had days before.

They walked into the garden without speaking. Behind them, Lydia’s murmur rose, quickly hushed by Jane. Darcy heard none of the words. He did not need to. The Bennets had chosen their side.

Or perhaps, more accurately, they had chosen not to abandon one of their own.

Elizabeth led him past the low wall, along the path bordered by late roses gone heavy at the edges. When they had reached a little distance from the house, she released his arm and faced him.

“We have decided to stand by Mr. Wickham,” she said.

Darcy’s chest hurt, though he had expected nothing else. “So Miss Lydia’s greeting suggested.”

“She is angry.”

“I observed as much.”

“She is also frightened.”

The addition struck him harder.

Elizabeth continued. “My uncle says Mr. Wickham is diligent, useful, and honest in business. My father finds no cause to withdraw his approval. Jane urges charity. Lydia—” She paused, her eyes moving briefly toward the house. “Lydia made a better argument than any of us expected. Until Mr. Wickham proves himself unworthy of our regard, we will not treat him as though he has done so.”

Darcy looked toward the orchard, where fallen apples lay in the grass. “I cannot blame your family.”