Page 152 of A Question of Character

Mrs. Younge had betrayed them.

Wickham had been named.

The letter.

The nod.

Everything pointed in one direction.

Another part, quieter but increasingly difficult to silence, asked uncomfortable questions.

If Wickham truly meant to deceive the Bennets, why attach himself to Lydia?

He had always sought wealth.

Miss Lydia possessed spirits enough for three women, but scarcely a fortune.

If he wished to entrap an heiress, Hertfordshire offered richer opportunities than the fourth daughter of an untitled gentleman.

Unless...

Darcy stopped himself.

Unless he was materially different. He almost laughed. The notion remained absurd.

Men did not reform so completely.

Did they?

His father had believed they could.

Old Mr. Darcy had never ceased hoping for Wickham’s improvement. Even after schoolmasters complained. Even after Cambridge. Even after one disappointment yielded another.

“He has excellent abilities, Fitzwilliam,” his father had once said. “Abilities are a gift. Character must be cultivated.”

Darcy had answered, with all the belief of youth, that some fields refused cultivation.

His father had smiled.

“Perhaps. But one ought to attempt the plough before declaring the harvest impossible.”

Darcy had thought himself wiser.

The memory lingered unpleasantly.

Miss Bingley met him in the entrance hall.

“I declare,” she said, folding her hands with elaborate disappointment, “you spend more hours at Longbourn than at Netherfield.”

“I had business.”

“So you always say.”

Mrs. Hurst glanced up from the sofa where she sat with her embroidery.

“I begin to suspect Miss Elizabeth possesses remarkable powers of persuasion.”

Darcy removed his gloves.