Page 158 of A Question of Character

A spendthrift. A man of charm and falsehood. One who took affection and converted it into advantage.

She had tried to fit those words over Mr. Wickham as he sat in her mother’s drawing room, speaking of office hours, legal practice, and the slow hope of usefulness. The shape would not hold. Either the man had transformed himself beyond recognition, or Mr. Darcy’s insistence had seized upon the past and made it answer for the present.

And then there was Ramsgate.

Always Ramsgate.

Elizabeth’s eyes moved to the window, where mist gathered along the glass.

If Mr. Wickham had not been there, why did Miss Darcy believe he had? If Miss Darcy had not named him, why had she nodded when Darcy supplied the name? Elizabeth disliked this part most of all because it gave her no comfortable side to occupy. Miss Darcy had seemed too timid, too tender, too young in London to be dismissed. Darcy loved her, and his fear for her had been real. Elizabeth could not make light of that injury.

Still, an injury could be real and the accused man innocent of it.

The thought had begun as a whisper in her mind. Now it came whenever Wickham behaved well, whenever Lydia grew more thoughtful under his influence, whenever Darcy’s anger hardened before inquiry could enter.

Lydia rose abruptly. “I must fetch the sampler I told you of. Kitty ruined the border by insisting blue thread could be charming where green was required.”

“I did not ruin it!” Kitty called from across the room.

“You altered its destiny,” Lydia replied. “That is much the same.”

She hurried out before Elizabeth could object, leaving the parlor in a state just within the limits of propriety. Kitty remained in the room, though absorbed at the side table with ribbons. Mary sat near the pianoforte, reading. The door stood open. No one could object to a few civil remarks.

Mr. Wickham seemed to know it too. He did not move closer.

Elizabeth folded her work and laid it in her lap. “Mr. Wickham.”

He bowed. “Miss Elizabeth?”

“I hope you will forgive me if I am impertinent.”

His expression grew alert, though not defensive. “That depends upon whether you are about to ask my opinion on Miss Lydia’s sampler. In that case I am prepared to say it is beyond criticism.”

“I wish to speak of Mr. Darcy.”

The humor left him.

Across the room, Mary turned a page. Kitty hummed to herself under her breath.

Mr. Wickham set his cup upon its saucer with care. “Then I shall answer what I may.”

“Mr. Darcy holds certain beliefs about your character.”

“So I have gathered.”

“He has known you a long time.”

“Yes.”

“And I think you know he does not distrust lightly.”

Wickham’s mouth twisted, though there was no bitterness in it. “Darcy does few things lightly.”

Elizabeth smiled. “That is true.”

He rested his hands upon his knees. “Mr. Darcy has reason to distrust me, Miss Elizabeth. I will not sit in your father’s house and pretend our past was amiable. It was not. I behaved badly in my youth. More than badly, at times. I disappointed his father. I offended Darcy. I wasted opportunities that would have transformed another man’s life had he received them with proper gratitude.”

The frankness of it disarmed her.