Page 159 of A Question of Character

“He says he gave you money in lieu of a living.”

“He did. His father left me the promise of a family living. By the time it fell vacant, I had no business entering the church. I knew it. Darcy knew it. I asked for money to study the law instead.” His fingers flexed once against his knee. “If he believed then that I would squander it, he had reasons from experience. But I did study. I have had no dealings with the Darcy family since that arrangement.”

“None?”

“None.” He met her eyes. “I swear it.”

Elizabeth looked toward the doorway. Lydia had not returned.

“You are trying to reform.”

“I am.”

“I can see it.”

His shoulders eased a little, but he did not smile. “That is more comfort than you know.”

“I wonder,” Elizabeth said, choosing each word with care, “what occasioned so great a change.”

Mr. Wickham looked down. The question had reached somewhere more private than his earlier admissions. For a moment she thought he would refuse to answer, and she would not have blamed him.

Then he spoke.

“I had a friend. Or a man I called friend.” His voice remained low enough not to carry across the room. “He used me most abominably. Worse, he used my name. Debts, introductions, a promise or two I never made. Nothing that could be easily untangled once done. When I confronted him, he laughed.”

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around her folded work.

“I had expected denial,” Wickham said. “Anger perhaps. Some excuse. But he felt no remorse. None. He said I had traded on other men’s names often enough and ought not resent the lesson.”

“He sounds a contemptible man.”

“He was.” Wickham gave a short breath, nearly a laugh but without amusement. “He was also correct enough to cut me. Not in his conduct. There is no defending that. But in the charge. I had done the same to Darcy, in my way. And to my godfather. Mr. Darcy’s father was good to me all my life. More than good. He believed me capable of becoming a gentleman in character, not just in manners. I took his kindness and made it easy for his son to despise me.”

Elizabeth said nothing.

What could one say to that?

Wickham continued, a little hoarsely, “I do not pretend one resolution makes a man new. It does not. A fellow may resolve by candlelight and fail before breakfast. But I had grown tired of despising myself. I thought perhaps the law, with its tedious books and strict hours and little regard for charm, might do me good.”

Despite the gravity of the conversation, Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Has it?”

“Cruelly.”

“That is promising.”

“It is humbling, at least. Mr. Philips has been kinder than I deserve and less indulgent than I might have hoped. A useful combination.”

“You understand, then,” Elizabeth said, “the pain of betrayal.”

His gaze met hers.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps that is why Mr. Darcy feels as he does.”

“I have never denied him that right.” Wickham’s reply came at once. “If Darcy despises the young man I was, I can hardly claim the young man did not earn it. I resent being condemned for offenses I have not committed.”

“Ramsgate.”