Page 192 of A Question of Character

Darcy followed Wickham into the hall.

For the first time in years, he did not look at George Wickham and see the sins of the past.

He saw a man who might help him save his sister.

Darcy and Wickham rode from Longbourn within a quarter hour.

It ought to have taken longer. Horses had to be saddled, messages sent, orders given, trunks considered and rejected, routes debated. Instead, the whole household seemed to move under the force of one command: Miss Darcy must be found. Mr. Bennet sent a note to Mr. Philips. Wickham gave Lydia one last look that nearly undid her composure. Elizabeth stood upon the steps with Jane beside her, her face pale and resolute, and Darcy had to force himself not to look back once they had passed the gate.

Wickham rode hard, but not recklessly. That steadied Darcy more than he wished to admit.

They took the road toward London first. Until they knew otherwise, London must be the center from which every inquiry began. Colonel Fitzwilliam would already have received Mrs. Annesley’s message, but Darcy could not rely upon another man’s pursuit, not when every delay might cost Georgiana everything.

For several miles, neither spoke.

The horses’ hooves struck the road in a rhythm too loud for conversation. Wind tore at Darcy’s coat. The countryside blurred at the edges: hedges, fields, narrow lanes, a startled flock of geese, a cart pulled aside by a farmer who stared after them with open curiosity.

At last Wickham said, “You believed I had gone to Ramsgate for her fortune.”

Darcy’s hands stiffened around the reins. “Yes.”

“And for revenge?”

The question came without accusation, which made it worse.

Darcy stared ahead. “Perhaps.”

Wickham made a sound that might have been a bitter laugh, though it quickly disappeared into the wind. “I earned the suspicion, I suppose.”

“No.”

Wickham turned his head sharply.

Darcy forced the admission out. “You earned some suspicion. Not that.”

A long pause followed.

“Thank you,” Wickham said, though there was no satisfaction in it.

Darcy swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “Tell me what you know.”

“Of Miss Darcy’s elopement? Nothing.”

“Of the man who might use your name.”

Wickham frowned. “That is another matter.”

They slowed where the road narrowed beside a wooded rise. Wickham shifted in the saddle, as if the conversation sat more heavily than the pace.

“I have told Miss Elizabeth some of it,” he said. “Not all. I was a poor creature when we were young, Darcy. Worse than poor. You know that better than most.”

“I know what I saw.”

“You saw enough.” Wickham’s gaze remained upon the road. “I let masters think you cold when you refused to pay my debts. I let companions think your pride had injured me when the fault was mine. Once, at school, I gave your name to a tradesman for a bill I had no means of settling.”

Darcy looked at him.

Wickham’s jaw worked before he continued. “You paid it. Your father never knew, I think.”