Page 213 of A Question of Character

She gave the smallest nod.

Wickham moved away from the window.

“I should like one more answer.”

Mrs. Younge looked at him warily.

“Why my name?”

Confusion crossed her features.

“I do not understand.”

“At Ramsgate.”

He stepped nearer.

“Why did Wycombe permit Miss Darcy to conceal his surname once Mr. Darcy had mistaken it for mine? Why continue the deception?”

Mrs. Younge closed her eyes. “Because it protected him.”

“And condemned me.”

“I know.”

“You knew then.”

Another nod.

“I told him it would not endure forever.”

“He laughed,” Wickham said.

She stared.

“Did he not?”

After a long moment she answered.

“Yes.”

“He said no one would trouble to distinguish between one scoundrel and another.”

No one spoke after that.

Outside, wheels rattled across the cobbles as a carriage entered the yard.

Darcy crossed to the window absently, watching servants unload trunks belonging to strangers whose lives continued untouched by the misery occupying the little inn. For an instant he envied them that ignorance.

Behind him Mrs. Younge began to weep in earnest.

He did not turn.

There had been a time when such tears would have stirred compassion.

This morning they found little purchase.

Mrs. Younge’s weeping subsided by degrees, the sound diminishing into small, exhausted breaths. Wickham had retreated to the hearth, arms folded, watching her with an expression Darcy could not fully read—something short of pity, though not without understanding.