Page 70 of A Question of Character

Her hands clenched. “Miss Darcy wished it. I did not compel her.”

“You are old enough to know the difference between a young lady’s wish and her welfare.”

Mrs. Younge swallowed. Some of the practiced dignity left her. “The gentleman assured me his intentions were honorable.”

“Then you are a greater fool than I took you for.”

Color rose in her cheeks, whether from anger or fear he did not care.

“He is a gentleman by birth.”

Wickham? Not at all, but Darcy did not protest. Wickham could certainly act the part. “He is a scoundrel by habit.”

“I believed—”

“No.” Darcy leaned forward, both hands flat upon the desk. “You believed there was profit to be made from my sister’s fortune. Do not insult me with any other explanation.”

Mrs. Younge said nothing.

That, more than protest, condemned her.

He pushed the receipt across the desk. “You will sign for your wages and leave this house within the hour. You will take nothing that does not belong to you. Barton will inspect your trunks before they are loaded.”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “This is an indignity.”

“It is the courtesy you will receive.”

She signed with a trembling hand. Darcy took the page from her before the ink had fully dried.

“One more matter. If my sister’s reputation suffers in any respect, from any whisper, any letter, any recollection conveniently shared after your departure, I will know where it began. I will see you utterly ruined. No respectable house will employ you. No acquaintance will receive you. No lodging will be made comfortable to you if my influence can reach it, and Mrs. Younge, my influence reaches farther than yours.”

The room had grown so still that the scratch of a gull against the windowpane outside sounded indecently loud.

Mrs. Younge’s lips parted, but whatever she saw in his face persuaded her to silence.

“Barton,” Darcy said.

“Yes, sir.”

“See it done.”

Barton opened the door.

Mrs. Younge rose slowly. For one instant Darcy thought she might attempt some final defense. Instead, she gathered what remained of her dignity and walked past him without a word.

When the door closed behind them, Darcy stayed where he was.

The desk bore the evidence of ordinary life: Bingley’s letter, folded and dusty from travel; a memorandum from Pemberley; a book Georgiana had left there two days before with a ribbon marking her place. He picked it up before he knew he meant to. A novel, of course. He had told her nothing too foolish, and she had laughed.

The sound of her sobbing still seemed to cling to the staircase.

Darcy lowered himself into the chair behind the desk.

His boots were coated with Kentish dust. His coat smelled of travel and horse. He had planned to wash, dine, write to his man of business, perhaps ask Georgiana whether the circulating library had produced anything fit to read. He had planned a hundred ordinary things.

He covered his face with one hand.

“How,” he said to the empty room, “did I fail so spectacularly?”