Page 90 of A Question of Character

“Then perhaps it is kinder to let him keep old troubles where they belong.”

Lydia absorbed this with more seriousness than Elizabeth expected. “He said there are mistakes he cannot undo. Last week. When Uncle Philips spoke of some man who had ruined himself with cards, Mr. Wickham said a person may spend years walking away from a mistake and still hear it behind him.”

Elizabeth stilled with one hand upon her chamber door. “He said that?”

“Yes. Not to everyone. To Uncle Philips. I heard because I was in the passage.”

“Lydia.”

“I was not listening,” her sister protested. “I was waiting to ask whether he would walk with us.”

“That distinction would not satisfy Mary.”

“Mary is never satisfied.”

Elizabeth had no answer to that.

Lydia looked down at her candle. “I think he has been unhappy, Lizzy.”

“Perhaps.”

“I should like to make him happy.”

The simplicity of it, from Lydia of all people, touched Elizabeth more than she wished to show. She reached out and smoothed one loose curl from her sister’s cheek.

“Then begin by trusting him where he has given you no cause to doubt.”

“That sounds very wise.”

“It happens occasionally.” Elizabeth chuckled.

“And if I cannot?”

“Then come to me before you say anything dramatic.” And maybe she would be able to reason away her sister’s doubts.

Lydia laughed under her breath. “I always say things dramatically.”

“I know.”

“I shall try.” She straightened, candle wavering in her hand. “Good night, Lizzy.”

“Good night.”

Elizabeth entered her room and closed the door, but she did not prepare for bed. Instead, she set her candle upon the dressing table and stood beside the window, looking out over the dark lawn.

A letter from an old friend.

The phrase resounded with irritating persistence. It did not trouble her exactly. Mr. Wickham had a past; he had already admitted it in pieces, never with the air of a man begging to be pitied. Perhaps the letter had come from one of those former connections who wished to remind him of an earlier self. Perhaps it concerned money, or some old obligation, or a friendship damaged by youthful folly. That he did not directly unburden himself to Lydia spoke well of him. A man who truly meant to reform could not carry every old stain into a young girl’s keeping and call it honesty.

No, she could not fault him for discretion. In truth, she admired it.

Mr. Darcy would have admired it too, if he had met the man. Or perhaps he would have reserved judgment, as was his habit, and studied Mr. Wickham until the poor gentleman felt he had been examined like a suspect document in Mr. Philips’s office. The image nearly made her smile. Darcy and Wickham together would make an interesting contrast: one guarded, one open; one severe with himself and others, the other striving to be better after some earlier waste of sense and opportunity.

She wished Darcy would come.

The thought was not new. It came most mornings when the post was brought, most afternoons when a carriage passed, and every evening when the house quieted enough for memory to grow bold. She had not written to tell him of her early return. There had been no propriety in doing so. He had said he would call upon her in Hertfordshire after the summer, and August, whatever Mrs. Bennet might say about autumn fashions, still belonged to summer.

September would come.