Page 24 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

She leaned on him. They went down the steps, her hop and his slow stride. His arm was hard around her waist. Her ankle hurt at every step, and she hid it from him. The night air was cold. She was wearing Mrs. Hurst's second-best gown, which Sarah had taken up at the hem. It was too thin for November.

The step was the difficulty. She could not lift her bad foot to it, and he could not hand her up. So he set his forearm under her elbow and held it rigid. She caught the strap and hauled herself in on her good foot. It was not graceful. He held her elbow until she was on the seat.

"You are not coming, Mr. Darcy?" said Mrs. Bennet, climbing in after her.

"No, madam."

"No, of course. Lottery tickets." Mrs. Bennet laughed. "I cannot imagine you at lottery tickets."

He looked past her, at Elizabeth. The carriage lamp lit half his face. "Take care of your ankle, Miss Elizabeth," he said.

Then the footman shut the door, and he stepped back into the dark.

Aunt Phillips's parlor was very hot and very full. Mr. Collins admired it at length. He said it put him in mind of the small summer breakfast parlor at Rosings. Aunt Phillips wavered over whether to be flattered, and decided to be.

It took Jane and the crutch to get her through Aunt Phillips's narrow hall. Mr. Collins walked behind them, telling them to mind the step.

Elizabeth was put in a chair by the fire with her foot on a stool. The crutch leaned against the arm of her chair. It stood a head taller than the mantel clock. There she stayed. Jane was taken away to the card table. Kitty and Lydia were taken away by the officers. Mrs. Bennet was taken away by her sister. Mr. Collins sat down to whist and began to lose.

And Mr. Wickham came and sat beside her.

Lydia had not exaggerated. He was the handsomest man in the room. He had a fine countenance, an easy manner, and a smile that made everyone near him feel clever. He took the chair beside hers without being asked, and laughed at himself. "Forgive me," he said. "I have taken an unfair advantage. You cannot get up and walk away from me."

"I could try, sir." She nodded at the crutch. "But it would be very slow, and very loud. And I should probably fall into the fire."

"Then I shall make myself agreeable enough that you do not wish to." He smiled. "Mr. Wickham. Your sister has told me everything about you. I think she told me everything about everyone."

"That is Lydia's great talent."

He asked about the fire. He asked very kindly. She told him about the rocket, and her skirts, and her ankle. She left out the grass, and the coat, and the arms around her in the dark.

"And Mr. Darcy saved you," said Mr. Wickham. "So everyone in Meryton says."

"He did."

"With his bare hands." He looked into the fire. "That is very like him. He will always do the grand thing. It is the small things he finds difficult." He paused. "How long has he been at Netherfield, may I ask?"

"About a month."

"I have known him since we were boys."

She turned her head and looked at him. He was not smiling now.

"You may well look surprised, Miss Bennet," he said. "You must have seen how he greets any mention of me." Elizabeth remembered the look on Mr. Darcy's face. He had left the room at Lydia's first mention of Mr. Wickham.

"His father was my godfather," Mr. Wickham went on. "The late Mr. Darcy was one of the best men who ever breathed. He meant me for the church, and he left me the best living in his gift."

"And?"

"And his son gave it to someone else."

Elizabeth said nothing. Across the room, Mr. Collins groaned over his cards.

Mr. Wickham told her the rest in a low voice. It was a long, sad story, and he told it well. He did not rail or accuse. He spoke with rueful sorrow, and that was worse. The father had loved him. The son had resented it. When the old man died, the son had found a way around the will.

"But why?" said Elizabeth. "What could make him do such a thing?"

"Pride." Mr. Wickham turned his glass in his fingers. "And something more, perhaps. He cannot bear to owe anyone anything, Miss Bennet. Not money, not kindness. Not even gratitude. He could not bear that his father loved me. It was a debt he never chose."