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The lady nodded, and I managed to get in a question or two of my own regarding the area and its inhabitants, but she was a dog with a bone between her teeth, and unlikely to be diverted elsewhere.
“Matlock, yes—the earl is a relation of Mr Darcy’s, I know. Is that how you met? Through your sister’s auspices?”
“No, indeed. We have been acquainted for many years.” Not a lie, though I felt I knew him less today than on our wedding day.
“He certainly wasted no time, I own. We all thought he might look a bit closer to home. My dear daughter, only eighteen years and such a darling, biddable girl, might have filled his nursery. But men are impatient, and do not think out these matters. Dear Mrs Darcy is hardly cold in her grave, but I suppose he could not afford to wait too long, since choosing a bride of an, er, particular age. No offence meant, of course.”
“Of course.” I was mindful that my every word would be repeated—and embellished—throughout the neighbourhood, so I could not toss her out upon her ear. I did not order refreshments, however, and she could not introduce a topic that would encourage me to lengthen the visit. It drew to a thankful close shortly thereafter.
I laughed to myself as her gilded backside swished out the door, but I was not completely unaffected. When, within a few minutes, Mrs de Bourgh informed me that I had yet another caller in yet another parlour, I neglected to wonder why she had fetched me rather than a servant. In mentally arming myself for another, possibly difficult interview, I stupidly assumed Mrs de Bourgh and I would greet our visitor together, that she would perform introductions to another matron of the community, picking up where Mrs Longthorpe left off.
But incredibly, it was a man who stood in that elegant, refined parlour. And when he turned to face me, I nearly swooned in shock and dismay.
I had not seen Lieutenant George Wickham in many years, but I would never forget him. He had aged well. I could see the lines of dissipation within his handsome features, but only because I looked for them—one did not live a life such as his without leaving some sign of it. Still, his natural beauty was great. Perhaps in ten more years, I thought, his aspect will better match his character. He ought to be a loathsome figure of disgusting appearance, a monster, the stuff of night terrors.
“You,” I said, my voice low and accusing.
“Mrs Darcy!” he cried, as if we were meeting at a ball or the theatre. “How lovely it is to see you again!”
I whirled upon Mrs de Bourgh, meaning to demand an explanation, but she only smiled malevolently and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
“She is a cousin of my mother’s,” Wickham explained, as I gaped in shock at this extraordinary behaviour. “Darcy did not know it, of course, when he married our beautiful Anne. He neglected to inspect the blood of the blacker sheep in her family tree, because the flock in front of him was so very blue. Anne and I remained close all her too-short life. Very, very dear friends, we were. I grieve her, exceedingly.”
“You should leave,” I ordered, disgust filling me at his implication. Although I was angry at my husband, a wave of sorrow nearly overwhelmed me. I knew that many marriages were unhappy, and—especially it seemed, amongst the higher circles—disloyalty was almost expected. But my father, despite his great differences with my mother in so many areas, had never been unfaithful. He had made her a promise, and kept it. Wickham ignored my demand.
“Now, now, mon cœur,” he said. “You needn’t look so appalled. Darcy, of course, was horrified to learn he had obtained a connexion with me, but he has always been stuffy. Can you truly cast the first stone? Had you the inclination to reveal to him the fate of your youngest sister? The last I heard, she was selling her wares in a brothel in the East End. Not one I would patronise, of course. Too seedy, too many diseases.” He grinned. “You did explain it all, did you not?”
I realised that if I suddenly found a pistol in my hand, I would be tempted to shoot him dead and never look back. Had Mr Darcy’s first wife been as evil? Lydia’s sins had been ones of stupidity and misplaced affections. This man, whom she had trusted, had abandoned her and left her to die most miserably. If Anne Darcy was cut from the same cloth, Mr Darcy had suffered much provocation—perhaps beyond what any mortal could bear. Especially a man of his pride and standing.
“Dear Lydia used her last bit of coin to return home, did you know that?” he continued casually, as if remarking upon the weather. “Unfortunately for her, the new master of Longbourn was there to greet her. Of course, he thought death too good for her. Such a shame! Put her on the next post returning to London and thought himself charitable for paying her fare. Of course, if your parents hadn’t been so foolish as to get themselves killed attempting her rescue, I might have found her more useful. But who knows, really, if they could have raised the blunt it would have required to keep me? I am expensive, and weddings are not cheap.”
“You are revolting,” I snarled, hatred choking me.
He only smiled more broadly. “She did try to keep our love alive, you know. I remember her begging me quite prettily to take her back. I did…for a night or two.” He sighed affectedly. “Alas, she could not amuse me longer than that.”
I could not restrain myself; I grabbed a nearby candlestick and tried to brain him with it. Unfortunately, I had little strength compared to his. He only laughed, catching the candlestick and wrenching it from my hand, then tossing it aside as he grabbed me, holding me closely before him with his arms wrapped around me.
“Oh, now, this is more amusing,” he murmured in my ear. “I remember Lydia as a spirited little thing. Perhaps it is in your blood.”
“Unhand me,” I cried, struggling futilely. “Go away and leave me alone!” I managed a kick, but my slippers were ill-suited to combat, and I only hurt my toes.
He laughed and arranged his grip more tightly to free one of his hands. It was infuriating how helpless, how frustrating it felt to be entrapped so easily, with his one arm exceeding the strength of my whole body. I was not afraid, not then, for I was too angry. I kicked him again, despite the pain.
“But we have not yet discussed my terms,” he replied directly into my ear, his breath hot and wet and disgusting. “I require a price for my silence regarding your tainted family tree,” he continued, stroking my cheek as he spoke.
“I would rather die than pay you so much as a farthing,” I hissed.
“A mistake,” he said, coldly now, his grip still like iron. “However, perhaps you do not realise it. When Anne was alive, she hinted to so many of what she suffered at the hands of her husband. She never shared any details, naturally. Too much the lady. I thought it a game, I admit. We laughed together about her rumours. But still waters run deep. Now, I find myself wondering. Upstanding Darcy, virtuous Darcy, respectable Darcy—who really knows what evils he might hide beneath his proper, prim, conceit?”
“If he did not murder you long ago, he is a saint,” I cried, and tried to shove my elbow into his gut. Again, I was not strong enough to cause any damage.
“Oh, you are a fiery one,” he chuckled, nipping my ear. “Lucky, lucky Darcy. Not that he could possibly appreciate it.”
“I will scream, and have you arrested!”
He only laughed harder. “Mrs de Bourgh will have taken care there are no witnesses. Scream to your heart’s content. I enjoy the sound.”
“My husband will see you gaoled for this assault,” I accused, but I was beginning to feel the helplessness—and hopelessness—of my situation.
“I wonder if you truly understand,” he murmured into my ear. “I have numerous friends in this area, as you do not. Many of them share my curiosity as to how, exactly, Anne met her death. She wrote to me, you see, asking me to come to her immediately. Sadly, I was unable to arrive here quickly enough. By the time I could, she was dead, and your husband and the magistrate between them hushed it up. But it will not stay hushed. It will never go away. I promise you, Mrs Darcy, that unless you make it very worth my while, I will feed and fuel and fan the flames of those rumours. Your illustrious husband will never have a moment’s peace. I swear it.”
His grip was bruising, but it was not so violent as those words. His hatred for my husband permeated every single one. It might, even, surpass mine for him—he had clearly been nurturing it for much longer. Despair filled me, for I could see no alternative to meeting his demands. I knew the power of gossip. He would make us both bleed unless we paid. He might, regardless.
And then, as if this were some sort of poorly written act from a bad play, the door opened, and there stood Mr Darcy. His gaze met mine, and as if I was watching a scene from my past, I saw the exact same look upon his face as the first time I had seen him meet George Wickham on the streets of Meryton, so long ago.
The same anger, the same helpless sort of fury. And Wickham…was stroking my cheek, still.
