Page 59 of A Quiet Affection

As Wickham had walked across the park to the drawing room, and then as he listened to Mr. Darcy tell another sad story of more happier times, he strove to convince himself that this was what had truly happened.

Was itnotwhat had happened? Elizabeth had been the one to approach him. She talked to him about carnal relations. She put her hand against him.Truth.

The slut.

No, no, no.

The poor, poor misguided girl. They must lock her up for a year and make her listen to many, many improving sermons and books about morality in hopes that her character was not entirely reprobate and without hope of correction. He, as one who had meant to become a pastor would take on that role, if only Mr. Darcy would give it to him.

At last, after a wait that was terrible to Wickham’s nerves, Fitzwilliam entered the room with Elizabeth on his arm.

In the gaze of his old childhood companion, a man who had lectured him many times to correct his behavior, Wickham felt shame. It was suddenly impossible to believe his own lies, as he knew that he must.

He had grabbed his sister by law, a blind girl, and he had forced his lips against hers while she struggled to escape his grip. Elizabeth was not a low-born maid or farmer’s daughter, who only pretended to be difficult to assuage her future guilt at the joy of their joining.

This was a gentlewoman who Wickham knew full well disliked him.

Gentlewomen were special. They deserved greater consideration. Everyone knewthat.

Looking at Elizabeth, Wickham felt a surge of lust. She had seen him correctly, and unlike everyone else who loved him, she had rejected him because she saw him as the worm he was. And that made him long to force her to give him pleasure.

Darcy said, “Mrs. Wickham, speak with your sister. Perhaps in the other room. Privacy is best for what she wishes to tell you.”

“No, no, no. Fitzwilliam.” Wickham stood. “I do not know what she told you. But I’ll not have my wife’s mind filled with such stories. Poor, poor Elizabeth. I cannot judge her so harshly as I ought.”

Jane looked at him. She frowned deeply; her forehead wrinkled in concern. It was a rare look for her.

“What are you talking about?” Mr. Darcy demanded to know.

“If Miss Bennet understands what she has done and understands that what she wished for is impossible, I will not spread her secrets. I apologize, sir, but silence is a matter of honor.”

Elizabeth looked towards him. The pretty scarf covered her eyes, but she had a most considering expression. She turned towards Fitzwilliam and whispered to him.

Fitzwilliam said clearly, “I have already once attempted to expose your true character to my father. I shall not make such a mistake a second time. But you know that I am not your dupe.”

This speech filled old Mr. Darcy with unhappiness. The whole conversation was hateful to him. He was closer and closer to death. Every day left him more deeply in pain, weaker. He had planned to have no regrets. But now, those whom he loved best were opposed to each other. George and Fitzwilliam hated eachother. And from how Fitzwilliam looked at George, he feared from that there was a real chance that they would fight one day.

“Good God,” he said. He pressed his hand to his side, though the pain had spread through the whole of his ribs. “Sit down. Both of you. Fitzwilliam, sit.”

His son continued to stare at George, clearly unwilling to move until such time as George went to sit down.

“I am certain that whatever happened between George and Lizzy,” Mr. Darcy said to his son, “you need not feel such anger.”

His son looked at him solemnly. “I assure you, I ought.”

“What happened?” Jane rose and took Elizabeth’s hands. “You do not look—not like a horrible event has occurred. Lizzy, what happened? What is wrong?”

“I must tell you something.” Elizabeth and Jane walked towards the far end of the room.

George started to follow them. “I will not—”

Fitzwilliam stood between him and the two sisters.

“Sit down,” Mr. Darcy exclaimed fiercely. “George, sit first. Now. I do not know what you have been up to, but I will not see matters become worse.”

“She is my wife. She belongs to me. It is my right to know all her doings. To hear what she is told. I’ll not have my rights trampled upon.”

Fitzwilliam did not move. He watched George in such a way.