Page 60 of A Quiet Affection

Fitzwilliam’s way of looking at George was both calm, yet violent.

Lord. He might do it.

He might challenge George to a duel. What if they were both killed, and that was near the last thing to happen before he died?

“Good God, George, sit down and tell me.” Mr. Darcy exclaimed as the two stared at each other. “What did you do to Miss Bennet?”

“I did not—”

“Not your prepared story,” Mr. Darcy said. “Not that most pretty tale that you have prepared. Why is Fitzwilliam so angry at you?”

“I believe because he has formed an unsuitable attachment to Miss Bennet,” was Wickham’s reply. “And thus, he is prepared to listen to any storyshebrings.”

Wickham said so much because it was true, and because he very much hoped that hearing this would distract Mr. Darcy enough to keep him from asking further questions upon the matter.

Mr. Darcy replied with a scoffing laugh. “The girl is blind and hideously scarred. Even if I did not trust my son’s good sense, he has better taste. Tell me a tale that is possible.”

The expression on Fitzwilliam’s face when he shot an annoyed glance at his father almost paid Wickham back for the discomfort of the conversation.

The young master was not pleased with his ancestor.

Wickham hoped to keep Mr. Darcy from hating him, from seeing him as…as something bad. He wanted Mr. Darcy to die thinking well of him, and that was his chief hope at present.

He did not know why he cared so much.

Mr. Darcy would not suddenly shower more money upon him—he had already received more by far than a patron gentleman ordinarily gave his protégé.

Yet…he hated the thought that Mr. Darcy might think ill of him.

Wickham sat as Mr. Darcy had ordered him to.

He smiled at Mr. Darcy. “Yes. I will speak to Jane later, to explain the truth of whatever Miss Bennet says.”

After so many years of closely watching Jane, waiting for the day when he would own her, Wickham understood her moods. His wife was struggling against tears.

Good.

This day had been extremely disappointing, and Wickham was happy that some of the unpleasantness was shared. Sharing misfortune formed a chief part of every idea that he had heard about what a happy and domestic marriage ought to be.

“Fitzwilliam, sit as well,” Mr. Darcy said. “Do sit. Let us talk as calm, rational beings. I have little time. Let us not waste this time being angry at each other. Fitzwilliam, tell me what Elizabeth said about Wickham.”

“Mr. Wickham displayed a lack of morality, prudence, and gentlemanly honor. As I told you, you should not have given him permission to marry Mrs. Wickham.”

“You are still in love with her. Oh, I did not considerthis. And so, you look for reasons to despise him. But what did Elizabeth say that prompted this anger from you?”

“I shall give you later proof that I do not admire Mrs. Wickham—no. I see, you are convinced. So odd. What I will tell you will merely convince you further that I am acting the fool for that reason.” Fitzwilliam looked at Wickham steadily. “I saw a part of what occurred, but Wickham will give what I saw with my own eyes a different interpretation. He shall invent some tale to deceive you. Likely he will claim that Miss Bennet is in love with him. Papa, you shall need to choose if you trust my character and judgement, and the character and judgement of Miss Bennet,or not. Hearing conflicting stories will tell you nothing that you cannot already know from your long experience with us.”

Mr. Darcy opened his mouth.

He would never tell Fitzwilliam that he had complete confidence in him. Even though he always had. That would destroy Fitzwilliam’s ambition. He couldn’t say it now. But the way that Fitzwilliam had spoken threw the question into a different light.

“George, what—” Mr. Darcy also could not speak to him. To the boy whom he dearly loved, and whom he knew, deep down he knew perfectly well that George was undeserving of his love. But that did not matter.

George was a son to him. Love asks not reason. George was not like Fitzwilliam. He had not needed to be harsh with Wickham. Wickham had not truly been his own; he was not an heir whom he must make like the father.

So he had told himself, but he had dearly loved George, and he had delighted in having a child about whose presence he could simply enjoy.

Mr. Darcy saw in George’s eyes a shameful awareness of himself.