The Beginning of Hope

Part 4

Four Years Previously

Breaking a seal to read a letter that was not addressed to him was certainly not the worst thing George Wickham had done in his thus-far short but eventful life. Ordinarily, he would not have felt even a shred of guilt about it. This particular day, and this particular letter, gave him pause only insofar as he knew his old friend Darcy was facing a difficult time of it at present. Old Mr Darcy had fallen ill and was not thought likely to recover.

Which intelligence I secured from someone other than my friend, Wickham reminded himself. That Darcy had not trusted him to confide the truth himself or to even invite Wickham to accompany him home to Pemberley stung. Was he not also fond of old Mr Darcy? Had he not grown up in the same estate as Darcy, among the same people and with the same cares and concerns? But, no. Darcy had dashed off a few letters through his servants, entrusted this one to Wickham's curious hands, and fled with nary a word nor a backward glance.

So, no. Wickham's conscience had not complained too loudly when he broke the seal on the note addressed to Miss Elizabeth Bennet in Darcy's careful, studious hand.

My father is dying.

Wickham stopped in his tracks, surprised to see the words written so plainly. It ought not to have been a shock. Nothing but a serious disaster could have prompted Darcy to hurry home so quickly, but he had not expected his friend to speak so plainly of the matter to a stranger. Wickham turned the paper over, his eyes tracing out the unfamiliar name. Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Suspicion flared in his chest. That Darcy should dispatch Wickham with a note to a young lady was cause for question enough, but that he should write so freely to her, of matters that would ordinarily be couched in vagueness - and which he could not bring himself to discuss with Wickham! - was of interest. Perhaps there was more to their connection than Wickham had allowed when entrusted with the errand.

His conscience smarted again at the notion of Darcy keeping secrets from him. Were they not friends? Does he not trust me?

His grip tightened on the letter. Tangible proof, if it was needed, that Darcy did trust him with some things. Wickham's heart hardened. Yes, to be his errand-boy. He thinks he is better than me and this is one more indicator of that.

Shoving aside any residual guilt, he turned back to the beginning of the letter, reading the thing through in one glance. It was not wordy. Darcy had always been brief, and even this was no excuse for redundant verbiage. There was no profession of love, as Wickham had fleetingly thought there might be. Nor was it a long-winded, guilt-ridden treatise on all of Darcy's failings as a son, failings Wickham knew were imaginary but still never failed to encourage in his friend's more melancholy moments. He had lived his whole life in comparison to Darcy and rarely came off the better of the two. It soothed him to see his friend's awareness of his own faults instead of forever urging Wickham to mend his.

So there was little of note in the letter, apart from the surprise Wickham still felt that Darcy had managed to meet and form an evident connection with a young lady without his knowledge. It seems I am not the only one capable of keeping secrets. He sniffed, folding the note and slipping it into his sleeve. Darcy had dispatched him to deliver it: he supposed he might as well. To Gracechurch Street, of all places! This was another surprise. Not only had his friend discovered he had a heart, but he had also lost it to a young lady from Cheapside. Wickham smirked. No wonder Darcy had kept her existence quiet. No doubt he was only too well aware of the lady's unsuitability for him and knew this would all come to nothing.

Wickham turned down one street, then another, his mind fixed on his task and his gaze turned from any acquaintance he might meet. There were several, for whilst Darcy considered himself too socially elevated to keep connections in Cheapside, Wickham had plenty.

He quickly reached Gracechurch Street, identifying the house his friend had named, and paused to observe it. It was a little shabby but certainly better than many.

Darcy, you incorrigible snob, he thought, swallowing his amusement. Only his friend could so easily discard a chance at happiness and call it wise. He recalled the letter, fishing it out and re-reading it. There was no discarding here. He asked - pleaded, almost, for Wickham knew Darcy well enough to read the true desperation behind his polite, distanced prose - for Miss Bennet to meet him, promising he would explain everything better in person than he ever could by letter.

The door to Gracechurch Street opened, then, and Wickham took a step back, disappearing into an alleyway and hiding from sight. He could still see clearly and deduced Miss Elizabeth Bennet was the younger of two ladies who walked arm-in-arm along the street, comfortably talking and smiling. It made for a pretty picture and Wickham was in no hurry to look away. This was the young lady Darcy had lost his heart to? He could see why. She was not beautiful, but there was an animation to her features, a brightness to her eyes which seemed to dance as she spoke.

This was the perfect opportunity to step forward, to hail Miss Bennet from a distance and deliver the note he had been entrusted with. Instead, Wickham turned on his heel and walked away, whistling jauntily and pausing only to tear the note in two and discard it in a puddle as he passed by.