But did she have to know all? Did she have to know of my sister’s weakness? I wrestled with myself. I returned once more to the window. I watched the moon sailing over the cloudless sky. If she did not know of my sister’s weakness, then she could not know of Wickham’s perfidy, I reflected, and it was to tell her of this that I had begun the letter.
I could pretend it was to answer the charge of being the cause of her sister’s unhappiness, but I knew in my heart it was because I wanted to exonerate myself of all blame in my conduct towards George Wickham.
I could not bear the thought of him being her favourite, or the thought of my being valued at nothing by his side.
I resumed my letter.
With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.
‘Colonel Fitzwilliam will vouch for me,’ I said under my breath.
But how to tell the tale? How to arrange the incidents of Wickham’s life into some coherent whole? And how to write it in such a way that my animosity did not colour every word? For I meant to be fair, even to him.
I thought. At last I continued to write.
Mr Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him, and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge. Hoping the church would be his profession, he intended to provide for him in it. As for myself it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities, the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself.
Here again I shall give you pain…
How deep do her feelings go? I wondered. I stabbed the paper with my quill and blotted the page. It was so scored through with crossings out and additions, however, that I knew I would have to rewrite it before presenting it to Elizabeth, and I paid the blot no heed.
…to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character. It adds even another motive.
A motive of keeping you safe, dear Elizabeth.
I found myself thinking of what could have been. If she had accepted me, I could be sleeping soundly, with the expectation of rising to a happy morning spent in her company. As it was, I was unable to sleep, writing by the light of a candle and the glow of the moonlight that came in at the window.
I took up my quill, telling her how my father, in his will, had desired me to give Wickham a valuable living, that Wickham had decided he did not want to enter the church and that he had asked for money instead.
He had some intention, he added, of studying the law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the business was therefore soon settled, he resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town.
Rationally put. She could not take exception to such moderation, though I had had to write it five times to achieve such a result.
For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances, and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.
Yes. Last summer. I went over to the side of the room.
I had brought a decanter with me, and a glass. I poured myself a whisky and drank it off. The fire had been lit against the Easter chill, but it had long since gone out, and I needed the whisky to warm me.
I did not want to write the next part of the letter but it had to be done. I tried to put it off, but the clock on the mantelpiece was ticking and I knew I must finish what I had begun. I must, however, ask her for secrecy.
That she would grant it I had no doubt. She had a sister whom she loved dearly. She would understand the love and affection I had for mine.
I told her of Georgiana’s meeting with Wickham in Ramsgate, and of the way he had played upon her affections, persuading her to agree to an elopement.
Mr Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
I sat back, tired. I had come to the end. Now all that remained was for me to wish her well.
This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning.
I will only add, God bless you.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
It was done.
I glanced at the clock. It was half past two. I had to copy the letter into a fair hand, one she could read, but I was tired. I decided to rest.
I undressed slowly and went to bed.
This morning I woke with the dawn. I slept again, until my valet wakened me. I rose quickly, then made a fair copy of my letter. I made my way to Colonel Fitzwilliam’s room. He was in his dressing-gown when I arrived, about to have his valet shave him.
‘I need to speak to you,’ I said.
‘At this hour?’ he asked, laughing.
‘I need your help.’
His look changed. He dismissed his valet.
‘You have it,’ he said.
‘I need you to do something for me.’
‘Name it.’
‘I need you to bear witness to the events related in this letter.’
He looked at me in surprise.
‘They contain particulars of Wickham’s relations with my sister.’