The Murder of Mr. Wickham (Mr. Darcy & Miss Tilney #1)

by Claudia Gray

(Elizabeth felt that new acquaintances generally fell into two categories: those who were worth knowing and those who provided constant sources of amusement.)

Yet she remained aware that she had first fallen in love, not with the man himself but with his love for her. To be the subject of such gentle, unselfish devotion—to be protected so tenderly, and with so little expectation of reward—who could not be drawn to it? It was Brandon’s love—the fervor of it real, if buried deep, like glowing embers within the ash of a fire—this was what had persuaded her to become his wife.

“It’s unconscionable. No man of decency would ever let a house in such condition.” Anne replied, “No man of decency would ascribe to malice what is more easily explained by ignorance.”

Interesting men tended to marry interesting women. If not, she had learned, it was a hint that the actual man might not be as interesting as his credentials.

There is nothing so invigorating to the established society of a neighborhood as a new acquaintance.

It appeared that people did not like to listen nearly so much as they liked to be listened to.

“Not all wickedness reveals itself immediately. Sometimes it masquerades as charm in the beginning. And the masquerade can be more convincing than you would ever dream.”

She no longer loved Willoughby; her heart belonged to her husband. But some of the wounds Willoughby had inflicted still bled fresh from time to time.

“Mr. Wickham believes himself to be wronged by the world,” Darcy replied, “though precisely when, and in what manner, any objective observer would find difficult to identify. He forever seeks revenge for this wrong, against society as a whole, and in particular against whatever unfortunate persons find themselves in his company.”

They had always been so happy together. Jonathan, like any other child, had taken comfort in the strong bond between his parents. Yes, they loved each other—but as he grew older, he’d recognized that his parents also shared something far more uncommon between married couples: they liked each other. All such warmth and kindness between them seemed to have died with Susannah.

Lightning crashed down as she dashed through the conservatory, so close that the bolt and the thunder were simultaneous, casting bright light into the gallery. The busts on their pillars cast sharp-edged shadows on the floor for one instant. When the light was gone, one shadow remained, darker than the darkness around it. She took up her candle and tiptoed forward to get a better look. Her eyes widened as recognition set in. Who’s screaming? Juliet thought, before realizing, Oh, it’s me.

How unfortunate for public morals that being unladylike feels so…exciting.

All his life, his habits had been a source of consternation to his parents. To others, they had been cause for contempt. Jonathan’s ears still burned with some of the insults that had been hurled at him in school. Miss Tilney either would be bewildered or would laugh at him; his modest hopes were for the former. Instead, she said, “You need not have left the room to accomplish that. I would not have minded it.” Jonathan wondered if she had misheard him. Or perhaps he was the one who had misheard her? “You would not?” “It is peculiar, of course,” Miss Tilney said, “but my mother has often told me that most people are really very peculiar, once you get to know them. The only difference is in how well we hide our peculiarities. Your habit seems harmless.” “I am well enough,” Jonathan said. He did not wish to discuss the subject further at this time or perhaps ever. Welcome though Juliet’s acceptance was, it was also unfamiliar. Nor was he certain he could trust it. She spoke without having seen him rock; if he ever dared to do so in front of her, Juliet’s reaction might not be what she had expected or promised. All the same…it was encouraging to think that she did not find him silly. That she was at least willing to try. Dropping his voice, he continued, “Will you

If one made allowances for peculiarity, it soon ceased to be peculiar and became ordinary.

When making new friends, pay less attention to what people say of themselves, more attention to how they behave. Truth is not in the telling but in the doing. Above all, I urge you to make this visit a study of human nature. It is the one tool of the novelist that is useful in day-to-day life—one that helps us interpret the hidden depths behind even the most ordinary circumstances.

On many occasions before their marriage, and some since, Emma’s husband had been angry with her. Civil as he was even when angered, she always found this difficult to bear, largely because his displeasure had always been richly deserved. Despite the inevitable frictions of marriage, Knightley had never truly angered her the same way. This she had attributed to his greater age and experience and to her own meddlesome nature. Now, however, it felt as though she had saved every ounce of anger of which she was capable—all for this very moment.

If only he could comfort her! But Brandon felt himself well aware of his limitations in this area. His quiet temperament had not taught him how to handle a more tempestuous one. No doubt Willoughby would have had better instincts here. Feckless and selfish though the man could be, his love for Marianne had been genuine. Their spirits had been more in harmony. Brandon knew himself to be Marianne’s consolation rather than her prize. Was it enough for her? He had convinced himself that it was enough for him. No doubt he had been wrong.

Jonathan preferred to be indoors rather than out, as a rule. One could predict what would happen indoors, to a reassuring extent. Nature was more capricious.

When he spoke to Miss Tilney, he did not feel that he was strange. He did not have to pretend that he understood things he did not. Jonathan could be entirely himself. What a rare and exhilarating privilege.

It was not that Elizabeth Darcy took Wickham’s death lightly; it was more than she found her way through difficulties by learning how to laugh at them.

Why can you not accept my word in this matter? Why do you refuse to trust my knowledge of them as a guide?” “It is precisely because you know and love them that you cannot see them clearly,” Miss Tilney insisted. “Love blinds us more surely than anything else ever can.” Jonathan sensed that Miss Tilney had hit on a deeper truth. We forgive the faults of those we love so often, so deeply, that we sometimes convince ourselves the faults do not exist. The rest of the world is not so easily persuaded.

“The example we are currently setting is far worse than you believe,” Emma insisted. “To skulk about like this, why—it suggests we are guilty!” It cost Knightley a great deal to answer, “One of us is guilty.” Emma would no longer look directly at him. “But most are not, and we should behave as though none of us are. To do otherwise risks the very respectability of Donwell Abbey.” Although Knightley was not as sure of this, he was willing to concede.

The secrets had been his. The blame was his, too—whether he knew it or not. It appeared from this note that he didn’t. This mattered little, but she wished it mattered to her not at all.

Every moment she spent without Edmund, without speaking of the terrible matter that lay between them, was torture. And yet, speaking of that matter was even worse…

“It seems that this crime was not a planned act. That it was instead the result of a moment of great anger. Men anger much more quickly than women do.” Juliet considered this for a moment. “I would say that men reveal their anger much more quickly than women do. For them, it is not so strongly disapproved of. But anger that is hidden sometimes burns all the hotter. Like a pot with a lid on, you see?”

Mr. Wheelwright was fifteen years Mary’s senior, possessed of a reasonable fortune, a widower for three years, and childless. Never had he considered a second attachment, until fate provided a girl with a temperament he found most admirable. He had few pleasures beyond books and philosophical arguments, which suited Mary very well. They wed five months after meeting and had in the years since produced no fewer than six children as testimony to their marital harmony.

Emma felt the tension within her begin to soften. Her husband might be self-righteous at times—perhaps he should consult her more and respect her opinions more thoroughly—but that did not change his good heart. She had to remember the best of him, even when facing the worst.

“In my opinion, we should go. In fact, we must.” Everyone turned to look at her. When one spoke rarely, one’s words were listened to more attentively. Anne had intuited this lesson long ago and wondered that so few people ever learned it at all.

There is no plan so pleasant, no expectation so cherished, that someone cannot be found to disapprove of it.

Mrs. Elton was expected to visit the poor frequently and to make jellies, pies, and cloth goods that might ease their burdens. This she did, but with little Christian feeling. Mrs. Elton preferred to express her piety through disapproval rather than charity. She was never more pleased than when finding a new thing to condemn, particularly when that thing could in some way be connected to Emma Knightley. The news of the murder at Donwell Abbey had made Mrs. Elton happier than she had been in many years.

A wing to the east had no counterpart at the west; heavy timbers supported the ceilings, still visible despite their whitewash. The broad fireplaces were made of rough stone rather than neat brick. Yet the dwelling possessed an undeniable kind of charm. It was the residence of a happy family, and where that is the case, no home can lack beauty.

A love like that did not die swiftly. In his and Eliza’s case, it had never died at all. Brandon was not fool enough to think that it would be different for Marianne and Willoughby. No doubt he wishes to meet with her on their next journey to visit his aunt, Brandon thought. A base yet natural part of him wished to rage against this, to forbid the very notion of it, to tell Marianne she was never to be alone with that man again. Yet Brandon knew better than most that love burns only brighter for having been forbidden. Marianne’s loyalty meant nothing if it were commanded. The decision must be hers alone. He undressed and climbed into bed. When she joined him, he was able to smile for her.

“You do not think the rough seas caused this?” Had he been blaming himself and his profession all this time? Empathy welled within Anne as she reached her hand out for his. “No, dearest. The seas were not so rough as that. Sometimes this…simply happens. We do not speak of it much, even among women, but it is not uncommon.”

Maybe, she mused, they’d been wrong to be angry with Mr. Wickham at all. If Frederick could at last see her again, Wickham had actually done them a favor. If that change cost twenty-five thousand pounds, Anne considered it a bargain.

Some must turn away their sinning family members for their own peace of mind and to avoid corrupting influences. But you, Fanny—if you have made your peace with William’s actions, your good heart is as near incorruptible as any soul on earth can be. As long as you wish for William to be in your life, let it be so.”

It is perhaps best to leave them here, with the privacy of their feelings. Enough to know that the distance between husband and wife had, at long last, been bridged. This was not the last misunderstanding the Darcys would ever have—they were too different in temperament for perfect peace—but they would never be so far apart from each other again.

What I believed Willoughby to be, you truly are. It was a man like you I had dreamed of all along.

“I have learned one thing already,” Emma said, “and will forever heed it.” “To what do you refer?” “That house parties are more trouble than they are worth, and we shall never, ever have another one.” Knightley smiled. “On that subject, we are in complete agreement.”

There was joy there, understanding, too, their marriage a fortress that the troubles of the day could not pierce—even such a day as this one. It was, in short, as it had been before. His parents’ marriage was a fortress for Jonathan, too, and in that moment he felt almost secure again.

He smiled at her, as he did every morning, but there was a different quality to his affection now. The distance between them was forever diminished. Each better understood the love they felt for each other, and how much both were willing to sacrifice for that love. It was a test many marriages could not endure, Marianne thought, but one that had made their connection all the stronger. How would Willoughby have handled a similar situation? Marianne could not imagine it. Moreover, she found she did not want to. It was of no moment.

“He was our last tie to Susannah—and to Lydia, too. Perhaps to the folly of my youth, of which we should all be constantly reminded, lest we repeat it in drearier fashion.

Perhaps there is no surer ground for the foundation of a friendship than a shared time of trouble.