Chapter 3 #3
“We shall certainly keep watch,” Mrs. Bennet promised. “I do hope you find her soon, Mr. Wickham. The poor child.”
“Thank you.” Wickham bowed to Mrs. Bennet, then to each of the daughters in turn. His gaze rested longest on Elizabeth. “You are very kind. All of you.”
Hill showed him out. The sound of the front door closing echoed through the house.
Mrs. Bennet sighed dramatically. “What a devoted husband! So handsome. That poor young woman does not know how fortunate she is.”
Elizabeth said nothing. Her hands were shaking. She folded them in her lap where her mother could not see.
“Such a romantic story,” Mrs. Bennet continued. “A husband searching desperately for his lost bride. Like something from a novel. Girls, you must all keep watch. If we can help reunite them, think how grateful he would be!”
“Yes, Mamma,” Jane said quietly.
Kitty shifted restlessly in her chair. “Perhaps, Mamma, she had reason to wish to be away from him.”
“La, Kitty, a handsome charming man like that? Why any girl would be delighted to be wed to such a fellow. How can you say that when he is searching for her with such devotion?” Mrs. Bennet clucked her disagreement.
“What do you suppose he meant by ‘flights of fancy?’ Mamma?” Lydia asked, her face a study in thoughtful contemplation. “I surely would not take a fancy to disappearing into a snow storm, and I am quite fanciful.”
Mrs. Bennet had no immediate answer for that. Her brown puckered in thought, and then she waved her fan as if to remove the very idea from the room.
“I am certain I do not know. I only hate to see such a handsome man suffering.”
Elizabeth stared at the card Wickham had left on the table—his name in elegant script, the direction of the White Hart below it. He had stood in their drawing room. He had smiled at them, lied to them, studied them with those calculating eyes.
Elizabeth rose. “I do not reckon his countenance is any assurance of his character, Mamma. I must speak to Hill. She asked me to go into town.”
“Cannot it wait?” Mrs. Bennet asked.
“I am afraid not. We promised Cook an answer about the butter order this morning.”
Mrs. Bennet waved her away. Elizabeth left the room with as much composure as she could muster. Once in the passage, she lifted her skirts and ran.
Searcher
Elizabeth took the stairs two at a time, her skirts gathered in both hands. The third floor was silent, the schoolroom door standing closed as she had left it. She crossed to the nursery and knocked once, softly.
“Anne. It is Elizabeth.”
The bolt scraped back immediately. The door opened a hand's breadth.
Anne stood just inside, her face white as chalk, her eyes enormous. She had been crying—her cheeks were wet, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
“You saw him,” Elizabeth said.
Anne nodded. Her skirts, the knuckles bone white. “I saw him ride up. I thought—I thought perhaps it was only someone who looked like him. But then he dismounted, and I saw his face and I—”
Her voice broke. Elizabeth stepped inside and closed the door, sliding the bolt home.
“He did not see you. He does not know you are here.”
“But he came to the house.” Anne's voice was barely a whisper. “He was here. Downstairs with your mother, with your family, and I was—I could hear voices, but I could not—I did not know—”
She pressed both hands to her mouth, stifling a sob.
Elizabeth touched her shoulder, gentle but firm. “Come, dear. Sit down.”
Anne sank into the chair as though her legs would no longer hold her. Elizabeth pulled the other chair close and sat facing her.
“He came to speak with my father. He is going from house to house, asking if anyone has seen a young woman matching your description. He told us he is searching for his wife.”
Anne's breath hitched. “What did he say?”
“That you ran away during a stop to change horses. That you are confused, prone to fits of fancy. That you require supervision.” Elizabeth kept her voice steady. “He described you as fair-haired, wearing a blue velvet pelisse. He said he fears you may have perished in the cold.”
The fire crackled softly. Anne stared at her hands.
“My mother believed every word,” Elizabeth continued. “She thought him devoted and handsome. She pitied you for running from such a kind husband.”
Anne closed her eyes. Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. “He makes people believe him. He cannot be trusted.”
“My sisters and I did not believe him. We saw through him.”
“But your mother—if she believes him—”
“My mother is easily convinced by a handsome face and pretty words. That does not mean she will discover you. She has no reason to come to this part of the house. No one does.”
Anne opened her eyes. “What if he comes back? What if he asks to search—”
“He will not search a gentleman's home without cause. We have given him no cause.” Elizabeth leant forward slightly. “He left his direction at the White Hart. He said if we see or hear anything, we are to send word. He offered a reward for information.”
Anne's shoulders stiffened.
“But he did not seem suspicious of us,” Elizabeth said. “He performed his part, we performed ours, and he left satisfied that we knew nothing.”
Anne's breath shuddered out. She nodded, though her hands still shook.
“You are hidden here. No one outside this family knows you exist. We have told no one, and we will continue to tell no one.”
Elizabeth rose. “We will not let him take you.”
She slipped out into the schoolroom. The bolt scraped home behind her. Only then did Elizabeth allow her hands to shake.
Mr. Bennet is No Fool
The family had gathered for tea. Mrs. Bennet was bemoaning the state of the cake when Mr. Bennet set aside his newspaper.
“I had an interesting caller this morning,” he said. “A Mr. Wickham. Searching for his wife.”
“Oh yes!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “Such a handsome man. So devoted—travelling all this way in dreadful weather.”
“Devoted to something, certainly,” Mr. Bennet agreed. “Though whether to his wife or to his story, I could not determine.”
Elizabeth looked up. “You doubt him?”
“I doubt everyone, Lizzy. It is one of my few consistent principles.” He reached for his tea. “But this gentleman struck me as particularly rehearsed. He delivered his tale of woe with the fluency of a practised actor.”
“He has been searching for days,” Mrs. Bennet protested. “Naturally he has told his story before.”
“Yes, but one would expect some variation. Some rawness. Instead, every pause was calculated. Every gesture designed for effect.” Mr. Bennet took a sip.
“He had a number of small scratches on his face which he said he acquired whilst searching for her in some brambles. He even produced a bandaged hand at the opportune moment—cut, he claimed, when his horse spooked in the stall and crushed his hand against the iron bolt.”
Mary's book slipped closed. Mrs. Bennet’s brows narrowed.
“You think the story false?” Jane asked quietly.
“I think it serves him well. It explains why he cannot shake hands like a gentleman. It demonstrates his suffering. It invites sympathy.” Mr. Bennet set down his cup. “And it raises the question: what manner of injury requires such heavy wrapping?”
Lydia had gone quite still. She was mid-bite on a biscuit when her father spoke. Now she sat frozen, unable to chew, unable to swallow, the morsel turning to ash in her mouth.
“Perhaps the injury is genuine, any number of things might have caused it.” Elizabeth offered, though her pulse quickened.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps someone defended herself.” Mr. Bennet looked at his daughters. “I have been considering what sort of young woman runs from her husband into a snowstorm. The possibilities are limited. Either she is mad, as he claims—”
“Poor creature,” Mrs. Bennet murmured.
“—or she is sensible enough to risk death by cold rather than remain with him.”
The room fell silent.
Mrs. Bennet frowned. “Mr. Bennet! What a dreadful thing to suggest.”
“It is merely an observation,” Mr. Bennet replied. “A man claiming to search for his wife through brambles could acquire scratches. But a man struggling with that wife—one desperate enough to flee into a snowstorm—might acquire something rather different. Something requiring bandages.”
He glanced at his teacup. “I wonder what.”
Kitty turned her cup round and round.
“You are being fanciful, Mr. Bennet,” Mrs. Bennet said, though her voice was not quite steady. “The gentleman may be exactly what he appears.”
“I sincerely doubt it.” Mr. Bennet picked up his teacup again. “The world is not as kind as it seems, and I fear his charm may cloak darker intentions. But I will say this: if any of you should encounter a young woman matching his description, you will inform me. Not him. Me. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Papa,” Jane said.
“Good.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “I trust you will all exercise appropriate caution should the gentleman call again.”
“We are always cautious,” Elizabeth said. “It is one of our few consistent principles.”
A ghost of a smile quirked Mr. Bennet's mouth. “I'm delighted to hear it.”
He returned to his paper. Mrs. Bennet resumed her complaints about the quality of the cake.
Not Yet
The drawing room had been quiet for half an hour. Mr. Bennet had retired to his library with a final glass of port, and Mrs. Bennet had gone upstairs complaining of a headache brought on by too much thought about Mr. Wickham's poor wife.
Elizabeth glanced at Jane. Jane nodded.
“Come,” Elizabeth said quietly to her sisters.
They rose as one and climbed the stairs. No candles—they knew the way in darkness. Through the schoolroom, to the nursery door. Elizabeth knocked softly.
“Anne. It is us.”
The bolt scraped back. Anne stood in the doorway, her face pale. She looked at each of them in turn, searching their expressions.
“What happened?” she asked. “After he left, what did your father say?”
They filed inside. Elizabeth closed the door and slid the bolt home.
“He does not trust Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth said. “He told us so at tea.”