Chapter 4 #4
Anne shook her head against Jane’s knee. “I am not ready to see him,” she whispered hoarsely. “If he is angry, if he looks at me as he must, I shall feel every foolish thing I ever did written on my face. I cannot bear it yet.”
Jane looked troubled. “We do not even know whether Mr. Wickham is still at the White Hart. Anne’s brother may be searching for you, but Mr. Wickham may be searching as well.”
“That is exactly what we must learn,” Elizabeth replied. “At present, all we have is a frightened girl’s recollection and a gentleman’s desperation. We require facts.”
“Shall we tell Papa?” Jane asked.
Elizabeth hesitated. Mr. Bennet’s dislike of trouble was as much a part of him as his affection for his second daughter.
To lay before him, without proof, a tale of elopement, kidnapping, false names—only to discover that it was not Anne’s brother at all—was to invite his sarcasm and lose such support as he might otherwise afford.
“If we go to him now,” she said slowly, “with nothing but conjecture, he will laugh at us. Or worse, he will go straight to the gentlemen concerned and make sport of the whole. I would rather know, before we disturb him, whether Mr. Wickham is still in the town, and whether the other man is truly Anne’s brother, or someone else besides. ”
Jane’s brow furrowed. “How are we to know that?”
“By asking those who spend their days in other people’s company,” Elizabeth said.
“The shops, the inn, Aunt Philips’s parlour—Meryton is an inexhaustible source of information, if one is content not to be very particular about its accuracy.
We must have the best account that can be had of both gentlemen before we do anything further. ”
“Who is to go?” Jane asked. “You cannot. He has already spoken with you on the road. If he sees you in the town, he may press you with questions.”
There was a knock at the nursery door, a timid little sound. Elizabeth drew back the bolt and admitted Kitty, who stood on the threshold clutching her work-bag, her nose reddened by the cold.
“Lizzy! Jane! I saw you run in as if all the house were on fire. What has happened? Has there been a letter? Has—”
Elizabeth closed the door again. “We want no letters, Kitty,” she said. “We want intelligence. You could not have come at a better moment.”
Kitty’s eyes widened. “Intelligence?”
“News,” Elizabeth amended. “From Meryton.”
Kitty brightened at once. “I can go to Meryton,” she said eagerly. “I was only thinking this morning that I should like a ribbon from Mrs. King’s, and perhaps to look in at the milliner’s. Mamma will not object if I say I am in want of thread, and Aunt Philips always likes to see us.”
“Find Lydia as you go,” Elizabeth added. “Tell her to keep Mamma entertained, and to say nothing of your errand. Between you, I trust the house will be noisy enough that nobody will wonder where we are.”
Kitty, who had been looking from one to the other in some perplexity, said, “What questions shall I ask? I am sure I can ask anything you please, if it is not very particular.”
“You are to go to Aunt Philips,” Elizabeth said, “and sit with her as you always do. You are to listen, and to ask, quite innocently, whether Mr. Wickham is still at the White Hart. You may say you have wondered if he were gone to another quarter of the country.”
Kitty nodded, her expression growing important.
Elizabeth continued, “You are to ask—just as if it were nothing at all—whether there is any other gentleman in the town. If there is talk of a stranger at The George, or anywhere else, you must hear it. Aunt Philips will tell you all she knows, and the shopkeepers will tell you the rest, if you give them opportunity.”
She softened her tone. “You are only to learn what is said of Mr. Wickham, and whether there is another gentleman in Meryton who asks a great many questions about a young lady. When you have learnt that, you are to come straight home and tell us, before you speak to Lydia, or Mamma, or anyone else. Do you understand?”
Kitty drew herself up, plainly gratified by the trust. “I do. I shall be as close as a post,” she declared.
Elizabeth could not wholly suppress a smile. “Be as close as you can, and as quick as you may. Put on your warmest shawl, and mind how you walk. The road is treacherous.”
Kitty departed with alacrity. When the door closed behind her, Jane said softly, “Are we right to keep this from Papa?”
“For an hour or two? Yes,” Elizabeth answered. “If Mr. Wickham is gone, and the gentleman is indeed her brother, then we shall go to Papa with something more than surmise. If Mr. Wickham is still in Meryton, then the danger is double, and we must have his advice upon it at once.”
Time passed heavily. Anne’s needle ran in and out of the muslin without pattern. Jane sat beside her, one hand moving in slow, soothing circles over her back. Elizabeth could not be still. She paced from window to fire and back again, hearing in memory the hard ring of hooves on the frozen road.
At length, footsteps pounded along the passage, and Kitty burst in without knocking, cheeks flushed, curls damp with melted snow.
“Well?” Elizabeth said.
Kitty shut the door behind her. “Mr. Wickham is gone,” she announced, in a tone that mingled triumph and disappointment.
“He left the White Hart three or four days ago—they are not quite agreed whether it was on Tuesday or Wednesday—for another part of the country, they say, and there is no prospect of his coming back. But—” Her eyes shone.
“There is a new gentleman in Meryton now, a very grand one, who has taken rooms at The George and set all the town talking.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a leap she did not care to acknowledge. “What do they say of him?”
“Oh, everything!” Kitty cried. “That he came from London, that he rides the finest horse they have ever seen, that he has been with Sir William for business, that he asks questions at every door about a young lady who has run away, that he is the richest man ever to set foot in Meryton—and that he looks as if he would rather be anywhere else. Aunt Philips says she never saw such a proud-looking person in her life.”
“Did you learn his name?” Elizabeth asked.
“No.” Kitty drew herself up, enjoying the drama.
“Only that he is from Derbyshire. They are all dying to know what brings him here, but Aunt Philips is certain it must be something particular, for she has it from Lady Lucas’s maid that he spoke with Sir William for near half an hour, and the servants were sent away from the door. ”
Elizabeth exhaled slowly. “Then we have at least this comfort,” she said.
“Mr. Wickham is not at hand to claim her.” She looked from Jane to Anne.
“We can keep you here as long as we must,” she said, “but we cannot keep the rest of the world away. Papa and Mamma will expect us at Lucas Lodge to-night.”
Anne’s fingers stiffened in Jane’s. “You mean to leave me here alone?”
“Only for a few hours,” Elizabeth replied. “You will be safe here, with the doors locked and the servants below stairs. We will make you as easy as we can, and wedge the door so it cannot open if anyone happens to come knocking.”
Kitty, who had not yet quite caught her breath, said impulsively, “I shall bring you something back—a slice of cake, or a sweetmeat, if there are any to be had. You will not be forgotten at Lucas Lodge, I promise you”.
Charlotte Calls
Elizabeth sat in the window seat, ostensibly working at her embroidery, but her attention remained fixed on the lane beyond. Every movement caught her eye—a groom crossing the yard, a cart rumbling past on the road, the wind driving loose snow along the hedgerow.
“Not a soul has called in three days,” Mrs. Bennet complained from the sofa. “We shall all expire from tedium. Even Mr. Bennet barricades himself in his library as though the house were under siege.”
The morning wore on in the same fashion, with little to occupy them beyond the fire and their work.
Shortly after noon, Charlotte Lucas arrived, as she often did.
Hill showed her in without ceremony. Charlotte’s visits were frequent enough that formality had long since been dispensed with.
She entered shaking snow from her cloak.
“Charlotte!” Mrs. Bennet brightened immediately. “How good of you to venture out in such weather. Hill, bring tea at once.”
Charlotte smiled as she removed her gloves. “I could not bear another hour confined to the house. Maria’s practising has driven me quite to distraction, and I began to fear you had all succumbed to winter fevers.”
“We are perfectly well,” Elizabeth said. “Only keeping warm and occupied as best we can.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Charlotte took the seat Mrs. Bennet indicated. “The roads are dreadful, but I find sitting idle more trying than a little mud.”
Mrs. Bennet launched into a litany of complaints about the weather, the stillness of the neighbourhood, and the shocking price of coal. Charlotte listened patiently, making appropriate sounds of sympathy,
Hill brought the tea tray, and Jane poured whilst Kitty passed the cups.
“Have you had much news from Meryton?” Charlotte asked, accepting her cup. “I confess I am starved for conversation that does not involve my mother’s rheumatism or Maria’s pianoforte.”
“We have been quite secluded,” Mrs. Bennet said. “The girls have scarcely left the house. Though I suppose that is sensible in such weather.”
“Quite sensible,” Charlotte agreed. “Though I am surprised not to have seen you walking, Lizzy. You usually brave any weather.”
“The lanes have been quite treacherous,” Elizabeth replied.
Charlotte nodded, sipping her tea. Her gaze moved about the room with mild curiosity. “How have you all been keeping? I thought I glimpsed someone at one of the upper windows as I crossed the lane—I hoped no one was confined with illness.”