Chapter 4 #5
Jane stiffened beside her. “That would have been Kitty,” she said calmly. “She was searching for some silk flowers in the old schoolroom.”
“Ah.” Charlotte smiled. “Well, I am relieved no one is unwell.”
Lydia entered, momentarily flustered to find a visitor. Charlotte greeted her pleasantly and allowed Mrs. Bennet’s complaints about the weather to resume their course.
“Has there been any news from the neighbourhood?” Mrs. Bennet asked at last. “We are positively starved for it.”
“There is little that is worth repeating,” Charlotte said. “There was some talk at the White Hart of a gentleman travelling through who made a great many enquiries, but he is gone again, and nobody seems quite to know the rights of it.”
“Only think of that,” Mrs. Bennet cried. “People are exceedingly odd, going about the country asking questions and then disappearing. One never hears the end of a story.”
“Gossip seldom provides an end,” Charlotte said dryly. “It only begins new stories.”
Elizabeth kept her eyes on her embroidery. “What manner of man was he, from what you heard?” she asked, as though only mildly curious.
“Agreeable enough, by all accounts,” Charlotte replied. “My father said he looked as if he had not slept for some nights and that he had injured his hand somehow. But it is all third-hand, Lizzy. I would not put much weight on it.”
“Poor gentleman,” Mrs. Bennet said. “If he had any sense, he would come to a comfortable neighbourhood and stay in it, instead of ranging about the country.”
“Perhaps he had business elsewhere,” Charlotte said. “In any case, he is gone now. I dare say we shall hear a different version of his story next week.”
The conversation moved to other topics, but Elizabeth remained aware of Charlotte’s occasional thoughtful glances. After a quarter of an hour of amiable, if somewhat subdued, talk, Charlotte rose to take her leave.
“I must brave the weather again. Do come and see us soon—the walk is hardly arduous, when the ice has melted a little. Maria would be delighted to have you.” She drew on her gloves and looked about the room once more.
“Everyone seems quite composed, but I confess I thought you a little quiet. Perhaps it is only the dullness of winter that makes one notice such things.”
After she departed, Elizabeth watched through the window as Charlotte made her way across the lane and disappeared beyond the trees. When she turned back, Jane was looking at her with anxious eyes.
“She seemed curious,” Jane whispered once Mrs. Bennet had left the room.
“She thought we seemed subdued,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Which is hardly remarkable in such weather. Half the neighbourhood is out of spirits.”
“But the upper window—”
“Was easily explained. Charlotte accepted it readily enough.” Elizabeth returned to her embroidery, though her hands were not entirely steady. “She is observant, certainly, but she is also discreet. Curiosity is not the same thing as suspicion.”
Jane nodded, though she did not look entirely convinced.
Lucas Lodge
Mrs. Bennet had been quite firm on the subject of the Lucases’ invitation. They would all attend. No excuses would be tolerated. She would not hear another word about headaches or fatigue.
“We have been shut up in this house for over a week,” she declared as they prepared for the evening. “People will begin to think we have taken some contagion. Besides, Sir William particularly requested our company, and it would be the height of rudeness to refuse.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane as they climbed into the carriage. Mary sat rigid beside them, her lips pressed together. Kitty’s hands lay pressed together in her lap, and Lydia, for once, had nothing to say.
Anne was alone in the nursery with strict instructions to keep the door wedge shut and the fire low. They had left her enough food and water for the evening, and hidden a chamber pot behind the old screen. It would have to suffice.
Lucas Lodge was blazing with candles when they arrived. Sir William greeted them at the door with enthusiasm and courtly manners.
“My dear Mrs. Bennet! And all your lovely daughters! What a pleasure, what an honour! Come in, come in. We have a most pleasant party assembled. Nothing grand, you understand, but delightful.”
The drawing room held perhaps twenty people—the Gouldings, the Longs, Mrs. Philips and her husband, and other families of their circle. Charlotte caught Elizabeth’s eye from across the room and smiled. Elizabeth returned it, though her shoulders remained tense.
Sir William was in his element, moving from group to group, ensuring everyone was properly supplied with refreshments. He seemed particularly animated this evening, his chest puffed with barely contained self-importance.
Tea was served. The company settled into chairs and sofas, falling into the comfortable patterns of neighbourhood gossip: Mrs. Long complained about her cook. Mrs. Goulding described her daughter’s new situation in Bath.
Sir William cleared his throat with great significance.
“My dear friends,” he announced, standing before the fireplace. “I must share with you a most extraordinary occurrence.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Long leant forward. “Do tell, Sir William.”
“I had a visitor only yesterday morning,” he said, his voice swelling with pride. “A gentleman of the first consequence. A Mr. Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire.”
Mrs. Bennet sat forward with interest. “A gentleman from Derbyshire? Is he married?”
“I know not, Mrs. Bennet, though I confess the topic did not arise. He came to me on a matter of great distress.” Sir William adopted an expression of grave concern that sat oddly with his obvious pleasure at being consulted.
“The gentleman sought my assistance, in my capacity as magistrate, in locating a young lady of fifteen who was taken from her guardian in London some days ago.”
“Taken!” Mrs. Long exclaimed. “You mean kidnapped?”
“He did not use that word,” Sir William admitted. “He gave me to understand that she had been lured away by someone she trusted. He fears for her safety most acutely.”
“How dreadful,” Mrs. Goulding said. “The poor girl. And the poor man.”
“Indeed. He was most concerned—quite distraught, though he maintained admirable composure throughout.” Sir William’s chest swelled further. “He described the lady as very young, with fair hair and a gentle countenance. He said she would be frightened and confused.”
Elizabeth kept her gaze on her teacup. Beside her, Jane stilled. Across the room, Kitty had gone pale, but she said nothing, did nothing to draw attention.
“What did you tell him?” Mr. Philips asked.
“That I would make enquiries, naturally,” Sir William replied. “Though I confess there has been no word of any young lady wandering about the countryside. I assured Mr. Darcy that if any family in the neighbourhood had news of such a person, they would certainly come forward.”
“Naturally,” Mrs. Bennet agreed. “Where is the gentleman staying?”
“At The George. He awaits any intelligence most anxiously.” Sir William paused, savouring his moment. “A most distinguished gentleman with an estate of great antiquity. It was a singular honour to be consulted by such a person.”
The conversation moved on to speculation about the missing girl, sympathy for the gentleman and Mrs. Bennet’s regret that such a wealthy gentleman should be in the neighbourhood under such distressing circumstances, particularly if he was single.
Elizabeth said little, offering only brief agreement when directly addressed.
When the party began to break up, Sir William approached Mr. Bennet, who had spent most of the evening near the card tables.
“Mr. Bennet, a word, if I may?”
Mr. Bennet set down his hand. “Of course, Sir William.”
They withdrew slightly from the group, though Elizabeth, gathering her shawl nearby, could hear their conversation.
“I wished to tell you more about Mr. Darcy’s visit,” Sir William said, lowering his voice with obvious reluctance.
He clearly wished to proclaim it to the room.
“Such a distinguished gentleman! He has an estate in Derbyshire worth—well, I shall not bandy figures about, but it is considerable. Quite considerable indeed.”
“I am sure it is,” Mr. Bennet said dryly.
“He was most particular in his enquiries about the neighbourhood,” Sir William continued. “Asked about the principal families, the roads, the inns. He seemed to think his sister might have sought refuge somewhere nearby.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That we are a quiet neighbourhood, well ordered, with respectable families throughout. I mentioned yourself, of course, and the Gouldings, and the Longs. I assured him that if a young lady in distress had appeared, she would have been offered proper Christian charity.”
“How reassuring for him,” Mr. Bennet murmured.
“Indeed. Though I confess I am at a loss. There has been no sign of any such person.” Sir William paused. “There was that other gentleman, of course. The one at the White Hart a few days ago. What was his name? Wickford? Wicklow?”
“Wickham,” Mr. Bennet said quietly.
“Yes, that was it. He was also searching for a young lady, was he not? His wife or ward or some such. Though of course, that cannot be the same person. Mr. Darcy is a gentleman of the highest standing. He would hardly be seeking the same girl as—well, as some tradesman staying at a lesser inn.” Sir William waved his hand dismissively.
“No, no. Two entirely separate matters, I am certain.”
“I am sure you are right,” Mr. Bennet said.
“Mr. Darcy assured me he would remain in contact with me until the matter is resolved,” Sir William added. “I do hope we hear some news soon. Such a distressing situation for a man of his consequence.”
“Quite distressing,” Mr. Bennet agreed.
In the carriage, Mrs. Bennet talked without ceasing about the party, about Sir William’s importance, about the distinguished Mr. Darcy and his fortune.