Chapter III
Determined though she was to put a spoke in Mr. Wickham’s wheel and expose him as the libertine he was, Elizabeth had not expected to encounter him so soon after her return.
Action against him was necessary but not pressing.
Whatever damage he had caused was already done, though she supposed it was possible he might attempt a seduction while she delayed.
Elizabeth did not intend to wait for long, but she thought it best to understand the situation better before she made her move. It was only prudent, after all.
Given her youngest sisters’ interest in the officers, surprise formed no part of her response to the officers’ visit the day after her return.
Rather, Elizabeth looked on the visit as an opportunity for a little investigation.
In this, she was not disappointed, as Mr. Wickham seemed to view her as his partner in some conspiracy, as if four months of pursuing Miss King for her dowry had never happened.
What he meant by it, Elizabeth could not say, but she found herself the “happy” recipient of his attention not long after he entered the room.
The officers as a group were a decent enough lot, though after the initial novelty of their coming, Elizabeth had not considered them especially interesting.
Along with Mr. Wickham came Mr. Denny, Mr. Chamberlayne, and Mr. Sanderson, the usual cohort that Lydia praised to the skies.
They directed their compliments to Mrs. Bennet upon entering the room as was proper, then turned to Lydia and Kitty, the most eager to give them consequence.
It was not long after that, however, when Mr. Wickham excused himself from the group and approached Elizabeth.
“Miss Elizabeth,” said he, bowing at the precise angle he should, then fixing her with a most engaging smile when he straightened. “How fortunate it is that you have returned.”
“Hello, Mr. Wickham,” replied Elizabeth, curious about his behavior. “Good fortune had nothing to do with it—I returned when the time of my visit with my friend elapsed.”
Though Mr. Wickham waited for her to say more, she disappointed him by remaining silent.
It was a deliberate choice on her part—she wondered what he would do if she forced him to introduce a subject.
Since he had been eager to speak of Mr. Darcy and knew of her recent residence in Kent near his aunt, Elizabeth suspected she knew what he would say.
The man proved her conjecture the next moment.
“How did you find your friend?” asked he, easing into the conversation from an oblique angle.
“Charlotte is well.”
Mr. Wickham waited for her to say something more, but Elizabeth kept a stubborn silence, not wishing to allow him to use something she said to turn a comment to the subject he most wished to discuss. If he wanted to speak of it, she would make him choose it without disguise.
“I hope you are not regretting your choice.”
Elizabeth allowed an unfeigned laugh. “Not at all, Mr. Wickham. Marriage to Mr. Collins may suit my friend, but I had no interest in it.”
He now appeared disappointed and perhaps a little suspicious. When he spoke again, he spoke of what he wished to hear without holding back.
“Might I suppose you came to Lady Catherine’s attention?”
“You can hardly suppose that I did not, given Lady Catherine’s character and Mr. Collins’s position as her parson.”
“Her lackey, rather,” ventured Mr. Wickham.
Elizabeth nodded, not having to pretend to be diverted. “With that, I cannot disagree.”
“And what did you think of the lady?” asked Mr. Wickham, finally coming to the point. “Do you not suppose that her nephew is a mirror image?”
Hesitating just long enough to consider what she should say, Elizabeth determined to give him more than he wished to hear.
Perhaps she could induce him to reveal something he would rather conceal.
At the very least, she suspected she could make him quite uncomfortable.
That would only aid her in undermining his reputation.
“Anyone who considers them to be alike has spent little time in their company.”
Mr. Wickham appeared at once intrigued and apprehensive. “Is that so? I would have said their pride, insolence, and superiority made the resemblance unmistakable.”
“Of pride, they both have enough to spare,” agreed Elizabeth.
“Lady Catherine, however, is a woman of decided opinions who does not hesitate to share them, whereas Mr. Darcy barely opens his mouth. He is restrained, while she is brash, retiring where she is meddling, and quiet where she is loud. No, Mr. Wickham, I cannot see much resemblance between them.”
After a moment’s consideration, Mr. Wickham ventured: “Perhaps in that you are correct. But they are both members of a class that revels in its superiority, two of the worst examples of conceit I have ever met.”
Elizabeth decided it was time to insert the knife. “Lady Catherine is every bit the haughty noble, Mr. Wickham—I shall not deny that. Mr. Darcy . . .”
When Elizabeth trailed off, Mr. Wickham waited with impatience for her to continue, and when she did not, he snapped. “Yes? You have something further to say about Darcy?”
“I hardly know what to think of the gentleman,” replied Elizabeth, shaking her head as if with confusion.
“That is surprising. When you departed, you did not hide your opinion of him.”
“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth, affecting unconcern. “Yet that was before I saw him in the company of his family.”
This provoked a start from Mr. Wickham. “You saw Darcy in Kent?”
“Mr. Darcy stayed with his aunt for three weeks, Mr. Wickham,” replied Elizabeth. “Before he departed from Hertfordshire, Mr. Bingley claimed that Mr. Darcy was much altered when he was in company with whom he is comfortable.”
“And you discovered the truth of that assertion?”
Elizabeth suppressed a smile. Now that she had him where she wanted him, Mr. Wickham was speaking in hopes of drawing from her what he wished to hear.
Every pause, every hesitation increased his discomfort.
By now, he suspected she had heard something he would not like, though she knew he would not imagine the extent of her current knowledge.
“I did discover that Mr. Darcy was altered in Kent,” replied Elizabeth, “though I cannot say that he was comfortable even there. Lady Catherine is not a woman to make others easy in her presence, and her daughter is taciturn to the point of being a misanthrope.”
“Yet Darcy is engaged to her.”
“Of that I cannot speak. Mr. Darcy showed no uncommon interest in Miss de Bourgh. To own the truth, I wonder if the matter is in Lady Catherine’s mind alone.”
Mr. Wickham was silent for several moments. “No, I must suppose you are correct on that score. Any man would balk at having such a woman for a wife.”
Having no intention of speaking ill of Miss de Bourgh, Elizabeth changed the subject.
“I cannot say that Mr. Darcy is an amiable man, for he remained reticent in Kent. However, as I spent three weeks in his company with only a lane separating our residences, I understand him better than I did before.”
“That suggests approval, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Not at all,” said Elizabeth. “I said nothing of the sort, only that I gained some insight into his disposition.”
Mr. Wickham had learned enough about Mr. Darcy—to press further was to invite her to confirm that she had heard something about him. It was a curious device to be certain, but it seemed Mr. Wickham subscribed to the theory that if he did not confirm it, then it did not exist.
“Well, I am happy you are back, for I missed our conversations.”
The switch in his behavior was obvious, such that even Lydia, blind and enamored with the officers, would have seen it.
Mr. Wickham grew flirty, his words flattering, his advances syrupy sweet, as if he thought she had no more sense than Lydia.
Elizabeth watched him for a time, allowing him to see nothing of a response, wondering if he meant her to be his next conquest or if he was trying to induce her to forget what she had learned from Mr. Darcy.
Not that he would know the extent of that, of course.
Elizabeth allowed him to continue for a time, not returning his familiar and affectionate manner, responding in monosyllables as often as not.
Mr. Wickham seemed to take no notice of his lack of success, his seductive tones never ceasing, his confidence as high as ever.
Far from being amused by his behavior, Elizabeth felt cross at his presumption. In time, she pushed a little more.
“How excellent it is to again be in your company!” said he soon after, leaning in as if to impart a secret. “Why, I declare I have not missed conversation with another as much as I have missed you.”
“That is curious, Mr. Wickham,” said Elizabeth, showing him calculated uncertainty.
“I hope you have never doubted my esteem for you.”
“Esteem for me?” Elizabeth peered at him. “By my account, we have rarely been in company since January. Tell me, Mr. Wickham, how is Mary King? I understand you were to become betrothed.”
The officer’s smile faltered, Elizabeth feeling a measure of satisfaction. “It was . . . Well . . .”
He seemed to gather himself, then said: “Miss King and I discovered we did not suit so well as we hoped.”
Mr. Wickham offered a jovial smile that was not reflected in his eyes. “Love is not always enough; do you not agree?”
“Oh, without a doubt,” replied Elizabeth. “One must take great care, for love may be mistaken for infatuation, or it may be imprudent.”
“Yes, that is a consideration. Though I was desperately in love with Miss King, we could do nothing other than go our separate ways. It behooves one to know oneself well enough to understand such things, or the future may be filled with unhappiness.”