Chapter 20 #2
For the most part, only ladies were admitted, the butler and footmen being under the strictest instructions to refuse any gentleman who called, no matter how pressing his errand or how hopeful his expression.
The gentlemen themselves were said to be perpetually engaged in matters of “business”—a description so conveniently vague that it might have encompassed anything from estate correspondence to hiding in the shrubbery—and thus they contrived to avoid the visitors altogether.
Having heard vague reports of two wealthy heiresses residing at the cottage, a number of militia officers attempted to pay their respects, but none were admitted.
Among them were the newly minted lieutenants George Wickham and Frederick Sanderson, together with Captain Denny; yet they departed as they had come—disappointed, curious, and no wiser than before, save for having learnt the surname of Grant.
No other name had reached Wickham’s ears. He could not guess who else might be concealed behind the cottage walls, and the uncertainty pricked at him sharply.
Wickham, however, chose to treat it as a challenge rather than a defeat.
As he turned back towards the village with his companions, he assured himself that a mystery in so small a place could not possibly remain secret for long.
If this Mr Grant proved so vigilant in guarding the ladies, then their fortunes must be vast indeed—and fortunes, Wickham had long believed, were rarely guarded successfully from a determined man.
Rather than return to Meryton without any sustenance, they decided they ought to pay a call on the Bennets. There they were not only assured of a welcome, but of good food and good company.
To their astonishment, the reception proved far cooler than expected. Oh, the youngest girls, Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia, greeted them with their usual enthusiasm, but Mrs Bennet was reserved, and the elder two were nearly hostile—or as hostile as propriety allowed.
Soon after their arrival, before any refreshments could be offered, Mr Bennet entered the room. He seated himself and observed the manner in which his daughters received the officers, and almost the moment a quarter hour had elapsed, he rose.
“Gentlemen, might you join me in my bookroom for a few minutes before you depart?” he asked. It was plain to all three that it was hardly a request.
Before long, the three men found themselves standing before Mr Bennet’s desk.
He had invited them to sit. A small arrangement of comfortable chairs stood temptingly near the fire, yet those placed before the desk had been rendered useless beneath untidy piles of books.
They ought to have been moved to allow his visitors a seat, but the gentleman did not seem inclined to do so.
Mr Bennet took his own chair and made no effort to put the men at their ease.
Neither did he offer any refreshment, as the officers might reasonably have expected.
Wickham, who considered himself an excellent judge of countenances, did not mistake the expression turned upon them.
Mr Bennet looked composed—but, to his surprise, thoroughly displeased.
On previous visits, the gentleman had scarcely troubled himself to greet them and had left the officers to the society of the ladies. Already, this was a strange departure.
The realisation sent a prickle of warning down Wickham’s spine, quickly followed by a flare of resentment.
He had done nothing to deserve such treatment.
Nothing that could be proved, at any rate, and certainly not yet in Meryton.
He had only just begun to lay the groundwork for his plans to take what he could from the residents of this little hamlet and finance his life until he could secure an heiress.
Beside him, Captain Denny held himself with studied composure, his expression politely attentive.
Wickham did not miss the faint tightening about his mouth at this unusual situation.
Sanderson, however, cleared his throat and shifted his feet.
He was young, much more suited to the lieutenancy than Wickham, and that showed in his behaviour.
The room, which had seemed merely small upon entering, now felt airless.
“Gentlemen,” Mr Bennet began at last, once the silence had done its work, “I cannot speak to any one of you in particular, but certain reports have circulated in the village suggesting that not every officer is precisely what he claims to be. The men of this neighbourhood—especially those who have daughters—have therefore been advised to exercise caution; not only against gentlemen who incur debts they have no intention of settling, but against any scoundrel who might presume upon a young lady’s good nature. ”
His gaze passed over them lightly. Wickham felt as though he had been pinned in place even though the gentleman’s eyes lingered on no one man longer than another.
Heat crept into his collar. How dared the man? After all the civility he had shown, all the charm he had exerted for the benefit of this very household—
“While I am perfectly willing to suppose that you are not among those of whom we have been warned,” Mr Bennet continued, in the tone of a gentleman granting a favour he need not grant at all, “my wife and I have nevertheless resolved that we shall no longer open our home with the same freedom as before. As we have no wish to single out individuals, we have adopted a general rule.”
He folded his hands upon the desk.
“Unless expressly invited, gentlemen, members of the militia will no longer be at liberty to call here.”
He paused only a heartbeat before adding, almost mildly, “You will find, I believe, a similar reception awaiting you in most houses throughout the neighbourhood.”
With only a few additional words exchanged, the men soon found themselves dismissed from the house. Having failed to gain admittance at one home and been all but shown the door at another, they had little appetite for attempting a third. Instead, they turned their steps back towards the village.
They saluted the ladies they passed with habitual cheer, yet none paused to return it. More than once Wickham caught the hard, appraising stares of the men they encountered, and he did not like the look of them.
Rather than stop at the tavern as they might have done the day before, they continued on towards the camp.
“What the devil has happened to sour our welcome so?” Sanderson demanded as they passed between the lines of tents and made for the officers’ mess, where several of their fellows already lingered.
“Something must have occurred, but I confess I cannot make it out,” muttered one of the other officers darkly. “You could feel it the moment we came into the village. The militia is not wanted here today—that much is plain—but I know of nothing that could have brought it about.”
“Aye,” another agreed. “It is as though one of us has been found guilty of something, and we are all being made to answer for it.”
“Damned uncomfortable, that is what it was,” Sanderson said. “I would sooner face a French battery than endure another quarter hour in Bennet’s bookroom. If he speaks true, we shall meet the same civility elsewhere.”
Wickham frowned, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Was there not some toff or other at that great estate? I have heard him mentioned. I wonder whether, instead of it being a member of the militia, he has done something to make every visitor suspect.”
“Fellow named Bingley leased the place for a time,” one man said with a shrug.
“But I have heard little of him lately. He meant to give a ball, but nothing came of it. We met him some weeks back at that dinner to introduce the local gentlemen to the officers. Friendly enough chap. The last I heard he had gone off somewhere, and there were a fair number of mothers not pleased by it.”
“There were two more with him,” another man put in. “A brother by marriage, I think, and some other chap. Kept mostly to themselves. One did not say much, but he was well in his cups half the night. The other carried himself high, and I heard he has some grand estate up north somewhere.”
That information struck Wickham as interesting. “Do you know either of the other men’s names?” he asked.
“One was Hurt, or Hart, or something near it, and the other had a Frenchified name—D’Arcy, Dorsey, I could not say,” the man went on. “Sounded expensive, and he dressed it too. Not dandified like that Beau Brummell sort. Just… fine.”
Darcy. Wickham was certain of it.
“What came of the gentlemen?” he asked, striving for carelessness.
“I heard they all left,” the man replied. “Far as I know, Netherfield stands empty. I suppose they may simply have chosen to keep to themselves. Would not be the first time some grand gentleman decided he had no wish to mix with common folk.”
Wickham’s jaw tightened at that.
He needed to discover whether Darcy was indeed in the neighbourhood.
If he was—and if he had learnt of Wickham’s presence—then he might very well be the source of their sudden difficulties.
It would be just like Darcy to whisper broadly, to cast suspicion over the whole militia rather than accuse one man outright.
That way, he could wound Wickham without ever naming him.
Where Darcy went, would Georgiana follow? He would need to learn more about this Bingley fellow and determine whether he might be made useful. Was it possible that another opportunity with Georgiana might yet present itself?