Chapter 8
BY MID-MORNING, MERYTON was alive with the work of market day.
Sun caught on the glass in the haberdasher’s windows and struck the bell above the bakery, where the line for bread reached past the door.
A drayman heaved a barrel from the rear of the public house and rolled it across the ruts, his boots leaving bright prints in the last of the street’s dew.
None of it mattered to Lydia, who stopped cold in front of a draper’s window, one gloved hand pressed against the glass, her body pitched forward and her bonnet ribbons still swinging.
She had spotted the officers at the far end of the street. They marched in a column, their cartridge boxes moving against their hips while a drummer followed behind. Lydia jabbed Kitty in the ribs.
“They are out for inspection,” she said, loud enough for the draper’s apprentice to look up from his bolts of ribbon. “I told you they would pass this way. It is the best street in Meryton.”
Kitty winced at the elbow but did not protest. She had edged around Lydia to secure a view of her own, and when the officers reached the top of the street, she exhaled like she had been holding her breath since breakfast.
Elizabeth stood a step apart, her face turned half-away from the parade.
She watched the scene reflected in the window: the column, the girls at her side, and behind them, a thin veil of market smoke drifting from the fishmonger’s stall.
Sarah waited at heel, one paw lifted, the tip of her tail never at rest.
“They will see you if you stand there,” Elizabeth said, without moving her mouth.
“That is the point,” Lydia replied. “We are not ghosts. I want them to notice us.”
She had arranged her hat to show more of her hair than propriety allowed, and the trimmed edge of her sleeve rested against the glass, flattening the fabric for display. Elizabeth knew what Lydia intended. She entered every room expecting an audience and treated the street the same way.
Kitty leaned forward as the officers advanced. Their navy and red uniforms stood out against the crowd, and even the older women at the market turned to watch. The officer at the head of the column was young and compact, with a sharp jaw and dark hair beneath his cap.
Lydia called to them with a wave that bordered on the heroic, and the column broke rhythm for half a step.
“They saw you,” Kitty hissed.
“They saw all of us,” Lydia said. “But you will never catch an officer’s eye from behind me.”
Kitty pulled her hand from her mouth and laughed, but she did not take her eyes from the officers.
The column reached the bakery and divided at the curve in the street.
The blond officer touched two fingers to his cap, and Lydia returned the gesture with an enthusiastic wave.
Nearby, market women laughed, and the butcher’s boy nearly dropped his basket while watching her.
As the officers reformed in front of the inn and took their places along the curb, the drum and boots faded.
“I told you,” Lydia said, breathless. “They always end up at the public house.”
Kitty turned from the glass. “Should we go down? We could see them better.”
“There is nothing to see from here,” Lydia said, and moved off at a pace that made her skirts snap. Kitty followed, and Elizabeth, seeing no point in stopping them, released Sarah with a word.
The inn had emptied its regulars for the parade. In the doorway, the landlord stood with his arms folded while a knot of old men sat on the benches outside. On the flagstones, the officers formed a straight line and waited.
Lydia made for the front of the line, her steps light but her purpose fixed.
The blond officer noticed them first. He shifted his weight, glanced at the senior man, then smiled.
Lydia stopped close enough for the officers to smell her perfume. She waited for the right moment, then said, “Was the inspection dreadful, Lieutenant?”
His gaze lingered before returning to her face. “Nothing dreadful at all, miss. It is the reward for a week’s hard work.”
Lydia giggled, the sound cutting straight to the landlord, who rolled his eyes and spat on the step.
The dark-haired senior officer tilted his head at the exchange but did not smile. Lydia recognized this as the cue to favor the other, and so she did, leaning in with a whisper that was anything but private.
Elizabeth positioned herself at Lydia’s right, just out of range, and observed the officers watching the sisters.
Kitty, emboldened by the proximity, asked, “Will you stay here long?”
The blond officer said, “Meryton is our home for the spring, at least.”
Kitty stared at him, her lips parting as color rose into her cheeks. Her hands moved toward a curtsy, stopped, then clasped together before her.
The senior officer nodded to the line, and the others fell out at a word. The blond paused, then offered his hand.
“George Wickham, at your service.”
Lydia’s breath caught, and she took the hand, her fingers curled with intent.
Kitty followed suit. “Catherine Bennet, but everyone calls me Kitty. This is my sister, Lydia.”
Wickham bent his head in a show of respect that was half-mocking. “I am honored.”
Elizabeth gave her name when prompted, and Wickham’s eyes registered her with a flick of attention that was gone as soon as it appeared. She found herself at a loss to read it.
Sarah, having surveyed the ground, came to stand between Elizabeth and Wickham, and sniffed his boot.
“A handsome dog,” Wickham said.
“Her name is Sarah,” Elizabeth said. “She manages the sheep at Longbourn.”
Wickham stooped, hand outstretched, and waited for the dog to come to him. Sarah sniffed once, then allowed him to scratch her head behind the ear. Elizabeth waited for him to finish: Sarah was slow to trust, but once decided, her loyalty was permanent.
Wickham straightened. “She has a better eye for strangers than most.”
Lydia resumed the conversation, voice pitched high: “Do you dance, Mr. Wickham?”
He smiled, showing his teeth. “I do, and they tell me I am not the worst in the regiment.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” Lydia said.
Kitty looked from Lydia to Wickham and edged closer. Wickham turned enough to face them both. “I hope to see you at the next assembly.”
With the smoothness Elizabeth associated with a card table, Wickham drew the conversation back to her. “And you, Miss Elizabeth? Will you favor us with a dance?”
Elizabeth smiled. “I am less determined than my sisters. I go where I am needed.”
“Then I hope the dance floor has need of you,” he said. The remark was light, but his eyes waited for her response.
Elizabeth returned the look. “It depends on whether there is anyone worth the effort.”
He let out a genuine laugh, then said, “There are a few, I promise.”
Lydia, anxious to regain the center, said, “You must beware, Mr. Wickham, that my sister outpaces every partner. Even the vicar refused to dance with her after the last assembly.”
“Then I shall do my best to keep up,” he said, and Lydia smiled, satisfied at the return of his attention.
The senior officer called out for Wickham, who acknowledged with a nod but did not move.
Kitty said, “We must not keep you from your duty.”
“It is no trouble at all,” he replied, and Elizabeth believed him.
The officers, reassembled, turned their attention to the street, where a troop of children had begun to march in imitation, broomsticks for muskets and old hats for caps. Wickham watched them with a half-smile, then turned back to them.
“If you will allow it, I will see you soon,” he said.
Lydia said, “You had better.”
Wickham nodded, caught Elizabeth’s eye for the second time, then joined his fellows on the flagstone.
Elizabeth turned her attention to Sarah, who sat at heel, her gaze on the retreating column.
Lydia, still glowing from the exchange, said, “He is the best-looking man in the regiment.”
Kitty giggled, but her voice was thin with envy. “He spoke more to you than to me.”
“He spoke to all of us,” Lydia said, but the victory was hers and she would not share it.
Elizabeth let the matter go. She was more interested in Sarah’s reaction, neither wary nor welcoming. The animal treated Wickham as she did a fox at the edge of a field, curious and attentive.
The girls made their way back up the street, Lydia narrating the events as they passed, Kitty following in her wake, and Sarah trotting at Elizabeth’s side.
Meryton had already forgotten the officers. The drayman rolled another barrel, the fishmonger haggled with a housemaid, and the draper’s apprentice swept lint from the doorstep as if nothing had happened.
Elizabeth paused at the corner to look back. Wickham was there, talking to the senior officer, his cap tipped forward as if to shield his face from the sun. He caught her glance, smiled once, then returned to his conversation.
She resumed walking, her step unhurried, the air of the parade still drifting behind her.
Sarah trotted ahead, tail high.