9. Home Again #2
Mrs. Bennet leaned toward Mrs. Gardiner. “Mr. Philips says Mr. Wickham may be made partner one day, if all continues well. Is that not a very respectable prospect? And he is so attentive to Lydia.”
“Mama,” Lydia said, though she did not sound displeased.
Elizabeth’s first impulse was amusement.
Her second was caution. Lydia was not yet sixteen.
Mr. Wickham, if she judged rightly, must be six-and-twenty or near it.
Ten or more years was not outrageous, especially where a gentleman brought steadiness and a profession, but Lydia was young, careless, and nearly without fortune.
A man who attached himself to her could hardly be accused of mercenary pursuit.
That thought recommended him more strongly than his appearance.
“You have been in Meryton long?” Elizabeth asked.
“Since June,” Wickham replied. “Long enough to know which roads are tolerable, which assemblies are worth attending, and which of Miss Bennet’s sisters is most likely to defeat me at spillikins.”
“Lydia?” Elizabeth guessed.
“Kitty,” he said, with a respectful glance toward that young lady. “Miss Kitty Bennet is merciless.”
Kitty, who had not expected distinction, brightened. “I am very good.”
“You are ruthless.”
“That is even better.”
Mr. Wickham laughed, and Elizabeth found no artifice in it.
He gave attention easily but not indiscriminately, and his manners, though polished, did not possess the excessive sweetness that often made her suspicious.
He spoke with gratitude of Mr. Philips, treated Mrs. Bennet’s indiscretions with admirable composure, and addressed Lydia with a mixture of indulgence and restraint that Elizabeth had not supposed any man could manage without either encouraging her folly or crushing her spirits.
By the time tea ended, Elizabeth had formed the beginning of an opinion.
It was favorable.
That, perhaps, ought to have made her wary, given what she had once confessed to Mr. Darcy about her vanity of judgment.
Instead, the thought of Darcy entered to make her smile inwardly.
He would like Mr. Wickham, she thought. Or perhaps he would find him too amiable on first acquaintance and reserve judgment for precisely that reason.
She would tell him, when he came.
If he came.
Lydia came to sit beside her after the others had drifted into separate conversations. She bounced once upon the cushion, then caught herself and arranged her hands in her lap with such exaggerated propriety that Elizabeth nearly laughed.
“Well?” Lydia demanded.
“Well what?”
“What do you think of him?” She nodded at their guest.
“Of Mr. Wickham?”
“No, of Uncle Philips’s cane. Of course, of Mr. Wickham.”
Elizabeth lowered her cup. “I think him very agreeable.”
Lydia’s cheeks became a color no ribbon could rival. “Just agreeable?”
“I have known him for half an hour.”
Her sister made a face. “That is plenty of time for you. You decide everything quickly.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. And then you pretend you have reasoned it all out.”
Elizabeth stared at her sister with reluctant admiration. “Lydia, when did you become so observant?”
“I have always been observant. You were away and could not notice.”
That answer deserved more credit than Elizabeth wished to grant it.
“He is very kind,” Lydia said, more carefully now. “And he does not laugh at me.”
“Many people laugh with you, my dear.”
“Yes, but some laugh because they expect me to be foolish.” Lydia looked down at her hands.
“He does not like it when I am foolish. At least, he likes it a little, because he says I would be very dull if I became sensible all at once. But he says I must not let people think me silly because it is easier than requiring them to think me worth listening to.”
Elizabeth’s opinion of Mr. Wickham improved with uncomfortable speed.
“He said that?”
“Not exactly. Something like it.” Lydia twisted one ribbon between her fingers. “I remember the important part.”
“I believe you do.”
“He means to propose.”
Elizabeth nearly dropped her cup. “Lydia.”
“Hush. Not loudly. He said he will ask Papa properly when the time comes.”
“And when is that?”
“When I am sixteen. He says I am too young to marry before then, and he would not have anyone say he hurried me.”
That, at least, was sensible. Unexpectedly so.
“He told you this?”
“Yes. And Mama knows. Papa knows. Uncle Philips knows. Everyone knows except you because you were in Ireland looking at cliffs and scenery.”
“I see.”
“You must not look severe. I am going to be very happy.”
Elizabeth studied her sister. Lydia was earnest. Not merely excited, though she was that too. Beneath the brightness lay a seriousness Elizabeth had rarely seen in her. It had no great depth yet, perhaps, but it was growing.
“What does he have to live on?” Elizabeth asked.
Lydia glanced toward Mr. Wickham, who was speaking with Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Philips near the fireplace.
“Uncle pays him very well. He says a man who can draft properly and speak to clients without making them feel stupid is worth paying. Mr. Wickham also has a small inheritance in the four percents.”
“Has he?”
“He used part of it to study the law. He has some left. Not a fortune, Lizzy, but I have none at all, so I cannot complain.”
Elizabeth reached for her sister’s hand. “You may always complain to me if you are unhappy.”
“I am not unhappy.”
“No. I begin to see that.”
Lydia leaned closer. “You like him?”
“I think I shall.”
“You must. He is to be my husband, and I should hate to quarrel with you over him.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “That would indeed be tragic.”
“It would. I am very fond of you when you are not scolding me.”
“Then I shall endeavor to deserve your affection.”
Lydia squeezed her hand hard, then sprang up because Mr. Wickham had crossed the room to ask whether she still intended to walk into Meryton before supper.
Mrs. Bennet declared walking unnecessary, Mrs. Philips declared it healthful, Mary observed that exercise was a useful guard against dissipation, and Mr. Bennet suggested Lydia bring back a new supply of sense if any were available in the shops.
Elizabeth sighed. Her family was as nonsensical as ever… most of them.
Lydia laughed. She did not pout. Mr. Wickham offered Kitty his other arm for the walk, and Kitty, after one startled second, accepted with pleasure.
Elizabeth watched them depart with Jane beside her.
“Well?” Jane asked.
“I have been asked that question already.”
“And your answer?”
Elizabeth looked toward the window, where Lydia’s bright bonnet bobbed into view beyond the shrubbery, Mr. Wickham walking between the two younger girls with an air of such easy responsibility that even Kitty appeared less inclined to chatter over him.
“I think,” Elizabeth said, “that I have returned to an altered Longbourn.”
Jane smiled. “Not altered beyond recognition, I hope.”
“No, just enough to make me wonder what else I have missed.”
The next week supplied Elizabeth with abundant opportunity to test her first impressions of Mr. Wickham.
He was at Longbourn often enough that Mrs. Bennet began speaking of him as though he had been a family connection for years.
Sometimes he came with Mr. Philips on business that required, by some mysterious process, an hour in Mr. Bennet’s library and another in the drawing room.
Sometimes he walked with Lydia and Kitty from Meryton, his coat lightly dusted from the road and his spirits equal to whatever absurdity greeted him at the door.
Once he brought Mrs. Bennet a packet of court plasters from Mrs. Philips, and Mrs. Bennet declared it the very thing she had been wanting, though Elizabeth privately doubted her mother had thought of court plaster in a month.
Mr. Wickham bore all this with good humor. More than that, he appeared to enjoy it.
That was what began to persuade Elizabeth.
A fortune hunter might flatter Mrs. Bennet.
A vain man might enjoy Lydia’s admiration.
A careless man might be amused by the novelty of the Bennet household until inconvenience drove him elsewhere.
Mr. Wickham did none of those things quite as expected.
He listened to Mr. Bennet’s dry remarks without resenting them, praised Mary’s playing without overpraising it, admired Kitty’s new ribbon with enough attention to satisfy her, and prevented Lydia from saying three things she would have regretted without making her feel corrected before everyone.
This last accomplishment Elizabeth considered nearly miraculous.
One afternoon, when rain had interrupted a projected walk and sent the younger girls into a fit of complaints, Mr. Wickham proposed a game of lottery tickets.
Lydia grumbled that cards were a poor substitute for fresh air, then sat beside him with such alacrity that her objection lost much of its force.
“You must not cheat,” she told him.
“I never cheat.”
“You say that very solemnly for a man who won twice last Tuesday.”
“Skill is often mistaken for villainy.”
Elizabeth, seated near the window with Jane’s sewing in her lap, raised her eyes. “That is a dangerous maxim, Mr. Wickham.”
He gave her a rueful look over the cards. “Then I shall amend it before it is quoted against me. Honest skill is often mistaken for villainy by those who lose.”
“That is better.”
“Merely better?”
Elizabeth raised a brow. “For a gentleman accused of cheating by Lydia, it is remarkably good.”
Lydia threw a card at her. Mr. Wickham caught it before it reached the floor and returned it to the table.
“No violence, Miss Lydia. It is bad for the cards and worse for your argument.”
Lydia made a face, but she laughed and sorted her hand obediently.