9. Home Again #3
Later, when the rain eased into a fine mist and Mrs. Bennet began lamenting the dampness as though the entire county had been submerged, Elizabeth found herself walking with Mr. Wickham in the covered passage that led toward the back garden.
He had stepped out to examine the sky, and she had followed under the innocent pretext of cutting a few late roses before the rain spoiled them.
The air smelled of wet earth and crushed leaves. Beyond the passage, the gravel path shone dark beneath the clouds, and the roses drooped heavily over their supports.
“I fear your walk is lost,” Elizabeth said.
Mr. Wickham shrugged. “For today. Miss Lydia will survive the disappointment if no one speaks of it too tragically.”
“You manage her very well.”
His hand paused upon the railing. “Do I?”
“You know you do.”
He grinned. “I know I try. Whether I succeed must be left to wiser observers.”
“That sounds humble.” He was certainly witty, Elizabeth observed.
“It may just be caution. I have been wrong often enough to distrust my own account of myself.”
The answer pleased her better than a smoother one might have done. Elizabeth cut one pale rose and shook the rain from its petals.
“You speak as a man who has learned something unpleasant.”
Mr. Wickham was silent long enough that she wondered whether she had offended him. Then he drew one wet leaf between his fingers and released it.
“I have learned several unpleasant things. Most of them through my own folly.”
Her curiosity piqued and she wondered what life lesson had been his teacher. “That is generally the most effective instructor.”
“And the least merciful.”
Elizabeth tucked the rose into her basket. “Lydia told me you studied the law using part of an inheritance.”
“She told you more than I expected.”
“She is very proud of your industry.”
A change crossed his face, not embarrassment exactly, though near it. “Then I must continue deserving it.”
“You did not always intend the law?”
“No.” He gave a short laugh that held little amusement. “I once intended very little at all. A young man with expectations may mistake them for merit. When the expectations disappear, he is forced to discover whether any merit remains.”
Elizabeth regarded him more closely.
“And did you?”
“Discover any?” He looked toward the wet garden. “A little, perhaps. Not enough at first. Enough to begin again.”
The humility in that answer did more for him than any account of virtue could have done. It did not sound practiced. Indeed, he appeared to dislike having said so much.
“My uncle esteems you highly,” Elizabeth said.
“That esteem has been hard won. Mr. Philips is a kind man, but he is no fool. He gave me work no gentleman would boast of and watched whether I did it.”
“And did you?”
“Badly, the first week. Better by the second. By the third, he trusted me to copy documents without hovering near enough to breathe down my neck.”
Elizabeth laughed. “That is a triumph indeed.”
“To a man who had been foolish enough to think work beneath him, it was more than a triumph. It was a correction.”
The rain gathered upon the edge of the roof and fell in bright drops between them and the garden. From the drawing room came Lydia’s voice, followed by Kitty’s protest and Mrs. Bennet’s demand that no one crease the cards.
Mr. Wickham’s expression altered at the sound. It held fondness, exasperation, and a carefulness Elizabeth did not think feigned.
“You are very attached to my sister,” she said.
“Yes.”
No embellishment. No flourish.
Elizabeth leaned against the passage wall, the basket of roses resting against her hip. “You are aware she is very young.”
“I am painfully aware of it.”
She pressed harder. “She has a lively temper.”
“She has a lively everything.” The grin on his face was one of a man clearly enamored.
“That is true.”
“She is also kinder than people suppose.” Wickham’s hand closed over the railing.
“Too many laugh at her because she speaks before she thinks. They do not notice when she is generous, or when she is hurt and hides it by becoming louder. I was once much admired for saying agreeable things. It did me no good. I would rather be of use to someone who might become better because she is believed capable of it.”
Elizabeth looked down at the rose in her basket and found herself unexpectedly moved. “Then you do understand her.”
“I hope to. In time.”
“And you mean to wait?” This, most of all, had surprised her.
His answer came without hesitation. “Until she is sixteen before any formal engagement is made public, and until her father is satisfied. Longer, if he requires it. I will not have her hurried into a marriage merely because she is pleased with me now.”
“That is honorable.”
“I am trying to become so.” The admission was too plain to be dismissed as charm.
Before Elizabeth could answer, Lydia burst into the passage with all the energy of a small storm. “There you are! I knew Lizzy had stolen you. Mama says if you do not come back, Mary will begin reading aloud from Fordyce, and that will be your fault.”
“My fault?” Wickham asked.
“Yes, because you left us unprotected.”
He glanced at Elizabeth with grave apology. “I cannot permit such suffering.”
“Nor can I,” Elizabeth replied. “Go, Mr. Wickham. Save them.”
He bowed, then offered Lydia his arm. “Come, Miss Lydia. We must prevent moral instruction at all costs.”
Lydia giggled, then stopped herself and tried to walk with dignity. She did not succeed, but the effort was new enough that Elizabeth carried the memory of it with her long after they had gone inside.
That evening, once the Philipses and Mr. Wickham had departed and Longbourn had subsided into its customary mixture of noise and weariness, Elizabeth went to Jane’s room. Jane was folding ribbons into a drawer by candlelight.
“You approve of him,” Jane said before Elizabeth had spoken.
“I think I do.”
Jane smiled. “That is no small recommendation from you.”
“I am not so severe as everyone supposes.”
“You are exactly as severe as everyone supposes, but more entertaining.”
Elizabeth sat upon the edge of the bed and removed one slipper. “He has been foolish. I am certain of it.”
“Did he tell you so?” Jane raised her brow.
“In his fashion. He did not offer particulars.”
“Perhaps he is ashamed of them.” Her sister always thought well of others.
“Perhaps.” Elizabeth worked at the second slipper, which resisted her. “That may be why I believe him.”
Jane paused with a blue ribbon in her hands. “Because he admits fault?”
“Because he does not admire himself for admitting it.”
Jane considered this, then placed the ribbon carefully in the drawer. “I have liked him from the first. He has made Lydia happier without making her more foolish.”
Elizabeth let out a startled laugh. “That should be impossible.”
“And yet.”
Elizabeth looked toward the window. Outside, the rain had ceased, and the last gray light of evening lay over the garden.
Somewhere below, Lydia was laughing at something Kitty had said, but it lacked its usual sharpness.
No shriek, no demand that someone admire her, no exaggerated complaint designed to bring every eye in the room upon herself.
A few weeks away, and her sister had become recognizable in a different direction.
“I had thought,” Elizabeth said slowly, “that Lydia would never attach herself to anyone who did not make her worse.”
Jane came to sit beside her. “Perhaps she needed someone to expect better.”
Elizabeth rested her elbows upon her knees and thought of Mr. Darcy saying that people seldom changed when wrongdoing profited them.
She had agreed with him then, or nearly agreed.
Now she found herself considering the matter again.
People did change, or might. A foolish young man might spend his inheritance on the law instead of pleasure.
A silly girl might learn to pause before reaching for the biscuit plate.
And a proud gentleman might become dear through tea, kindness, and an expression far too serious for Hyde Park.
“What are you thinking?” Jane asked.
“That I have been away too long.”
Jane nudged her shoulder against Elizabeth’s. “Then remain home a little before anyone carries you off again.”
Elizabeth reached for one of Jane’s folded ribbons and wound it around her finger. “That depends upon who does the carrying.”
“Lizzy.”
“I said nothing.”
“You did not need to.”
Elizabeth laughed then, partly from embarrassment and partly because Jane’s pleasure was so evident. For once, she did not protest.
Mr. Darcy had promised to call when she returned to Hertfordshire.
She had come home early, it was true. He might not know it. He might still be at Ramsgate, occupied with Georgiana, Mr. Bingley, and whatever estate difficulties had drawn him into Kent. There was no reason to expect him yet.
Nevertheless, when she slept that night, her last waking thought was not of Ireland, nor Wickham, nor even Lydia’s surprising alteration.
It was of a gentleman standing in Hyde Park, one glove in his hand, asking whether he might come to Longbourn.