11. The Evidence of Conduct #2
“Mama told Mrs. Long yesterday that I shall have a blue gown for my wedding,” Lydia said, with the abruptness of a girl who had been holding the subject in for nearly five minutes and could bear no more.
Mr. Wickham’s stride checked, then resumed. “Did she?”
“Yes. I told her I might prefer pink.”
“A serious objection.”
“Very serious. Blue is Jane’s color.”
“I should never presume to oppose such authority.”
Lydia looked up at him, half laughing and half uncertain. “You are teasing me.”
“A little.”
“You do mean to marry me?”
He stopped walking then, and Elizabeth, though several paces behind, could not help hearing. Kitty had bent to examine the wildflower and was happily occupied, leaving Elizabeth the unwilling but attentive guardian of propriety.
Mr. Wickham took Lydia’s hand, no more than was proper, and tucked it back through his arm.
“I mean,” he said, “to deserve the right to ask you.”
Lydia’s usual brightness faltered into something more vulnerable. “That is not the same.”
“No.”
“Do you doubt me?” Lydia’s lip quivered.
“I doubt my position—I am only beginning in Mr. Philips’s office. I have prospects, but prospects are not income. Your father has a right to know I can support you before I ask him to trust me with you.”
“Uncle Philips pays you very well,” she insisted.
“He pays me generously for what I am. I must become worth more.”
“You are worth a great deal now.”
His face transformed, and Elizabeth saw in it a gratitude so profound that her opinion of him rose again.
“To you, perhaps,” he said. “But affection is not a household account, and I will not have you suffer because I was impatient.”
Lydia kicked a small stone from the path. “I hate waiting.”
“I have observed it.”
“That is not fair. I have improved.”
He was quick to reassure her. “You have.”
She turned to him with delight. “Have I?”
“Yes. Though you still interrupt Kitty.”
“Kitty takes too long to speak her piece.” Lydia’s expression morphed into a pout.
“Let her take too long.”
Lydia sighed, but there was no resentment in it. “Very well. I shall try.”
They resumed walking, and Elizabeth took care to examine the hedge as if it contained matters of great botanical importance.
After a minute, Lydia spoke again, this time in a more subdued tone. “You are distracted today.”
Mr. Wickham did not answer for a moment. “I am a little.”
“Is it the office?”
“No.”
“Have I displeased you?” She sounded worried. Lydia rarely cared what others thought of her.
He stopped so abruptly that Elizabeth nearly collided with Kitty.
“No,” he said, and even from behind, Elizabeth heard enough earnestness to believe him. “Never think that merely because I am preoccupied. A letter arrived this morning from an old friend, or a man who once was one. Its meaning is difficult to puzzle out, that is all.”
“Was it unkind?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps merely mistaken.”
Lydia’s hand tightened upon his arm. “You may tell me if you wish.”
“In good time.”
“I can listen,” she said. “I know I talk a great deal, but I can listen too.”
He patted her hand. “I know you can.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her. She leaned a little nearer, and he covered her hand with his for the space of a step before releasing it.
Elizabeth looked away.
The gesture was small, but in it she saw more tenderness than she would have believed possible when thinking of Lydia in the months before.
Her sister had become someone’s concern.
She was not a nuisance to be indulged or a silly girl to be laughed into greater silliness.
Rather, he saw her as a young woman and her feelings were handled as if they mattered.
A person might reform out of shame or out of necessity. Perhaps, if fortunate, out of love.
Elizabeth had said once that she was an excellent judge of character. She still believed it. More than ever, now. Mr. Wickham had faults in his past; he admitted as much. But the man walking before her bore the marks of labor, restraint, and a growing desire to be worthy of the girl who adored him.
That spoke well of him. It spoke very well indeed.
They walked on until the lane bent toward the lower field, where the first hints of evening lay across the grass.
Lydia, who had promised not to go far and therefore considered every step a test of obedience, declared they must turn back before Mama accused Lizzy of cruelty and Mr. Wickham of conspiracy.
“I should dislike to be accused of conspiracy before supper,” Mr. Wickham said. “It is a heavy charge on an empty stomach.”
“You would survive,” Lydia replied. “You survive Uncle Philips’s office every day.”
“With the aid of excellent tea and occasional rescue.”
“By me?”
“By you when you remember not to interrupt clients in the passage.”
Lydia made a face at him, then slipped her hand more securely over his arm. “That was once.”
“Twice.”
“The second time was Mrs. Goulding, and she was pleased to speak to me.”
“She was pleased to speak to anyone who would admire her nephew’s handwriting.”
“It was very fine handwriting.”
Elizabeth, walking behind with Kitty, could not help laughing. “You see, Mr. Wickham, Lydia’s interruptions sometimes serve the public good.”
“Then I must be grateful for them in moderation.”
“Moderation is a dreadful word,” Lydia said. “It makes everything sound dreadfully dull.”
“Broth may be very nourishing,” Mary would have said, had Mary been present. Elizabeth heard the sentence so clearly in her mind that she nearly answered it aloud.
Kitty had filled one hand with wildflowers and was now attempting to arrange them while walking, with uneven success. “Mr. Wickham, do you suppose Mr. Philips will permit you to leave the office early for the assembly next week?”
“I have not asked him.”
“You must. Everyone is going.”
“Is everyone to include all of Meryton or those persons Miss Lydia approves?”
“Only those I approve,” Lydia answered. “That is still nearly everyone, provided they do not dance badly.”
“And if they do?”
“Then they may stand by the wall and improve themselves by watching.”
Mr. Wickham gave a theatrical sigh. “A severe system.”
“Lizzy is severe. I am generous.”
“You are very generous with opinions,” Elizabeth said.
Lydia tossed her head. “My opinions are useful.”
“Of course.”
“They are. Mr. Wickham says I must learn to give them more slowly, so people have time to be grateful.”
That, Elizabeth suspected, was not quite what Mr. Wickham had said, but he did not contradict her.
He merely adjusted his pace when the road grew uneven and guided Lydia around a rut left by a cart.
The action was unremarkable. A gentleman ought to assist a lady over rough ground.
Still, the manner of it pleased Elizabeth.
He did not make a display of the service, and Lydia, after one quick smile, accepted without turning it into an occasion for flirtation.
By the time they arrived back at Longbourn, Mrs. Bennet had placed herself at the drawing room window and was watching for them with the intensity of a commander expecting troops.
“There you are!” she cried before they had properly entered. “I was beginning to think you had all gone as far as Oakham Mount.”
“To the lower bend, Mama,” Elizabeth said, removing her gloves.
“The lower bend is far enough when the air is damp.” Mrs. Bennet fussed over them as they gave their things to the waiting maid.
“The air is not damp,” Lydia protested.
“It might have become so. Mr. Wickham, you must sit down. You have been walking with three girls, and I am certain that is more fatiguing than any law book.”
“On the contrary, ma’am, it has improved my comprehension of several matters.”
Mrs. Bennet brightened. “There, Lydia, you see? Your conversation is improving.”
Mr. Bennet, from behind his newspaper, murmured, “An ambitious claim.”
Lydia laughed and sat near Mr. Wickham, though not so near that anyone could accuse her of impropriety. Elizabeth noticed the restraint and then wished she had not, for noticing improvement in Lydia made her feel both pleased and unexpectedly old.
Mr. Wickham remained to supper with Mr. Philips, and the evening passed in a fashion so domestic that Elizabeth found herself watching it from a small distance in her mind.
Mr. Bennet asked Mr. Wickham several questions concerning a local dispute over a fence line.
Mr. Wickham answered plainly, admitted when he was not certain, and said he would consult the relevant book before venturing too far into advice.
That answer won Mr. Bennet’s approval more surely than a more confident opinion would have done.
After supper, Mary played, Kitty sang half a song and forgot the second verse, and Lydia, instead of demanding that everyone dance, sat beside Mr. Wickham while he showed her how to fold a sheet properly for legal correspondence.
“It is simple folding,” she complained.
“It is presentation,” he insisted.
Lydia snorted. “It is paper.”
“It is paper that must not suggest disorder before the first line is read.”
Lydia took the page from him, folded it incorrectly, and then glared when one corner betrayed her. “You are enjoying this.”
“I am instructing you.”
“You are enjoying instructing me.”
“A little,” he admitted.
She laughed, unfolded the page, and tried again.
Mr. Bennet lowered his book to watch them. Elizabeth caught his eye, expecting amusement. Instead, she saw something closer to approval, though he buried it quickly beneath indolence.
That night, when the household had scattered and Elizabeth went upstairs, she found Lydia in the passage outside their rooms, holding a candle that sent little waves of light across the walls.
“Lizzy,” Lydia whispered. “Are you very tired?”
“Moderately. Why?”
Lydia hesitated, an unfamiliar proceeding that caught Elizabeth’s attention. “Did you hear what he said in the lane? About the letter?”
“Yes.”
“You do not think it is a lady, do you?”
Elizabeth smothered a laugh, then saw that Lydia was genuinely anxious. “No. I did not receive that impression.”
“He said an old friend.”
“So, he did.”