15. A Difference of Opinion
fifteen
A Difference of Opinion
Elizabeth battled her confusion as she watched Mr. Darcy ride away from the window in the antechamber off Longbourn’s entrance. What she had overheard between them conflicted with her sketch of both their characters.
She had no notion they knew each other. It was clear there was some hostility, at least on the part of Mr. Darcy. His face had lost every trace of color. Mr. Wickham, usually so entirely master of himself, had stared as though confronted by an apparition.
Neither had spoken for several heartbeats.
Elizabeth had replayed the scene so often that by morning she no longer trusted her recollection. Had Mr. Wickham truly looked surprised? Or cautious? Had Mr. Darcy’s expression contained hatred—or shock?
The questions multiplied without yielding answers.
When Mr. Darcy requested a private word, Mr. Wickham had agreed almost immediately. There had been no bluster. No attempt to avoid him.
That puzzled her nearly as much as anything else.
If either gentleman possessed the villainous character the other implied, would he not have behaved differently?
She sighed and set aside the volume she had attempted to read for nearly a quarter hour without absorbing a single sentence.
Outside, voices drifted through the open window.
Lydia.
Elizabeth smiled despite herself.
Her youngest sister possessed a remarkable talent for banishing solemnity merely by existing.
She descended to the drawing room, where the remainder of the family had assembled.
Mrs. Bennet discussed preserves with Hill; Kitty embroidered with uncommon diligence, having recently determined she would improve herself in every possible accomplishment; Mary copied passages from a religious text with determined application; Jane worked upon a piece of needlework.
Mr. Wickham occupied a chair beside Lydia.
He rose as Elizabeth entered.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
She responded in kind to his greeting.
After exchanging the customary civilities she noticed that something was amiss.
Mr. Wickham’s smile remained pleasant enough, but it never quite reached his eyes.
He scarcely looked toward the window, though ordinarily every passing rider invited some humorous observation. Lydia chatted about nothing in particular, yet several of her remarks went unanswered before he apologized and begged her pardon.
Elizabeth concealed her scrutiny.
Lydia, possessing far less restraint, laid aside her work. “You are distracted.”
Mr. Wickham blinked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You have scarcely heard a word I have said.”
“I fear you are correct.”
She leaned toward him. “What troubles you?”
He hesitated.
Elizabeth expected him to dismiss the matter. But he rested his clasped hands upon one knee and answered with surprising seriousness. “It would scarcely be politic for me to discuss private disagreements.”
Lydia frowned. “Private disagreements?”
He offered an apologetic smile. “I would not wish either you or your family to think ill of Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s needle paused.
Lydia looked honestly astonished. “I cannot imagine why I should.”
Mr. Wickham studied the carpet before continuing.
“There appears to have been... some misunderstanding between us.”
“Can it not be explained?”
“I sincerely wish that it could.” He shook his head. “I confess I know not how to rectify it.”
Lydia’s cheerful countenance clouded.
“I dislike seeing anyone unhappy.”
“I shall recover.”
He brightened with visible effort.
“It is hardly fair to burden you with concerns that originated long before we became acquainted.”
“You are not burdening me.”
She spoke with unaffected warmth.
“If we are to be friends—”
Mr. Wickham interrupted gently.
“I hope for something rather better than friendship, Miss Lydia.”
Her cheeks colored a delightful shade of pink.
Mrs. Bennet, observing this from across the room, exchanged a triumphant glance with Jane.
Elizabeth hid a smile behind her teacup.
The cloud over Mr. Wickham did not fully disperse, but Lydia succeeded in drawing him into lighter conversation before long.
She related Kitty’s unfortunate attempt to bake seed cakes without consulting Hill.
Kitty protested.
“I followed the receipt exactly.”
“You omitted the sugar.”
“I considered it optional.”
“It was not.”
Even Mary smiled.
Mr. Wickham laughed with genuine amusement.
For several minutes he appeared restored.
Only when he believed himself unobserved did that thoughtful expression return.
Elizabeth noticed it twice.
No more.
She could not reconcile such behavior with deliberate malice.
If he truly intended harm toward Mr. Darcy—or toward anyone connected with him—why speak so carefully?
Why caution Lydia against judging another gentleman too hastily?
The easiest course would have been to blacken Mr. Darcy’s character before an audience eager to hear it.
He had declined.
That alone deserved consideration.
Mr. Wickham departed before luncheon. Lydia accompanied him to the front steps. Elizabeth watched from the window. They did not stand absurdly close, as many courting couples chose to do, but rather they maintained a respectable distance, talking softly.
Lydia laughed. Mr. Wickham answered with one of those expressions that transformed his ordinarily handsome features into something warmer. He bowed. She curtsied with exaggerated solemnity, spoiled an instant later by irrepressible laughter. Then he walked away.
Lydia remained watching until he disappeared beyond the hedgerow.
Mrs. Bennet joined Elizabeth at the window.
“I shall have one daughter well married before Christmas.”
Elizabeth smiled. “You have become very confident.” Did her mother not know of Mr. Wickham’s wish to wait until Lydia is sixteen?
“My confidence is wholly justified.”
“I believe Mr. Wickham wishes to establish himself before marrying.” Best do what she could to curb her mother’s coming disappointment.
Mrs. Bennet waved away the objection. “Men always say such things.”
Jane glanced up from her work. “I think it reflects well upon him.”
“So do I,” Elizabeth agreed.
Mrs. Bennet sighed theatrically. “You are all determined to be sensible.”
“It is one of Jane’s better influences,” Elizabeth replied.
“I protest I deserve some credit.”
“You taught us very early that marrying for affection is preferable.”
Mrs. Bennet blinked.
“I did?”
“You refused Mr. Bennet’s first proposal.”
Mrs. Bennet laughed outright.
“I had forgotten that.”
“You made him ask twice.”
“He deserved a little encouragement.”
Mr. Bennet entered just in time to hear the conclusion.
“I assure you,” he observed, “your mother required very little encouragement after the second proposal.”
Mrs. Bennet tossed her head.
“I wished to be certain.”
“You were.”
“I have never regretted it.”
Mr. Bennet crossed the room and kissed the top of her head with such absent familiarity that Elizabeth looked away before they noticed her watching.
Jane smiled into her embroidery.
Elizabeth’s heart grew unexpectedly light.
Whatever faults existed within her family, affection had never been wanting.
The afternoon proved too beautiful to remain indoors.
Elizabeth escaped with her bonnet and set off alone.
The familiar paths around Longbourn had always possessed the curious ability to untangle difficult thoughts.
Today they refused.
Mr. Darcy. Mr. Wickham. She recalled the overheard conversation. One declared the other deceitful beyond redemption. The other declined even the smallest accusation.
Both accounts could not be true.
She paused upon a rise overlooking the valley.
Fields spread beneath her in orderly greens and golds.
Harvest approached.
The first hints of autumn touched the hedgerows.
She thought of Mr. Darcy’s expression when he first saw Mr. Wickham.
No actor, however accomplished, could have produced such astonishment.
Unless...
No.
She abandoned the thought.
It required believing Mr. Darcy had anticipated encountering his old enemy in Longbourn.
His surprise had been too complete.
Likewise, Mr. Wickham had betrayed genuine confusion when Darcy questioned him.
That recollection troubled her even more.
If both men sincerely believed themselves wronged...
She laughed once under her breath.
“What an impossible pair of gentlemen.”
The breeze answered by stirring the branches overhead.
Elizabeth resumed walking.
There was one course open to her.
She would speak to Mr. Darcy.
If their acquaintance—and perhaps something dearer—were to continue, concealment could serve neither of them.
She hoped Mr. Darcy would prove more willing to explain himself when they met again than he had been in her father’s drawing room.
The thought accompanied her all the way home.
The next day gave Elizabeth her opportunity before she had decided whether she was prepared to take it.
She had set out after breakfast with no destination more precise than air, distance, and the hope that walking might arrange her thoughts into a form fit for examination.
Longbourn was lively behind her. Mrs. Bennet had begun the morning by wondering whether Mr. Darcy’s abrupt departure the previous day signified insult, injury, or romance, and had managed to advance good arguments for all three.
Lydia, less cheerful than usual after Mr. Wickham’s troubled call, had taken refuge with Kitty in a discussion of ribbons for the next assembly.
Jane had offered Elizabeth one of those searching looks which, in another sister, might have become interrogation.
In Jane, it became kindness and silence.
Elizabeth had fled before either could overcome her.
The path toward Oakham Mount was familiar beneath her feet, worn through grass and earth by years of Bennet girls, tenants, servants, and anyone else with business or leisure enough to cross the fields.
The morning had begun cool, though the sun promised warmth later.
A light wind moved over the hedges and carried with it the dry scent of late summer.
She had nearly reached the rise when she saw the horse.