The Spectator
Elizabeth’s escape was almost complete and almost perfect.
She was fully convinced she had escaped unscathed—until she ran headlong into a shop-girl, who was hiding at the corner, peeping out at the altercation.
After that, she thought it best to give up any thought of boasting, as she and the hapless young victim found themselves spitting mud in the alley.
Instantly as mortified as when her mother and sisters were at their worst, Elizabeth apologised earnestly and profusely enough to match Mr Collins; but despite her best efforts, the girl ignored her as if she did not exist.
She sprang up and ran back to the corner to peep around. “Yes, yes, we can apologise later, but I must see this! You are entirely forgiven.”
Elizabeth suspected the girl considered gossip more important than the state of her clothing or injuries; but she admitted ruefully that if her own sisters had to choose between losing a limb and missing some gossip, she was not certain how they would decide.
Suitably chastened, and still insatiably curious, she sprang back up to join the young girl in peeping around the corner.
In the lane, Mr Kendall and Mr Wickham had come closer together, giving the impression of a pair of bears squaring off to fight.
Elizabeth noticed that her new companion was a stranger.
She was dressed like a shop-girl or modest tradesman’s daughter—above a servant but below a gentlewoman.
She was about Kitty or Lydia’s age, and just about as interested in gossip, which was hardly surprising, since the event promised to be the most excitement Meryton had seen in years.
She whispered, “Have you any particular interest in this altercation?”
Her companion stared at her a moment in confusion, but finally replied, “No, but I should like to see the outcome.”
Elizabeth doubted her sincerity but felt she at least owed the girl some restitution for knocking her down so violently.
“Come with me,” she said, then grabbed the girl’s hand and dragged her down the narrow alley.
Her companion was not expecting it, so she went along willingly enough, though who knew for how long. Elizabeth opened a door quickly, said, “In with you!” and gave her a slight shove in the back, and followed her inside.
The girl eyed the door as if to flee. “You may trust me. This is my uncle’s office, but he is at Lucas Lodge, so we shall have the best seats in the house.”
Then, fearing she was missing too much herself, she grabbed her companion’s hand and gently pulled her through the back office where her uncle’s clerk usually worked, into his law office, and over to the front window.
She released her companion, knelt behind the curtain, and carefully prised open the window enough to hear.
Grinning, she held her finger to her lips for silence and took her station on one side of the curtain, while her companion scrambled to the other. The two men were still confronting each other thirty yards away, with Mr Kendall becoming increasingly vexed.
“If you do not have the funds on your person, I shall accompany you to wherever they are. Your account is long overdue!”
The other side of the street was filling with more spectators, and one man left the crowd to join Mr Kendall.
Since she had no idea who her companion was—and with ladies’ reputations being as vulnerable as they were she probably should not—she decided to carry on and consider introductions later, if ever.
“That is Mr Gulliver, the owner of the haberdashery.”
That man stepped forward waving a paper that looked like a bill. “What of this account, Mr Wickham? I shall have payment if you please. If you do not have it all, I shall take what you have on you.”
Mr Kendall grumbled at Mr Gulliver, but the man was not to be silenced.
Mr Wickham was looking cornered, and Elizabeth was happy she had escaped the drama, while vexed that she had been with the man when it began.
Something was obviously amiss with Mr Wickham, though she did not know what.
The most astonishing question occurred to her.
Why did Mr Wickham, a man who did not own a horse, owe the blacksmith money?
Her companion sighed dreamily. “This promises to be entertaining.”
Mr Kendall asked Mr Gulliver, “Did you have a visitor as well?”
“Young boy of sixteen?”
“That is the one!”
The two men turned back to their adversary, who had been slowly edging away from the altercation, when another man stepped from the crowd.
Elizabeth whispered, “Mr Sims owns the tavern… I think,” belatedly realising that was not something a gently bred woman should be discussing.
“I imagine his bill will be substantial,” her companion said, much to Elizabeth’s curiosity and amusement.
The men waved what looked like vowels and compared notes.
Elizabeth asked again, “Do you have any particular interest in this matter?”
The girl looked at her cautiously. “I like gossip as well as most,” and Elizabeth had to be satisfied for the moment.
Just as the three men put their heads together, another stalked from the tearoom with his own paper, and Elizabeth observed, “That messenger has been busy.”
“Evidently,” the girl said with a giggle.
They withdrew their attention from the spectacle to appraise each other, and just as they might have said something they heard a gasp from the crowd, as Mr Wickham took to his heels.
Her companion gasped in obvious consternation. “He is escaping!”
Elizabeth shared her concern as did most of the crowd. A few moved towards the altercation as if to give chase, but they all paused when Mr Kendall put his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled loudly enough to raise the dead.
Elizabeth and her companion covered their ears, but it was too late.
A burly youth of about sixteen jogged up, wearing leathers like the blacksmith.
Elizabeth spoke quietly and found her hearing had not been damaged by Mr Kendall’s whistle. “Well, that contest is over.”
“What do you mean?” the girl asked, her voice indicating more than a passing interest in the outcome.
“That is Tom Kendall. Legend says he can outrun a horse over a short distance. An officer is hardly worth his bother.”
True to her prediction, Mr Kendall lazily waved in the direction Mr Wickham ran and Tom bolted after him like Mercury himself.
Elizabeth was amused to hear her companion gasp, and turned her attention back to the street, which was rapidly filling with nearly everyone in Meryton.
She reflected ruefully how fate placed her, the second-least-gossip-prone Bennet, as the one with the whip hand, since all the other Bennet ladies were at Longbourn.
Two more men stepped forward carrying papers, and she idly observed, “Mr Ramsbury and Mr Sempill—tailor and bootmaker.”
She was just about to interrogate her companion more assertively when the crowd became noisier.
They turned their attention to the street in time to see Tom Kendall leading a subdued Mr Wickham back by the ear like a naughty boy.
Naturally, it was evident that Mr Wickham had not come voluntarily, and furthermore, that he might not be quite so handsome and charming in the future.
She was not certain he had brought all his teeth back, and he did not have the type of face that was improved by a broken nose or a black eye.
Master Kendall dragged the man up to a signpost that stood across the street at a good vantage point for both their window and the crowd.
He pulled out a leather string from his apron, pushed Mr Wickham against the post, and tied his hands behind him, though it seemed unlikely the man would attempt another escape.
“This is all a misunderstanding—” the man protested until Tom pulled out a filthy-looking rag and held it up in front of his face, with the obvious threat that it could be placed in his mouth; at which point he was silent, at least for the moment.
“That should silence him for a change,” her companion said, indicating more than a passing familiarity with the officer, as Elizabeth had suspected.
“You sound as if you know him?” she asked tentatively.
“I know of him,” her companion said emphatically.
It was obvious she was unlikely to be more forthcoming, so Elizabeth returned her attention to the street.