The Malady
While Tom chased the miscreant, which nobody paid much attention to, since it was a contest as exciting as sending a tiger after a kitten, more people had entered the street. Elizabeth examined the crowd, happy to remain invisible, and noticed more people coming out holding papers.
She heard a small murmur as some in the crowd moved aside for a man of about fifty who hobbled in, leaning heavily on a cane.
“I suspect Mr Wickham’s day is about to progress from bad to worse. That is Mr Follet, the magistrate.”
“Why is he limping?” her companion asked.
Elizabeth suspected the question was either a sign of curiosity beyond Mr Wickham, or more likely she just wished to know precisely why the man’s day was about to get worse.
She felt increasingly foolish over her early championing of the soldier merely because he was charming and polite while Mr Darcy was demeaning and rude—and once again doubly glad she had never mentioned his supposed troubles to her mother or sisters.
“He suffers fiercely from gout,” she replied.
“Too much meat—” the girl muttered.
“Pardon me,” Elizabeth said, not quite having heard or understood.
“Gout is called ‘the disease of kings and gentlemen’,” the girl said in a lecturing governess’ voice, then continued more calmly.
“My uncle suffered terribly from it until he consulted an Indian physician. He claims it is due to too much meat and drink, and not enough vegetables and water. I do not know if he is right, but a change in diet was all my uncle required to improve. Now his gout is much better, though he must live with the embarrassment of admitting that an Indian physician was right while his English compatriots were wrong.”
Elizabeth smiled at the longest and most interesting speech from her erstwhile companion yet and determined she would try to know her better.
From the girl’s dress, she did not seem gently born, but having an uncle who consulted Indian physicians suggested otherwise.
A glance at her hands showed she was no servant.
She appeared middle class—perhaps the daughter of a tradesman, since she knew her Uncle Gardiner could consult any physician he wished.
Her speech had a familiar cadence, though she could not place it—neither servant’s cant, nor the waspish tone the ton espoused.
Though younger than Elizabeth, she was taller and blonder, more like Jane, and quite handsome if she were truthful.
Elizabeth briefly considered proper introductions but doubted her companion was quite ready. Mr Follet leaned down to hand some small coins to two young boys who ran down the street towards the tavern.
She wondered what they were about, but it took only a moment to discover, as the magistrate addressed the knot of people before the boys returned dragging a small table, while another dragged a chair and set them up in the middle of the lane.
“Mr Follet is generally considered a good magistrate, and he likes to resolve matters quickly. He seems to be doing a full investigation right here and now.”
“I never heard of such a thing—but then, I never would have,” her companion said.
Elizabeth wondered if that were because she was of a class that was little involved with the local villages.
That supposition conflicted with her professed interest in gossip, so Elizabeth was about half-certain the girl had some interest in this specific transaction, despite her earlier assertions to the contrary.
That she knew nothing of magistrates was no surprise, as most girls of her age, and most women in general, were unaware and uninterested.
Mr Follet sat heavily at the table, followed by another man who sat in a different chair and produced a sheet of paper.
“That is Mr Follet’s clerk. It appears they will do a full accounting.”
“That is far more than I expected—” her companion muttered under her breath, giving even more credence to Elizabeth’s supposition that she was more heavily invested in the outcome than indicated.
She wondered about the girl, but then a disquieting thought occurred to her.
Mr Wickham was charm itself, charm personified.
A man did not become so charming without practice, and she began to wonder who he practiced on.
She did not actually know what rogues and rakes did in any detail, but she had read enough to know they mostly preyed on the vulnerable.
Servants were in the worst positions, though governesses were not much better.
She had no idea how middle or lower class girls comported themselves but had to assume that at least some were as silly as her own younger sisters.
Since she herself had been susceptible to the man’s charms, a younger and even more sheltered girl might be even worse off.
Perhaps, she thought, her companion was one of his victims.
A noise from outside interrupted their conversation, which was for the best, because she needed to be cautious in her approach. If the girl was a victim, it would not do to compound the injury with injudicious questions.
The shopkeepers were being chivvied into a line by the clerk, when Mr Wickham tried once again to protest his treatment and assert his innocence.
He did not get far before Tom Kendall returned to thrust the rag into his mouth, grumbling, “I will not tie this thing in this time, but—” and left the man with the vague threat.