Chapter 20 #2
The habitual pinching of her features eased; her eyes brightened; her mouth curved with satisfaction. For a fleeting moment, Elizabeth thought her nearly pretty—if not for the unmistakable air of self-importance settling over her like a mantle.
Lydia stared. “Well! Mary has found someone willing to listen to her sermons!”
Mary’s eyes flashed.
Mrs. Bennet, to Elizabeth’s astonishment, turned sharply. “Lydia! That will do. Your sister behaves with propriety.”
Elizabeth nearly dropped her cup.
Lydia, who was almost never hushed successfully, looked thunderstruck.
Mary swelled further.
“Yes,” she said with calm superiority. “Propriety ought always to be the object.”
“I am in complete agreement, my dear cousin,” Mr. Collins said with an oily smile.
Lydia narrowed her eyes, then stuck her tongue out at Mary in a gesture entirely devoid of propriety before darting from the room.
“I shall fetch my wrap!” she cried as she ran up the stairs. “Kitty, do not leave without me!”
Kitty scampered after her.
Mary adjusted her posture once more, as though already imagining herself presiding over a rectory tea table.
Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye, and they both bent their heads to conceal their amusement as they readied themselves for their walk into Meryton, which ended up being a bit too lively for Elizabeth’s taste.
Lydia and Kitty hurried several paces ahead, whispering and laughing, then racing one another down the lane. They had scarcely reached the main street when Lydia gave a shriek of delight.
“There he is!”
Before Elizabeth could protest, Lydia and Kitty were waving frantically across the lane. “Lieutenant Denny! Here! Over here!”
Several heads turned.
The lieutenant, accompanied by two other gentlemen, paused in surprise before breaking into a grin and crossing toward them.
Elizabeth felt the familiar heat of embarrassment rise to her cheeks. Must we always announce ourselves to the entire town?
Introductions were made with haste and enthusiasm.
Lieutenant Denny bowed. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth—may I present my friend, Mr. Wickham?”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed slightly at the name.
Wickham.
There was a faint start within her—an echo of something half-remembered. A name spoken recently. A conversation at Netherfield perhaps? Or some passing reference she could not immediately place.
She looked at him more carefully.
He was dressed in civilian attire, though cut fashionably enough to suggest taste and means. His features were regular, his smile easy, his expression open and engaging.
Yet as her gaze lingered, his composure shifted—only slightly.
He seemed momentarily thrown off by her scrutiny.
Then, as though recollecting himself, he offered her a charming smile—warm, almost intimate. There was, however, beneath it, the faintest flicker of self-consciousness.
“Have we had the pleasure of meeting before?” he asked lightly.
“No,” Elizabeth replied, her tone composed. “Only—your name seems familiar.”
“Indeed?” His smile held, but his eyes sharpened just a degree. “I hope it is for no ill reason.”
“I cannot say,” she answered honestly. “Only that I feel I have heard it recently.”
Lydia, already impatient with subtleties, laughed loudly at something Lieutenant Denny said. Kitty chimed in. Jane listened politely, though her expression suggested she found the exchange somewhat overwhelming.
Elizabeth was on the verge of pressing Mr. Wickham further—curiosity prickling insistently at her mind—when Lydia suddenly shouted. “Look, it’s Mr. Bingley!”
Elizabeth turned.
At the far end of the lane, two gentlemen rode at an easy pace, guiding their horses carefully through the bustle of carts, tradesmen, and pedestrians. The animals stepped high and measured upon the packed earth, their riders composed and entirely at their ease.
Even at a distance, they were unmistakable.
Mr. Bingley, smiling broadly as though the entire morning had been arranged for his pleasure. And beside him—
Mr. Darcy.
Her pulse quickened—though whether from anticipation or apprehension, she could not have said.
Lydia’s cry drew the attention of more than just her sisters.
The two gentlemen brought their horses to a careful halt near the edge of the lane, where a stable boy hurried forward to take the reins. Mr. Bingley swung down first, all cheer and animation. Mr. Darcy followed with composed efficiency, landing lightly before turning at once toward the ladies.
He bowed.
“Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth curtsied, steadying her expression despite the awareness of half the street observing the exchange.
Darcy’s gaze settled upon her with quiet warmth. He extended his hand.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
There was nothing improper in the gesture; yet when he bent over her gloved fingers in greeting, the courtesy felt marked—distinct. Lydia gave a suppressed giggle behind her.
Elizabeth withdrew her hand with measured calm.
Darcy then turned.
For the briefest instant, something sharpened in his expression before smoothing into civility.
“Wickham.”
The other gentleman stepped forward.
“Darcy.”
The tone was neither cold nor effusive—merely restrained, as between relations who had known one another too long to pretend at surprise.
“You are visiting?” Darcy inquired. “I was given to understand you were to clerk for Mr. Harcourt this Michaelmas.”
“Ah. Yes. That was the intention. To my disappointment, however, I found the law to be… intolerably dull.”
“Dull?” Darcy’s voice was flat.
“I discovered,” Wickham continued with easy candor, “that while the income from the investment you made into my education proved most comfortable, the study itself lacked vigor. I had just about resigned myself to gluing the barrister’s wig to his head when I ran into Denny here one evening at a pub. ”
Lieutenant Denny beamed.
“He is an old acquaintance, and he spoke of the militia,” Wickham finished, “and I thought a commission might provide a degree of amusement. For a time.”
“And my father’s bequest?”
“The five thousand Uncle George left me in his will is safely in the four-percents, as is the three thousand you granted me in lieu of the living. Not a farthing of the principal has been spent.”
Darcy studied him a moment longer, then gave a slight nod. “And so, Hertfordshire profits from your search for diversion.”
“It appears so.”
Elizabeth watched the conversation with interest, having only now remembered why Wickham’s name was familiar—he was Darcy’s cousin on his mother’s side.
“And you, Darcy?” Wickham continued. “What brings you so far from Derbyshire?”
Darcy gestured toward his companion. “Mr. Bingley has taken Netherfield for the season. I am here as his guest, assisting him in learning about estate management.”
“Darcy has determined that I must not be permitted to confuse turnips with timber,” Bingley declared cheerfully. “He lectures me daily on drainage and rotation, whether I request it or not.”
Wickham stepped forward. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”
“Likewise,” replied Bingley with a grin, extending his hand and shaking it.
Before conversation could resume, a sharp voice rang out from above.
“Lizzy! Jane!”
Every head turned.
Mrs. Phillips had thrust open the window of her house across the lane and was leaning perilously far over the sill. “We are having a card party tomorrow evening! You must all come! Bring the officers! And the gentlemen from Netherfield as well! Lizzy, make sure your Mr. Darcy attends!”
Elizabeth felt mortification descend like a cloak.
Half the street had now turned openly to stare.
Lydia waved enthusiastically. “We shall!”
Mrs. Phillips nodded briskly. “Seven o’clock!” she called before withdrawing inside.
Elizabeth wished the earth would kindly part.
She did not look at Darcy at first. When she did, she found him watching her—not with amusement, nor with condescension, but with something gentle and steady.
He gave her a small smile, and her heart unclenched. The burden eased. “Shall we assist you in your errands?” he asked quietly.
Mr. Bingley brightened. “Yes! We would be delighted, Miss Bennet, if you will allow us?”
“Come with us?” Lydia asked the officers. “Do say you will!”
Wickham inclined his head agreeably, causing Lydia to clap her hands. “How very fortunate we came across you all this morning!”
Elizabeth drew a steady breath and returned Darcy’s look with one of gratitude. “Yes,” she said calmly. “We should be glad of the escort.”
As they paired off one with another, Mr. Wickham moved to walk alongside his cousin. “How long will you be in the area, Darcy?”
“Oh, Mr. Wickham,” she cried, latching onto the officer’s arm, “you must know that Mr. Darcy is quite fixed in Hertfordshire now.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly.
“Lydia—” Jane murmured.
But Lydia pressed on with mischievous boldness. “He is courting Lizzy.”
Silence fell in a small, perceptible ripple.
Elizabeth felt the heat rise instantly to her cheeks.
Wickham stared at his cousin in astonishment. “Indeed?” His surprise was genuine.
Elizabeth watched Darcy’s cheeks turn a faint pink. “Her father granted his permission yesterday.”
“What do Lady Anne and Georgiana say?”
Darcy’s cheeks reddened further. “I have not yet written to inform them.”
Wickham’s brows rose. “Lady Anne and Georgiana do not yet know?”
“Not as of yet, but I plan on sending them a letter this afternoon.”
“Then you must convey my regards when you do,” Wickham replied lightly. “I trust they are well?”
“They are,” Darcy answered. “And I shall.”
The remainder of their errands passed in light conversation and easy civility.
Mr. Bingley proved eager to admire every trifling purchase, while Darcy listened more than he spoke, offering the occasional quiet remark that Elizabeth felt rather than heard.
Wickham maintained his agreeable manner, though he did not seek her particular notice; he seemed content to walk with his fellow officers.
The sun was beginning to descend as they arrived back home. At the gate to Longbourn, the gentlemen declined to enter. There were bows, expressions of pleasure at the morning’s encounter, and promises of seeing one another again soon. As the others moved ahead, Darcy lingered half a pace behind.
“I shall see you tomorrow evening at your aunt’s card party,” he said in a low voice meant for her alone.
Elizabeth met his gaze and inclined her head. “Yes.”
There was nothing more to be said. Yet as he mounted and rode away beside Mr. Bingley, she found herself watching longer than propriety required.
Only when Lydia began breathlessly recounting the morning’s triumphs did Elizabeth turn toward the house—aware that something, however slight, had shifted.