CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ON THE FIFTH DAY OF DECEMBER the morning broke cold and colourless over Longbourn, a pale winter mist lying low upon the hedgerows and softening the fields beyond.
Indoors, all was hushed. Upstairs, Elizabeth slept soundly, her cheek resting upon the pillow, one arm stretched toward the small rug where Pippin was accustomed to curl. The rug, however, was empty.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Lizzy?” Jane’s gentle voice broke the quiet. “Are you awake?”
Elizabeth stirred and sat up, rubbing her eyes. “What is it, Jane?”
“There has been a note delivered from Netherfield.” Jane entered, wrapped in a pale shawl. “It came by one of Mr. Darcy’s men. Hill gave it to Papa, but it is addressed to you.”
Elizabeth blinked, instantly awake. “A note from Mr. Darcy?” She took it, the paper still cold from the morning air.
“Miss Bennet,
Pray forgive this intrusion, but I write in haste.
Apollo went missing at dawn and has not yet been found.
As he has often visited Netherfield with me, I thought perhaps he may have strayed in that direction.
Should this be the case, I beg you to send word without delay.
We are searching the woods and lanes between our homes and will not rest until he is safely recovered.
With sincere regard,
F. Darcy”
Elizabeth looked up, her expression a mixture of surprise and concern. “Apollo missing? Oh, poor thing. He has never wandered before.”
Jane frowned gently. “Do you suppose he truly might have come here?”
“It is not impossible,” Elizabeth said, already reaching for her dressing gown. “He knows the path between our homes, and if Pippin’s influence is anything to go by, she has probably taught him that running off on one’s own is perfectly acceptable behaviour.”
Within minutes, she had descended the stairs, the letter clutched in her hand. The drawing room was in its usual bustle—Mrs. Bennet ordering Hill about the fire and scolding the maids for some imagined neglect.
“Mama,” Elizabeth began, “has anyone seen Apollo? Mr. Darcy has written—he has gone missing. He thought the dog might have wandered here.”
Mrs. Bennet looked up from her chair in astonishment. “Apollo? Good heavens, no! Why should the animal come here? As if we have not enough confusion in this house without adding his troubles!”
Jane followed her sister in. “Perhaps someone saw him in the night? Mrs. Hill? Has any of the servants?”
Hill appeared from the hall, wiping her hands on her apron. “No, miss. No dog has come through the gate this morning.”
Elizabeth turned toward the stairs, her heart sinking. “Then where—?” She stopped short. “Pippin. Has anyone seen Pippin this morning?”
Mrs. Bennet froze, her fan mid-wave. “Surely she is in your room, Lizzy.”
“She was,” Elizabeth said quietly. “She was at my feet last night. But she is not there now.”
A small panic rose in her chest. She called toward the back of the house, “Mrs. Hill! Have you seen Pippin?”
“No, miss,” came the reply.
“Oh dear,” Jane murmured, alarm dawning.
“Mercy me!” Mrs. Bennet cried, pressing her hand to her heart. “That dreadful animal will ruin us all! Running through the town alone as if she owned the city! You cannot go chasing after her, Lizzy. It is most unseemly for a young lady to be seen running about shouting for a dog!”
Elizabeth took her bonnet from the hook. “Then it is fortunate that propriety does not seem to concern me as much as my dog’s safety. I cannot sit still when she may be lost—or worse.”
“I’ll go with you!” Lydia cried from the stair, already halfway down. “And Kitty too—we’ll make a proper search party of it.”
Mrs. Bennet wrung her hands. “You will catch your deaths in the cold! Oh, my nerves, my poor nerves—”
But the girls were gone before she could finish, Elizabeth leading the way into the frost-bright morning, her cloak drawn close about her.
***
THE AIR WAS SHARP, their breath rising in white clouds. The ground crackled underfoot as they crossed the meadow and followed the lane toward Meryton.
“Pippin!” Elizabeth called, her voice carrying across the fields. “Pippin, come girl!”
Only the distant call of a crow answered.
“She cannot have gone far,” Kitty said hopefully.
But Elizabeth felt unease prickling beneath her ribs. The thought of Pippin alone in the cold—and of Apollo perhaps also lost—tugged at her heart with an ache she could not shake.
At the edge of the village, they stopped to ask a farmer mending a gate. “Have you seen a spaniel about? Small, white and brown?”
The man shook his head. “No, miss, not this morning.”
They pressed on, peering into shop doors and alleys. “Pippin! Pippin!” Kitty called, her voice echoing down the street.
As they turned onto the green, a cheerful voice hailed them.
“Miss Kitty! Miss Lydia!”
A tall, fair man in the uniform of the militia was striding toward them, his smile confident, his hat tucked smartly beneath his arm.
“Oh! Mr. Wickham!” Lydia cried, her voice bright with delight. “What a pleasure to see you again!”
“Mr. Denny told us you were unwell,” Kitty added eagerly. “He said it was a stomach upset that kept you from the Netherfield ball.”
Wickham laughed lightly. “Ah, Denny says a great many things. It was nothing serious, I assure you, and I am quite restored.” He bowed gracefully to the ladies. “But to be out and about in this cold, you must surely be upon some important errand. How may I be of service?”
Elizabeth returned his greeting with calm civility. “Our dog is missing, sir. She appears to have strayed sometime in the night.”
“Then you must allow me to assist. We soldiers are trained in such matters—tracking and observation are part of our art.”
Lydia clapped her hands. “How gallant! Come, we shall find her in no time.”
The four set off along the path, their boots crunching softly over frozen earth. The mist had begun to thin, revealing bare hedgerows rimed with frost. Wickham, walked beside Elizabeth while Lydia and Kitty darted ahead, calling the dog’s name.
“Pippin!” they called, “Pippin, come!”
“Oh! Mr. Wickham!” Lydia cried, her voice bright with delight. “What a pleasure to see you again!”
“Mr. Denny told us you were unwell,” Kitty added eagerly. “He said it was a stomach upset that kept you from the Netherfield ball.”
Wickham laughed lightly. “Ah, Denny says a great many things. It was nothing of consequence, I assure you, and I am quite restored.” He bowed with easy grace.
“Though I have often seen Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty about the town, I do not believe I have yet had the pleasure of meeting you, or your other sisters.” He continued, addressing Elizabeth.
“Then allow me to introduce myself,” Elizabeth said with calm politeness. “I am Elizabeth Bennet. My other sisters are Mary and our eldest, Jane.”
“Ah! Miss Elizabeth,” he said with practiced warmth. “Miss Lydia has already given me to understand that there are five of you.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Indeed, sir. A large household, and one not easily kept quiet.”
Wickham’s answering chuckle was smooth, pleasant. “Then I am doubly honoured to find you abroad on such a morning. But surely, to be walking at this hour, you must have some purpose. May I ask what brings you out in this chill?”
“Our dog is missing,” Elizabeth replied. “She seems to have strayed sometime in the night.”
“Ah,” said Wickham, adopting an expression of easy concern. “A runaway? What kind of dog is she?”
Elizabeth described her with affectionate precision. “A small spaniel, white and brown, with a lot of spirit and sense. We call to Pippin — but she seems to be deaf to her own name now.”
Wickham laughed. “She sounds a charming rebel. And you have seen no trace of her?”
“None yet,” Elizabeth said, glancing toward the distant hedgerows. “Though I suspect she may not be alone. Mr. Darcy’s greyhound, Apollo, is missing as well. The two of them have grown... rather fond of each other.”
For a moment, something unreadable flickered in Wickham’s expression — amusement, perhaps, or something darker.
“So,” Wickham said at last, his tone shifting in a way that made Elizabeth look at him more closely, “you are very well acquainted with Mr. Darcy, I think.”
Elizabeth blinked, surprised by the sudden change in direction.
Only a moment ago he had been inquiring after her dog, yet at the mere mention of Apollo he turned at once to Mr. Darcy, as though such a shift were the most natural thing in the world.
It was not. And the abruptness of it recalled to her mind Mr. Darcy’s own remark at Longbourn — that he had once known a Mr. Wickham, yet could not suppose it was the same gentleman Lydia so admired in the militia.
That memory alone was enough to make her cautious.
“We have seen him frequently of late,” she replied, choosing her words with deliberate care.
Wickham’s smile deepened, pleasant yet too intent for her liking. “I thought as much. He seldom gives such attention without design.”
Elizabeth kept her gaze on the hedgerow ahead, though every sense was alert. Something in his tone was too smooth, too ready. She felt again that inexplicable unease.
“I cannot speak to his designs, sir,” she said lightly. “Mr. Darcy has been civil to my family, and that is all.”
“Civil,” Wickham repeated, with a soft laugh that did not reach his eyes. “Yes. He can be so when it suits him. Though I have known him far too long to be persuaded by such behaviour.”
Elizabeth turned her eyes back to him then, her expression composed, her tone courteous, her mind quietly braced. “Indeed?” she said. “Then you and Mr. Darcy are acquainted?”
“Intimately,” Wickham said with a melancholy smile.
“Our fathers were close as brothers. I was to have had a living under his patronage, but when his father died, Mr. Darcy took care to ensure I received none of it. Pride, jealousy—call it what you will. He never could bear to see anyone share his consequence.”
Lydia, who had doubled back, chimed in eagerly, “Mr. Darcy said he knew someone named Wickham too, but that he was a scandalous creature! I told him it couldn’t be you, of course.”
Wickham’s smile tightened. “Ah—so he is already poisoning my name, I see. How like him. He tells the tale to suit himself, I daresay. But no matter. I am accustomed to bearing his ill opinion. He was born to wealth, and I—to his shadow.”
Elizabeth slowed her pace. “You speak as one much wronged, sir.”
“Wronged indeed,” he said lightly, though the bitterness beneath the words was unmistakable. “Darcy’s life has ever been ruled by pride. It would wound him beyond bearing to be thought unjust, yet injustice has been his constant companion.”
Elizabeth glanced sidelong at him, her expression thoughtful. The frost glimmered on the road, and far off a dog barked—faint, then gone.
Could this be true? Mr. Darcy, so grave, so honourable, so self-controlled—capable of such meanness? The thought unsettled her, but not with belief. It was rather the sharp discomfort of hearing something false spoken of one she had begun to esteem.
She smiled faintly, though her tone was calm. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is safest to form our judgments slowly. I have found that people can surprise us.”
Wickham inclined his head, mistaking the remark for sympathy. “You are very generous, Miss Bennet. The world would be kinder if more shared your nature.”
She made no reply. Her eyes had lifted toward the horizon, where the fields of Netherfield began beyond the copse of elms. A prickle of intuition stirred in her—something between hope and certainty.
“Come,” she said suddenly. “Let us go this way. If Pippin has followed Apollo, she may have headed toward aunt Phillips’ house.”
Lydia groaned but followed, chattering about stress and cold as they went. Wickham’s pleasant voice murmured something beside her, but Elizabeth scarcely heard him now.
Her thoughts were full of another man—one whose words had never sounded like deceit. And as they walked on through the whitening fields, she resolved that whatever Mr. Wickham’s story might be, she would hear Mr. Darcy’s before she judged.
The mist closed softly behind them as they disappeared into the lane, Elizabeth’s clear voice still calling through the cold:
“Pippin! Pippin!”