Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
The morning after the ball was filled with nonsensical chattering as well as copious amounts of speculation regarding the attention certain gentlemen paid to Jane and Elizabeth.
Mrs Bennet took great delight in pointing out Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley’s respective dances to anyone who would listen, despite Elizabeth’s insistence that Mr Darcy had only asked her out of courtesy.
“But to dance with you twice, Lizzy! Just think, whatever can it mean? Perhaps he is undecided between you and your sister and wishes to make a comparison before he chooses.”
“I should like to think that a decision of such magnitude would be based on more than just two dances.”
“Ha! So you do believe he is in love with you!” Lydia gave a jubilant clap of her hands.
“Think of all the jewels you will have—and the balls! You would invite us to your estate, of course, when you are married. What a merry life you shall lead—it is only a shame that you should have to marry such a bore to have it!”
“Mr Darcy is not in love with me,” Elizabeth objected. “I only meant that it would take more than a few dances for anyone to fall—”
“You must do your best to enchant him,” Mrs Bennet interrupted. “I do not know how, for you lack charm in all areas that matter, but he is too great a prize to let slip from your grasp. It is resolved! Mr Bingley shall do for Jane, and you must have Mr Darcy.”
Try as she might to persuade her mother of the futility of this scheme, Elizabeth’s protest fell on deaf ears. Mrs Bennet pressed upon Mr Bennet to invite Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy for dinner.
Mr Bennet peered over the newspaper he had been hiding behind and affixed a shrewd look upon Jane.
“What do you think of your mother’s madness—I need not ask Elizabeth for her opinion, for a man like Mr Darcy only looks upon a woman to find fault and therefore she is quite safe from his attention—but Mr Bingley is another matter entirely.
Should I trouble myself with the exertion of asking him to dine with us? ”
All eyes turned to Jane, who looked terribly uncomfortable at being the focus of everyone’s interest. Elizabeth felt a rush of sympathy and answered for her, “It should not be for Jane alone to decide who is invited. An evening with Mr Bingley is always welcome, and if you wish to invite the other residents of Netherfield, then so be it.”
Kitty and Lydia exchanged a knowing look between them as though this was proof of Elizabeth’s burning infatuation with Mr Darcy, and they both burst into a fit of giggles.
“We must be sure to invite his sisters, as well as Mr Darcy and Mr Hurst,” Jane said soothingly, with a grateful glance at Elizabeth. “It would be rude not to.”
“And Lizzy, you must do something about your hair. You resemble a scullery maid,” Mrs Bennet admonished.
Finally reaching a point of exasperation where she did not trust herself to respond civilly, Elizabeth stood abruptly and declared her desire for a walk. Without waiting for her family’s response, she flung the drawing room door open and rushed to find her cloak and bonnet.
Elizabeth’s feet beat a steady tattoo as she marched her way into Meryton.
It was regrettable that she was walking alone, but the alternative was to remain imprisoned in the house, driven mad by her mother’s endless chattering.
It was only a dance! Two to be precise, but how many dances had Mr Darcy ever danced in his life and then expected to be engaged at the end of them?
She snorted. A man such as he would wish for a suitable bride, plucked from the highest ranks of society, with advantageous connexions and an enormous fortune.
Her father had been correct, of course. She was in no danger of attracting Mr Darcy’s notice.
Not that his attention would be welcome, in any case.
He was still the man who had once refused to dance with her.
Admittedly, since their disastrous first meeting, Mr Darcy had been more than civil, but for her mother to expound matrimony at the merest hint of a man paying a woman some attention was laughable.
As though Mr Darcy would ever lower himself to offer for me!
An unwelcome tightness gripped her chest. She had never considered how limited her marriage prospects were before now.
It was not pleasant, thinking of one’s own precarious place in life.
The lane curved to the left and she passed the final crossroads before the town.
“Good day, Miss Bennet!” The booming masculine greeting startled her. She turned awkwardly and slipped on a wet stone, her foot twisting as she fell.
“I beg your pardon; I had no intention of alarming you.” It was Mr Wickham, his scarlet uniform bright against the green trees.
He was crouching down next to her, his hand outstretched.
With no other choice, Elizabeth took it and allowed herself to be gently pulled to her feet.
Pain exploded through her right ankle, and she gasped.
“You must sit down.” Mr Wickham pulled at his gold buttons, removing his coat and spreading it on a nearby log. Without asking, he put his arm about her waist, assisting Elizabeth as she gingerly lowered herself onto it. He took a step back, his regard uncomfortably intense. “Are you badly hurt?”
“It is nothing.” Elizabeth spoke through gritted teeth. “It will pass.”
He sat on the log next to her. “I feel dreadful. I shall stay with you until you are able to walk.”
“There is no need, I shall be well soon enough.”
He waved his hand with theatrical gallantry. “My father taught me that a man’s duty is to protect the fairer sex.”
Except when you wish to extort money from members of their family. The riposte danced across her tongue, but she restrained herself. “In that case you should perhaps greet them with less enthusiasm.”
Mr Wickham tipped his head back and roared with laughter. “And a quick wit despite your pain! Pardon my laughter, but I can only respond admiringly to a woman with a lively mind such as yours. Tell me how I can make amends, Miss Elizabeth, for I am entirely at your mercy.”
All Elizabeth’s previous experience with flattery consisted of was Mr Lucas’s clumsy attempts to capture her notice; Mr Wickham, with his handsome countenance and winning manner, was rather more accomplished in his address.
Yet his smile did not reach his eyes, and Elizabeth could not believe the sincerity of his admiration.
Testing her foot against the ground, she found it was a little improved.
“You owe me no apology. It was an accident, nothing more. Please walk on, sir. Do not spend any more of your day looking after me. I shall be quite well in a moment.”
Mr Wickham graced Elizabeth with his most charming smile. “I insist on escorting you into Meryton. What if your ankle should give way? I could not forgive myself if you slipped once more.”
“I have no intention of falling again.” Her observation made no difference, for Mr Wickham was obviously intent on staying by her side.
She offered him his coat, which he made a great show of putting back on, a glint in his eye as he commented on the tightness of the cut.
She blushed at his remark and averted her eyes.
An involuntary comparison between Mr Darcy and Mr Wickham passed through her mind; how could it not, given the information she now possessed regarding their past acquaintance?
Mr Darcy had no easy manners, no practised charm, and yet every time they spoke, she came away certain that he had listened to every word.
Not so with Mr Wickham; there was something self-serving in his attentiveness.
Eager to be away, she stood quickly and winced.
It was still impossible to put all her weight on her foot, and so she was reluctantly required to lean on Mr Wickham’s proffered arm.
Slowly, they made their way into Meryton, Mr Wickham asking Elizabeth a succession of questions to which she gave only vague replies.
They continued in this manner for some time with Elizabeth giving answers of diminishing length and enthusiasm.
“We have spoken of many things,” Mr Wickham ventured at last, apparently unaware that a conversation required at least two active participants, “but I must ask you how it is that you are goddaughter to Mr Vanderbeck? I have long been an admirer of his adventures.”
Elizabeth briefly outlined her father’s friendship, to which Mr Wickham murmured his approbation.
“What a joy for you to have such a man for your godfather. And are you close to him?”
His question was too familiar for Elizabeth’s liking. “We are close enough. He is often away.”
“But I understand he communicates often with your family?” Mr Wickham persisted.
“Why, yes,” she replied coolly. “As I imagine he does with many other people.”
“And he is still in Brazil? I heard that he had been unwell.”
“You know as much as I.” Last night, when Elizabeth had spoken of Mr Vanderbeck with Mr Darcy, she had felt a strange sensation of relief, that he might understand what it was like to be chased for a fortune—even if in her case it did not exist. But now she felt nothing but a pervading unease.
What purpose did these questions serve, if not to discover the strength of her relationship with her godfather?
On an impulse, she decided to put him to the test. “What was your favourite part of his lecture, when you attended it at Cambridge?”
Mr Wickham’s smile dimmed only for a moment, and he replied, “It is impossible to select one moment—it was all fascinating to me.”
“I adore his anecdote regarding the Bengal tiger—I believe he always references it in some way. What did you think of it?” She hid her lie behind an expression of curiosity; her eyes wide as she awaited his response.
“Do you know, it has quite escaped my mind.”
“A shame. It is his most famous story. My father always says any true admirer of Mr Vanderbeck should know it.”
Mr Wickham’s brow creased. “Why as you are talking, I must confess something of what you are saying sounds familiar…” He did not finish his sentence, instead leaning closer to Elizabeth, a suggestive gleam in his eyes. “Can I say it would be a pleasure for you to remind me of its particulars?”
“I could not deny any admirer of Mr Vanderbeck the pleasure of hearing it in his own words,” Elizabeth countered, marvelling at how effortlessly Mr Wickham evaded her question.
Annoyed that he thought her so easily charmed, she was seized by an impulse to provoke him. “I spoke at length about my godfather with Mr Darcy last night. Tell me again how you are acquainted with him?”
Mr Wickham did not seem disturbed by the abruptness of her question; rather he appeared to relish the opportunity to criticise Mr Darcy. “We grew up together—almost as brothers, until Mr Darcy chose not to honour his late father’s wishes.”
“And what of his sister? Do you know her well?”
Wickham’s expression clouded, if only for an instant. “A proud, disagreeable girl, not unlike her brother.”
“It seems that you are better off without them in your life.” Elizabeth gave Mr Wickham her most innocent look.
The rooftops of Meryton came into view and she could not spend a moment more in Mr Wickham’s company. Her ankle now improved, she thanked him with a swift curtsey and did not look back as she hurried away.