1811 Meryton #2
The weather was grumbling on the Saturday morning when the ladies all walked down the lane of Lucas Lodge towards Meryton.
In the milliner’s, Lady Lucas inspected gloves, fans and hair-combs.
There was not time – or money, frankly – for a new dress to be made, but she thought she could afford to supplement her daughters’ attire.
‘Charlotte, come here – what if we trimmed your rose dress with this?’ Lady Lucas proposed, holding up some fine lace.
Charlotte glanced over. ‘My dress will do well as it is, will it not?’
‘No, it will not – not for Netherfield,’ replied her mother. ‘Come, stand here; take off your coat. What you are wearing now has the same fit. I can measure it out.’
Charlotte acquiesced, removing her pelisse and standing on a small stool, while her mother tried the lace against her hem.
Maria had been looking at some gloves laid out near the window and, glancing up, exclaimed in some excitement, ‘Oh look, there is Mr Denny!’
Charlotte was suddenly grabbed by her sister and ushered out of the door with great urgency. She tried to go back for her coat, but Maria hissed, ‘Leave it! We will only be a moment!’
Seconds later, the two sisters almost bumped into Mr Denny, as they ‘accidentally’ crossed his path. Charlotte was both surprised and impressed by Maria’s artfulness.
She did not mind being a prop in her sister’s courtship; while Maria and Mr Denny made conversation, she wrapped her arms tighter around herself against the chill and found her eye wandering down the lively high street, which bustled with locals, soldiers, carts and carriages.
In the distance, she spied a uniformed officer on horseback, looking keenly towards Mr Denny.
As she trained her eyes on him, she recognised that it was Mr Wickham, having now been granted his regimentals.
He looked as if he were in two minds about whether to approach the party, but he remained loitering a little way off.
This was either a mark of his friendship with Denny – affording him time with an admirer – or, perhaps more tellingly, a mark of his lack of interest in Charlotte.
Just as Maria and Denny’s conversation seemed to be nearing a conclusion, light raindrops started to fall.
Charlotte, who remained coatless, was keen to get back inside.
She stirred with agitation, prompting Maria to begin her say farewells; but Mr Denny took a step forward and said, ‘Before you go—’, which led to a final entreaty, much to Charlotte’s dismay, as the rain was beginning to fall in earnest.
Denny rather haltingly requested Maria’s hand for the first dance at Netherfield, and she delightedly agreed.
Charlotte hoped now to escape, but as Denny took his leave, he caught sight of Wickham and beckoned him over.
Charlotte and Maria were both shivering by this point, so to Wickham’s credit, he did not invite much further delay.
He approached carefully, then dismounted and bowed.
‘Ladies, I will not keep you out in this weather. I hope you have found everything you were looking for.’ He addressed this to Maria with a smirk, then, turning to Charlotte, added, ‘And I hope you shall soon locate your coat, Miss Lucas,’ with a mocking grin at her state.
She did not respond directly, but said only, ‘Until Tuesday then, Mr Denny, Mr Wickham.’ Her dress was drenched by this point, the rain plastering her hair to her face and running down her neck. Even Maria appeared bedraggled, despite having her coat and bonnet.
The sisters returned to the shop, and the two men, after performing deep bows, went back to their horses.
Charlotte and Maria found Lady Lucas standing outside the milliner’s, under a small canopy that offered shelter over the doorway, having finished her purchases.
She held out Charlotte’s coat, which she started to put on with some difficulty, dragging it over her soggy dress; as she did, the two soldiers rode by, with a final, pleasant nod from Denny towards Maria, and from Mr Wickham, a lingering look towards Charlotte, in her damp, dishevelled state, taking in her body from head to toe.
He then met her gaze, with something resembling disgust, though there was a flicker of something else, and nothing that could be called gentlemanly.
It was only a look, she told herself, but it made an impression on her.
She could not help but feel he had intended it to.
But what was it exactly that his look held?
She pondered the question when they arrived home, as she changed her clothes and warmed herself by the fire.
Then she forgot about it until dinner time, when she held a torn piece of red meat on her fork, about to put it in her mouth, and the answer came to her.
That’s it, she thought. Carrion. He looked at me as if I were a piece of prey.
On Tuesday evening, at the Netherfield Ball, she had every intention of telling Elizabeth about the assembly with the militia, including the strange Mr Wickham.
But before she could do so, she found that Elizabeth was keen to tell her about her own week.
Once Eliza started to talk, with great animation, of meeting a handsome, charming man – one who had been, she believed, most unjustly mistreated and whose presence she had so wished for that evening – Charlotte felt, in that moment, that she could not tell of her own, now seemingly insignificant, encounters with the very same Mr Wickham.
She would not pour water on her friend’s new passion, but she felt relieved that the gentleman in question was not present at the ball.
And soon enough, she was distracted from unpleasant thoughts of him by her engagement in a lively reel, partnered by a certain Mr Collins, to whom she had just been introduced.