Chapter 3
Three
Fitzwilliam Darcy could scarcely believe the absurdity of what had just transpired.
Tobias Hatch, the parish constable, had only moments ago departed Netherfield after a lengthy interrogation concerning Darcy’s acquaintance with Mr Edwin Harper, their brief but public scuffle at the Meryton Assembly, and Darcy’s movements following the event.
If not for Bingley, his sisters, Mr Hurst, and even the household staff corroborating Darcy’s presence at the house until he retired for the evening, Darcy shuddered to think what conclusions the constable might have drawn.
As it was, Hatch had left with a stern admonishment that Darcy should not leave town, as further inquiries might yet require his cooperation.
Darcy remained in the drawing room, where he had received the constable, seated with Bingley in stoic contemplation.
“This is utterly nonsensical,” Darcy said at last, his tone tight with frustration. “Not only am I unable to leave this infernal town, but I am now considered a suspect in a murder!”
Miss Bingley, who had entered with her sister during the constable’s questioning to confirm Darcy’s alibi, scoffed with undisguised disdain. “I cannot imagine, Charles, why you chose to settle in such a place.”
“What do you mean, Caroline?” Bingley asked, his brows furrowing.
“It has been less than three weeks since our arrival, and already they are implicating Mr Darcy in a murder. What tales shall they invent if we remain three months?”
“Nonsense, Caroline,” Bingley replied. “They do not suspect him of the crime; they are merely conducting their duty. Mr Harper quarrelled with Darcy yesterday. It is only natural they would seek to question him.”
“It is unjust,” Mrs. Hurst interjected, shaking her head. “Mr Darcy sought only to avoid the man. Why could Mr Harper not let the matter rest?”
Darcy, leaning forward, his expression grim, replied, “He reeked of alcohol and presumed to jest about your sister. It may have been sport to him, but I do not engage in such coarse conversation. It is ungentlemanly.”
Miss Bingley beamed at this, evidently content with the knowledge that Mr Darcy had not only found the idea of someone jesting about her utterly abhorrent but had also deemed it worthy of confrontation.
“If only you had danced,” Bingley suggested with a sigh, “you might have avoided the whole conversation entirely—and this present dilemma.”
Darcy turned to him with a look of incredulity, as if questioning the logic of such a statement. Bingley, catching the silent reproach, sighed more heavily. Miss Bingley, who appeared to find her brother’s suggestion ludicrous, seized the moment to redirect the conversation.
“Dance with whom, precisely? Miss Elizabeth Bennet?” she exclaimed with evident disdain. “Surely, you do not expect Mr Darcy to behave as you do, Charles.”
“And what do you mean by that, Caroline?” Bingley asked, his confusion apparent.
“I mean that you are ever ready to blend into any society, regardless of its class. You fairly leapt at Miss Bennet the moment she was presented to you.”
“Presented?” Bingley echoed, perplexed.
Mrs Hurst pursed her lips in a gesture meant to command attention.
“Surely, you understand what Caroline means. Miss Bennet’s mother is clearly intent on securing a match for her daughters, and she has positioned Jane to captivate your notice.
Her sister, too, was conveniently near Mr Darcy, no doubt hoping to garner his favour.
And you, Charles, with your incessant pestering, would have enabled the scheme entirely if Mr Darcy had not set her firmly in her place. ”
At this, Bingley’s face grew serious, his easy manner stiffened by the accusation.
“You are mistaken, Caroline,” he said firmly.
“No one was placed anywhere. I noticed Miss Bennet long before Sir William Lucas introduced the family. Her beauty struck me at once, and I have since found her to be a delightful companion and dance partner, an engaging conversationalist, and most agreeable in every respect.”
Miss Bingley rolled her eyes with dramatic effect. “Oh, Charles, you have fallen entirely under her spell.”
While the siblings continued their debate on Mrs. Bennet and her daughters, Darcy remained silent, his thoughts far removed from their squabbles.
How could it be, he wondered, that a single argument—a rare lapse in his usual self-restraint—could so swiftly entangle him in suspicion?
That the man should turn up poisoned the next morning seemed a stroke of the most wretched fortune.
Were it not for his wealth and standing, Darcy could not help but wonder whether the constable might have pressed harder, perhaps even detaining him until the investigation concluded.
Darcy pondered the matter for a long while, yet no answers came to soothe his unease. Instead, he was left with the disquieting thought that, for all his self-command and careful reputation, he was not immune to the unpredictable machinations of fate.
***
With nothing pressing to occupy their time, the Bennet sisters—excluding Jane, who had discovered her courses that morning—set out for an evening walk toward Meryton market.
Chaperoned by Elizabeth, Lydia and Kitty led the way, their animated chatter punctuated by bursts of giggles as they admired a bonnet in a shop window or pointed out a dress on display at the modiste’s.
Elizabeth followed at a more leisurely pace, accompanied by Mary, who was expounding earnestly on a philosophical work she had recently read.
Elizabeth, however, paid little heed to Mary’s discourse, having already read The Rambler herself and finding her sister’s reflections less engaging than the sights and sounds of the busy street.
Her eyes roamed the scene before her, and it was then that she noticed him.
He stood a little apart, engaged in conversation with Mr Denny, an officer well-known to the Bennet family through Lydia’s frequent interactions.
The stranger, whose striking appearance immediately drew Elizabeth’s attention, was dressed in the scarlet uniform of the militia.
Though she had never seen him before, she surmised that he must be one of the officers newly arrived in Meryton, of whom Kitty and Lydia had spoken of that very morning after their return from aunt Philips.
As though sensing her gaze, the man turned, his eyes meeting hers for a brief moment. Before Elizabeth could look away, Lydia, who had just spotted Mr Denny, shrieked with excitement and waved him over.
“I didn’t see you at the assembly, Mr Denny,” Lydia exclaimed as the two officers approached. “I suspected your travels to London kept you away.”
Mr Denny bowed in greeting. “Miss Lydia, Miss Catherine,” he said, inclining his head to the party. “Indeed, I returned only two days ago, bringing with me my friend, Mr Wickham, who has recently joined us from London.”
Mr Wickham bowed gracefully, his manners as polished as his appearance. “If you were all present at the assembly, then I regret my absence all the more. What a spectacle it must have been.”
His appearance had already endeared him to Elizabeth, but his ease of speech and charming eloquence elevated her initial impression. He seemed entirely at home in their company, as though he had always belonged.
“Why did you not attend, then?” Lydia asked, her curiosity unrestrained.
“I was weary from travel,” Mr Denny explained. “And Mr Wickham had been unwell after an unfortunate encounter with some questionable fare in London.”
“Are you feeling better now?” Kitty asked, directing her question to Mr Wickham.
“Quite recovered, thank you,” he replied, a pleasant smile accompanying his words.
“And what do you think of Meryton?” Lydia inquired, as the group began walking again, the officers now joining them.
Mr Wickham lifted a brow, his expression amused. “It seems a friendly place thus far, though I have spent much of my time indoors. I daresay my opinion will improve as I grow better acquainted.”
Kitty suddenly giggled, though there was no evident cause for her amusement.
Elizabeth, puzzled, followed her sister’s gaze and immediately understood.
Riding toward them were Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy, the former with a smile that grew wider upon sighting the group, the latter as grave and impassive as Elizabeth remembered from the assembly.
When they drew near, Mr Bingley dismounted with characteristic ease and approached, reins in hand. “Miss Bennets,” he said warmly, bowing to the ladies and nodding politely to the officers. “I do not see your eldest sister in your company. Pray, where is she?”
Before Lydia could blurt something indiscreet, Elizabeth intervened smoothly. “Jane felt slightly unwell this morning and decided to rest at home.”
“Unwell?” Mr Bingley’s concern was evident. “I shall call on her later today—or tomorrow, if time does not permit.”
While he spoke, Elizabeth’s eyes wandered to Mr Darcy, who remained mounted.
His rigid posture and tense jaw betrayed his displeasure, though she soon noticed that his gaze was not fixed on the conversation but on Mr Wickham.
The latter, catching sight of Mr Darcy, froze momentarily, his confident expression faltering as a flicker of tension crossed his face.
He quickly tipped his hat in greeting, though the motion was stiff and lacked the ease Elizabeth expected.
Mr Darcy, in return, offered only the briefest nod, his cold gaze unwavering before shifting back to the horizon, leaving Wickham to swallow hard and feign composure under the weight of the exchange.
Kitty broke the tension with a question. “Where are you headed, Mr Bingley? Perhaps, if it is not far, you might return in time to call on Jane.”
Mr Bingley glanced at Mr Darcy before answering. “We are on our way to call on Sir William Lucas. There are… matters requiring immediate attention.”
“Then we must not delay you further,” Mary said with quiet firmness. “You should be on your way if you are to reach him promptly.”
Mr Bingley nodded, bowing once more. “Do convey my regards to your sister. I hope to see her soon.” He remounted, and with Mr Darcy, continued on their way.
When they had ridden out of sight, Kitty and Lydia resumed their tittering, this time directed at Mr Denny. Mary trailed behind, her thoughts evidently elsewhere, while Mr Wickham fell into step beside Elizabeth.
Elizabeth seized the opportunity to probe further at the tense exchange she’d witnessed.
“Unless I am mistaken, sir, you appear to know Mr Darcy quite well.
"Am I correct in observing that his opinion of you is as lofty as his regard for the rest of us Bennets?
For I doubt the man thinks of us with any more esteem than a bishop would for heretics. "
A shadow crossed Mr Wickham’s face, though he quickly masked it with a smile. “I know Mr Darcy well enough to confirm that he does not often concern himself with civility where it is due.”
Elizabeth raised a brow, intrigued. “What sort of man seeks to demean others simply to elevate himself?”
“That, madam, is Mr Darcy in every particular,” Wickham replied. “He cares only for his own interests and will stoop to any means to bring down those he perceives as beneath him.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened at this revelation.
What sort of man would stoop to bringing others low simply to prove a point?
Could it be that Mr Darcy’s nature was so devoid of principle that he might bring a man down in the most literal sense?
Determined to explore the unsettling implications, Elizabeth pressed on.
“I take it you have heard of the death of Mr Edwin Harper,” she began cautiously.
“The local merchant found poisoned?” Wickham replied.
“Yes,” she affirmed.
“One would have to be deaf not to have heard of his death in Meryton,” Wickham said, his tone as composed as if they spoke of the weather.
Elizabeth hesitated for a moment before lowering her voice to a near whisper. “They are saying… that Mr Darcy could have been involved. He had a scuffle with Mr Harper the day before his death.”
Mr Wickham merely shrugged, as though such a suggestion required no great stretch of imagination. “I wouldn’t put anything beyond Mr Darcy,” he replied gravely. “He would do anything—anything—to those he perceives as standing against him or beneath him in station.”
Elizabeth was both horrified and intrigued by this admission.
She longed to press him further, to uncover the source of such damning insight, but before she could do so, Mr Denny called for their departure.
Mr Wickham hesitated, a flicker of reluctance passing across his face, as though he wished to continue their conversation.
Elizabeth, too, felt a pang of disappointment, for what could be more fascinating at that moment than the history of Mr Darcy and Mr Wickham’s apparent understanding of his character?
Mr Wickham bowed deeply, his gaze lingering on Elizabeth. “I trust we shall have occasion to speak again soon, Miss Bennet,” he said, his tone carrying a subtle promise.
“I hope so,” Elizabeth replied, her curiosity far from sated.
As the gentlemen departed, Kitty and Lydia resumed their lively chatter about the newly arrived militia, their excitement undiminished.
Mary attempted once more to engage Elizabeth in a discussion about the book she had referenced earlier, but Elizabeth’s thoughts were elsewhere, entirely consumed by the conversation that had just ended.
Who was Mr Darcy? If his character was truly as vile as Mr Wickham described, could he indeed be capable of murder? And if so, what could have driven him to such an act? Surely not something as trivial as a disagreement at a ball? Or did their animosity spring from an older, deeper source?
Elizabeth had no answers to these troubling questions, yet they turned endlessly in her mind as the Bennet sisters made their way home, each step weighed down by her uneasy reflections.