Chapter Five
The next day
“Lizzy, do stop fiddling with your hair!” Mrs Bennet called from the foot of the stairs, her voice carrying the particular note of exasperation she reserved for occasions when her daughters threatened to make her late for social engagements.
“Your Aunt Phillips expects us within the quarter-hour, and you know how she detests tardiness.”
Elizabeth gave her reflection one final glance, noting with satisfaction that her second-best dress would serve adequately for an evening at her aunt’s modest dinner party.
The prospect of Mrs Phillips’s gatherings typically promised little beyond lukewarm tea, indifferent conversation, and her aunt’s endless fascination with neighbourhood gossip.
Tonight, however, carried the additional entertainment of meeting the officers recently stationed in Meryton—a development that had sent Lydia and Kitty into paroxysms of excitement.
“Coming, Mama!” Elizabeth called, gathering her shawl and reticule before hurrying downstairs to join her family’s expedition.
The walk to Mrs Phillips’s house proved mercifully brief, though the September evening carried a bite that made Elizabeth grateful for her wool pelisse.
Lydia chattered incessantly about the uniforms they might observe, while Kitty speculated about which officers might prove most handsome.
Even Mary seemed animated by the prospect of new company, though she maintained her usual air of moral superiority regarding her sisters’ frivolous interests.
Mrs Phillips greeted them with characteristic effusiveness, her round face glowing with the satisfaction of a hostess who had secured interesting guests. “My dear nieces! How delightful you look this evening. Come, you must meet the gentlemen—such charming additions to our little society.”
The drawing room buzzed with conversation as the Bennet ladies were introduced to their fellow guests.
Several officers in their scarlet regimentals dominated the space, their presence lending an undeniable air of excitement to what would otherwise have been another predictable evening of cards and local news.
“Miss Bennet,” Mrs Phillips said, guiding Elizabeth towards a particularly distinguished figure near the fireplace, “permit me to introduce Mr Wickham. He has recently joined the regiment and comes most highly recommended.”
Elizabeth’s first impression proved entirely favourable.
Mr Wickham possessed exactly the sort of address that recommended itself immediately—his bow was perfectly calculated, his smile sufficiently warm, and his countenance bore an openness that suggested both intelligence and good humour.
His dark hair was fashionably arranged, his uniform impeccable, and his manner struck precisely the right balance between respectful formality and engaging friendliness.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice holding just the slightest hint of admiration that was flattering without being presumptuous, “your aunt speaks of you with such affection. I confess myself eager to make the acquaintance of one so highly praised.”
“You are very kind, sir,” Elizabeth replied, immediately at ease with his pleasant manner. “I hope you are settling comfortably into our quiet corner of Hertfordshire?”
“Indeed, though I must admit the countryside here holds particular significance for me beyond its obvious charms.” His eyes held hers with earnest sincerity. “You see, I have long-standing connections to this area that make my current assignment something of a homecoming.”
Before Elizabeth could enquire further, Mrs Phillips bustled over with her usual determination to facilitate conversation among her guests. “Mr Wickham, you must tell Miss Bennet about your fascinating history with the great families hereabouts. Such interesting stories!”
Mr Wickham’s face grew thoughtful, though Elizabeth detected a shadow that passed quickly across his features. “Ah yes, my connections to a certain visiting gentleman. It is a complicated history, I fear, though one that shaped my early years considerably.”
Intrigued despite herself, Elizabeth encouraged him to continue. The other discussions in the room seemed to fade as Mr Wickham settled into what was clearly a well-rehearsed narrative, though delivered with such apparent reluctance that she could not doubt its authenticity.
“My father served as steward to the late Mr Darcy of Pemberley,” he began, his tone heavy with nostalgia when speaking of the elder gentleman.
“A finer man never lived, Miss Bennet. He treated me as his own son, provided for my education alongside his own children, and promised me a comfortable living upon taking orders.”
Elizabeth felt a flutter of recognition at the name, though her expression betrayed nothing. “You knew the Darcy family well, then?”
“Intimately. Young Fitzwilliam—Mr Darcy as he is now—and I were raised as brothers, educated together, shared the same tutors and advantages.” Here his mien darkened perceptibly. “At least, until his true nature revealed itself upon his father’s death.”
The bitterness in his voice seemed genuine, and Elizabeth leaned forward despite herself. “What do you mean?”
Mr Wickham glanced around the room as if ensuring their conversation remained private, then continued in lower tones.
“The living his father promised me—indeed, bequeathed to me in his will—was denied by young Darcy the moment he assumed control of the estate. Three years of preparation for the church, years of study and dedication, all swept aside by a man who decided my father’s faithful service merited no consideration whatever. ”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Such callous disregard for a father’s wishes, for a servant’s loyal service, spoke to a character of shocking pride and heartlessness. “But surely there must have been legal recourse? A will properly witnessed—”
“Ah, but you see the cleverness of it,” Mr Wickham replied with a rueful smile that somehow made his obvious pain more affecting.
“The language was carefully crafted to give young Darcy discretion over the timing and conditions. Technically, he broke no law while utterly violating his father’s clear intentions. ”
The injustice of it stirred Elizabeth’s deepest sympathies. She had observed Mr Darcy’s proud, disagreeable nature herself, but to learn he was capable of such calculated cruelty towards one who had been raised as family struck her with immense horror.
“I am so sorry,” she said softly. “Such treatment is unconscionable.”
“You are kind to say so, though I fear Mr Darcy’s disposition has only grown more disagreeable with time and unchecked authority.” Mr Wickham’s expression grew troubled. “Indeed, it grieves me to observe how his nature affects those under his care.”
Something in his tone made Elizabeth’s pulse quicken. “Those under his care?”
“The child, Miss Bennet. Young Ambrose.” Mr Wickham’s voice carried pure concern. “I happened to observe you in town yesterday with the boy, along with Miss Darcy and your sister. It struck me how the boy responded to your kindness—quite differently than I have observed in his guardian’s presence.”
Elizabeth felt a wave of heat rise in her cheeks. She had indeed realised their party was being observed closely, and something about Mr Wickham’s attention to their movements unsettled her despite his apparent good intentions.
“Ambrose is a delightful child,” she replied.
“Indeed, he is, which makes his circumstances all the more tragic.” Mr Wickham leaned closer, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper.
“Miss Bennet, I fear I must speak plainly, though it pains me to burden you with such knowledge. Mr Darcy is utterly unsuited to raising a young child. The boy’s care falls entirely to his sister, and with Miss Darcy soon departing for London society… ”
He did not need to complete the thought. Elizabeth’s mind immediately conjured images of poor Ambrose left to the cold supervision of Miss Francesca, deprived of the tenderness and affection she had witnessed him craving so desperately.
“But surely Mr Darcy would not neglect—”
“Would he not?” Mr Wickham’s interruption was gentle but firm.
“Consider what you know of his nature, Miss Bennet. Have you observed warmth, compassion, and natural affection? The man who could deny a childhood companion his promised living, who carries himself with such insufferable pride—what care can such a person offer a child who requires love above all else?”
Elizabeth’s throat constricted as his words struck home. She recalled her own observations of Mr Darcy’s cold formality, his dismissive treatment of her concerns about being watched in town, and his apparent indifference to matters that did not directly serve his consequence.
“I have seen little evidence of warmth in his character,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Precisely. And when Miss Darcy departs—as she must, for her own future depends upon making a proper match in London—that sweet child will be left entirely to the devices of a man who views him as nothing more than an inconvenient obligation.”
The picture Mr Wickham painted was devastating in its plausibility. Elizabeth thought of Ambrose’s eager affection, his natural tendency for approval and kindness, his joy in simple pleasures. To imagine such a spirit crushed by neglect and indifference was almost unbearable.
The walk home passed in relative silence, though not for lack of effort on her family’s part.
Lydia made several attempts to draw Elizabeth into discussions about Lieutenant Denny’s remarkable handsomeness, while Kitty sought her opinion on which officers might prove the most agreeable dancing partners at future assemblies.
“Lizzy, did you not think Mr Wickham exceedingly gentlemanlike?” Jane asked, linking arms with her sister. “His manners appeared most pleasing.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth replied absently, her thoughts still churning with his revelations.
Mrs Bennet, never one to miss an opportunity for matrimonial speculation, seized upon this opening. “Such a fine figure of a man! And an officer too—there is nothing like a uniform to set off a gentleman’s advantages. Elizabeth, you seemed quite taken with his conversation.”
“He spoke very sensibly,” Elizabeth managed, though her tone lacked its usual animation.
Mary, observing her sister’s distraction, made her own attempt at engagement. “I confess myself impressed by his serious demeanour. So many young men lack proper gravity of character.”
When Elizabeth merely nodded without elaboration, her family gradually resigned themselves to her obvious preoccupation.
The remainder of their journey continued with only sporadic discussion, her sisters’ initial excitement about the evening gradually giving way to respectful silence as they recognised her need for solitude.
Mr Wickham’s revelations had shattered her perception of the Darcy household, replacing it with deep unease about Ambrose’s future welfare.
If even half of what she had heard tonight was true, that sweet child faced a bleak prospect indeed.
The thought of his bright enthusiasm dimmed by harshness and emotional isolation was almost too painful to contemplate.
Yet questions nagged at her consciousness as she prepared for bed.
Why had Mr Wickham been watching their party so closely in town?
What precisely did he hope to accomplish by sharing such intimate details with a virtual stranger?
And why did his concern for Ambrose seem so particularly urgent when he had no apparent connection to the child beyond his past association with the Darcys?
As Elizabeth finally sought her pillow, one image haunted her thoughts: Ambrose’s trusting blue eyes, so full of hope and affection, and the devastating possibility that such innocence might be crushed by the very person sworn to protect it.
The questions would have to wait for morning, but sleep brought no relief from the weight of knowledge she now carried—or from the growing conviction that somehow, she would need to find a way to help that precious child, regardless of the personal cost.