Chapter 9 More Introductions
CHAPTER NINE
MORE INTRODUCTIONS
The walk to Meryton proved interesting, to say the least. Kitty and Lydia darted ahead of the rest, chattering and laughing, their high spirits unchecked.
Each time Mr Collins called them back, they obeyed with audible sighs, exchanging looks of annoyance and lingering just long enough to satisfy him before springing forwards again the moment he lagged behind.
Elizabeth and Mary, meanwhile, clung steadfastly to one another, their arms firmly linked.
They had resolved not to be separated, and Mr Collins’s efforts to insert himself between them were thwarted at every turn.
Undeterred, he stationed himself first on Elizabeth’s side, then on Mary’s, bestowing the same tedious speeches on each as if either sister would do equally well as his future partner.
For her part, Elizabeth bore it with outward composure; inwardly she was half-amused, half-irritated at the absurdity of a man who considered the sisters nearly interchangeable.
His pompous attempts at gallantry were so overblown that she could hardly suppress her laughter, even as she pitied Mary for enduring his solemn platitudes.
At least she knew she was safe, having very nearly decided in favour of Mr Darcy, but Mary’s future was still less certain.
Despite Mr Collins’ claims of being accustomed to long walks, the mile into Meryton seemed almost beyond his strength.
He insisted on halting their progress frequently, obliging the whole party to pause while he mopped his brow and delivered fresh lectures on the virtues of moderation.
What should have been a light, cheerful outing was transformed into an exercise in endurance, most trying to the younger girls, whose impatience made them chafe at every delay.
Elizabeth could not help reflecting that the walk itself might prove more comic entertainment than the errand awaiting them in Meryton.
When the village was finally in sight, Kitty and Lydia hurried ahead, having spied one of the officers they had met on the street. By the time the others reached them, they were deep in conversation with three officers, who stood there with one man in civilian clothes.
“Cousin Catherine, Cousin Lydia,” Mr Collins called out in tones of lofty disapproval for their forward behaviour, “you ought to have waited for me and not presumed to accost these gentlemen without the proper decorum of a chaperon. Such impropriety reflects poorly upon young ladies of breeding. Pray, introduce me at once.”
“La, Mr Collins, do not be so stuffy,” cried Lydia with a toss of her head and a laugh.
“In Meryton we do not trouble ourselves with such nonsense as chaperones. This is Captain Carter, with Lieutenants Denny and Sanderson, and that gentleman is Mr Wickham—he arrived from London only today, having purchased a commission in the militia. Gentlemen, this is my father’s cousin, Mr William Collins, and my sisters Lizzy and Mary. ”
“Lydia,” Elizabeth murmured, striving to recall her sister to some semblance of manners.
She had been startled at the name Wickham, wondering if it were common or merely coincidence that Darcy’s former friend bore the same.
The casual manner of its introduction struck her as odd and entirely improper.
“Oh, forgive me,” Lydia giggled, quite unrepentant. “These are my sisters, Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Miss Mary Bennet. It is all very silly to bother with such ceremony in Meryton, Lizzy, but I suppose it must be done.”
“It must,” Elizabeth replied firmly. “It is very nice to meet you, gentlemen, but we must be off. We have several errands to complete, and our mother asked us to call on her sister before we return home for luncheon. We must not be late. Come, sisters.”
She attempted to guide her sisters towards the shops, but Lydia tossed her head. “You go, Lizzy—we shall remain here.”
“No,” Elizabeth said sharply. Then, glancing at Mr Wickham, she noticed the colour had drained from his face. His eyes were fixed on some distant point, and when she followed his gaze, she saw Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley approaching the group on horseback.
Because she faced them, Elizabeth caught the instant Darcy recognised Wickham. Where Wickham had blanched, Darcy flushed, his features hardening with unmistakable anger. She understood at once—his earlier confession had already revealed their history—and a wave of sympathy swept through her.
Almost without conscious thought, Elizabeth moved closer to Darcy, instinctively widening the distance between herself and Wickham.
The choice felt natural, inevitable, for her heart was no longer divided by doubt.
Although their courtship remained a secret from all but her father, she felt its strength in that moment: her trust, her loyalty, her quiet resolve to stand beside him.
If she could, she would have borne the pain of his former friend’s betrayal herself; since she could not, she would at least ease his burden by standing near.
Darcy’s face betrayed the storm within. His eyes, fixed on Wickham, blazed with indignation, and his jaw tightened as though he restrained the condemnation that leapt to his lips.
His posture rigid, he swung down from the saddle so abruptly that Bingley scarcely caught the reins flung towards him in passing.
As Darcy strode forward, the harshness in his expression softened the instant he caught sight of Elizabeth. For the briefest moment, his gaze flicked to the space she had left between herself and Wickham; a glimmer of recognition—and gratitude—lit his eyes.
“Are you well?” he asked in a low, hurried whisper, his voice taut with concern, pitched for her ears alone.
“I am,” she returned gently as she took his offered arm, her quiet assurance easing some of the tension in his countenance. She offered him a look full of steady warmth, silently conveying her solidarity.
Together they turned to the others, but already Wickham was withdrawing.
His face still pale, he muttered a hasty excuse and slipped away down the street, his retreat as sudden as his arrival.
Lydia’s wistful eyes followed him until he vanished from view, her sigh betraying her disappointment of losing the attention of the handsome man.
By this time, Bingley had secured both horses to a nearby post and rejoined the party with his customary geniality.
He greeted the Bennet sisters and the officers he already knew with unfeigned cheer before turning, curiosity alight, to request an introduction to the unfamiliar gentleman in clerical attire.
The introduction was quickly performed though the officers, surprised to discover Wickham no longer in their company, made their excuses and departed.
“How is Miss Bennet this morning?” Bingley asked, glancing about as though expecting her to appear at any moment.
“She remained at home resting, Mr Bingley,” Mary answered quickly though her eyes lingered on Elizabeth with curiosity. She alone had noticed the quiet exchange between her sister and Mr Darcy, and it puzzled her.
“Yes,” Elizabeth interposed smoothly, moving herself and Mr Darcy so they might join in the conversation.
“Jane did not feel well enough to venture into Meryton today; however, I believe she will be quite restored in another day or two. If you wished to call, I am certain she would be pleased to receive you. For now, if you are content to join our party, we have a few errands to complete in the village before returning home—or you may ride on towards Longbourn as you please.”
“It was our intent to call at Longbourn,” Bingley admitted warmly, sending a meaningful look towards Darcy, who lingered near Elizabeth in unusual quiet. “Darcy, will you accompany the ladies through the village shops or ride on with me?”
Darcy’s eyes flicked to Elizabeth, and in a low, urgent whisper meant for her alone, he asked, “What is Wickham doing in Meryton?”
“He has apparently joined the militia,” she replied in the same hushed tone.
Darcy’s countenance hardened. Straightening, he turned to his friend. “Bingley, I must pay a call upon Colonel Forster. Ladies, how long do you expect your errands will take?”
Mary glanced uncertainly at Elizabeth before replying, “Perhaps an hour? We must stop at several shops and then call upon our Aunt Philips—just there,” she said, gesturing to the office across the street from where they stood.
“On our way home, we will call at the rectory to issue an invitation for this Sunday.”
“Very well,” Darcy said crisply. “Bingley, if you would remain with the ladies, I shall meet you all at the Philips’ when my tasks are complete. Then I will help you escort all the ladies home.”
Bingley nodded, perfectly content, while Elizabeth marvelled at how quickly her secret suitor’s composure had shifted from tender concern to grim determination.
“Is your name Mr Darcy?” Mr Collins asked, having struggled to keep up with what was happening.
He had been able to deduce that Mr Bingley was interested in his Cousin Jane, but he was less certain of what was transpiring between his Cousin Elizabeth and the man who had yet to be introduced. “Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
“Yes,” that man said, drawing himself up haughtily. He turned to look at Elizabeth in question.
“Forgive me, Mr Darcy. This is my father’s cousin, Mr William Collins, rector to Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” Elizabeth said, recalling how differently that lady had been described by her nephew and now by her parson.
“Mr Collins, as you supposed, this is Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, who is visiting his friend, Mr Bingley, at Netherfield Park.”
“How delightful to meet the nephew of my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” Mr Collins exclaimed, bowing with exaggerated reverence. “Her ladyship often speaks—”