Chapter 14
ELIZABETH AND MARY walked through Meryton, the crush of afternoon trade hemming them between two lines of shopfronts.
The sound of boots on pavement, the clipped exchange of shopkeepers and their boys, and the calls of hawkers and errand girls made for lively confusion.
The militia, in full uniform, provided a show of color outside the inn and near the windows of the coffeehouse.
Every few yards, the sisters were obliged to sidestep a cluster of officers or weave past housemaids balancing baskets on their arms.
Mary, intent on observing the best methods of parcel-wrapping and change-counting, let Elizabeth set the pace.
Elizabeth watched everything at once: the peacock display of officers as they preened and admired themselves in the glass, the harried dignity of tradesmen minding both shop and street, the constant relay of news and invention as it ran up and down the road.
They moved with enough leisure to see who talked to whom, who avoided whom, and how each person managed the business of being seen in Meryton on a bright market day.
Across the street, Darcy stood with Bingley outside a bookseller’s window.
The two men were too well turned out for anyone to mistake them for residents, though Bingley looked as though he belonged there and Darcy as though he was there to inspect the place.
The elderly shopkeeper bent toward them as he spoke, and Bingley’s laugh carried above the noise.
Darcy nodded but otherwise remained still.
Elizabeth nudged Mary and nodded toward the pair. “I wonder what they are discussing.”
“Not books, I think,” Mary said. “Neither of them has entered the shop.”
Elizabeth smiled. “It may be a matter of binding or price.”
“Or gossip,” Mary said. “That is the true currency of Meryton.”
Elizabeth had no chance to reply, as two officers debating the merits of a local cheese as though the question were of national importance blocked their path.
One stepped aside and bowed, his red jacket catching the sun.
Mary ignored him, but Elizabeth returned a nod, observing the set of his mouth and the careful arrangement of his hair.
As they reached the milliner’s, Elizabeth paused at the window, more for cover than from any interest in the hats displayed.
When she looked across the street again, Darcy stood as before, though he now addressed Bingley with an intensity that suggested real purpose.
Bingley had his hands in his coat pockets and his gaze on the ground, listening with unusual seriousness. “Now that is unexpected.”
Mary studied them. “Mr. Bingley looks as if he has received news, and Mr. Darcy is delivering a sermon.”
The reason appeared at once, as the shopkeeper emerged from the doorway, leaving the two men behind. He bustled toward the next shop, brushing past Elizabeth and Mary with a mumbled apology, and walked as though he had just secured an advantage.
Bingley’s mood lightened as soon as the shopkeeper was out of hearing. Darcy spoke a final sentence, then turned away from the window, his eyes sweeping the street. For an instant, Elizabeth thought he had seen her, but he showed no reaction and addressed Bingley instead.
“They look as if they are expecting someone,” Mary said.
Elizabeth stepped away from the milliner’s. “Perhaps they are bored and seeking an acquaintance. Or perhaps they are deciding whether to risk a second hour in town.”
Mary stopped, forcing Elizabeth to stop with her. “Mr. Darcy is angry, not bored.”
Elizabeth regarded the pair again, but Bingley was smiling and gesturing at something across the street, while Darcy’s face was unreadable at this distance. Before she could answer, a familiar figure entered the street.
Wickham, in full regimentals, advanced along the walk, a pair of junior officers trailing behind.
He was the picture of confidence, waving to a shopkeeper, bowing to a lady and her daughter, and exchanging a word with a shop boy outside the stores.
Wherever he went, he left a small wake of attention; the officers behind him laughed at his jokes, and a cluster of girls at the steps of the bakery whispered his name before he was halfway there.
Elizabeth and Mary stood silent. Every face seemed turned toward him, and every shopkeeper ready to step out with a greeting.
He reached a fruit seller, exchanged a loud jest with her, and paused to toss a penny into the lap of a child perched on a step.
The crowd parted for him, and in another minute he stood across from Darcy and Bingley.
Wickham saw them, hesitated not at all, and crossed the street in three easy strides.
Darcy, whose body had tensed at Wickham’s approach, stepped forward to meet him with the manner of a host forced to greet an unwelcome guest. The two men bowed for the benefit of those watching.
Elizabeth watched with attention sharpened by her memory of Wickham’s remarks the night before, and of Darcy’s earlier insult. She expected coldness, and Darcy provided it: he said nothing, let Wickham open the conversation, and kept his hands at his sides.
Wickham’s tone, however, was all warmth and old friendship. He spoke as one who has not seen a friend in years and wishes to believe the best of him. Several people nearby slowed to watch the exchange, drawn by the sight of two such striking men in one place, or a sense that drama was imminent.
The first remarks were civil and audible, and Elizabeth could make out only the words “Mr. Darcy,” “fortunate,” and “never expected.” Darcy’s reply was brief, his voice lower. Bingley excused himself to speak to a passing acquaintance, leaving the two alone.
Wickham lowered his voice, but his face was expressive enough for the nearest onlookers. He laughed with easy good humor, and said something that caused Darcy’s lips to press tighter.
Mary, who had shifted position to keep both men in sight, leaned toward Elizabeth. “Mr. Wickham wants witnesses,” she said. “He could have passed by, but he chose the moment when the street is most crowded.”
Elizabeth thought this unlikely, but Wickham’s smile caught her interest. It never altered, not even when Darcy said something that would have stopped a less confident man.
A shop boy with a basket called out to Wickham, who replied with “Good morning, James,” and a wink, then returned to his conversation without missing a beat. His manner did not change, even as Darcy’s grew more rigid.
Wickham, in a voice clear enough for half the street, said, “I hope we can find our way to comfort here, Mr. Darcy, despite our history. Hertfordshire is a generous county, where one can always count on the kindness of strangers.” The words were a compliment, but something in the tone or timing gave them an edge.
Darcy answered, “I advise you not to mistake easy credit for friendship.” His voice was even, but the words carried.
Wickham nodded, his smile a bit wider. “I have always found friendship easier among those with less pride.” He said it for the benefit of those nearest, and a passing woman gave a little gasp of delight at the subtlety of the insult.
Elizabeth sided with Wickham. Darcy’s behavior was as she expected: stiff and self-important. Wickham was the soul of composure, unflappable, almost magnanimous.
Mary, who continued to watch the two men as if observing a natural experiment, noticed that Wickham’s smile never left his face, but his eyes searched the crowd after each sentence, as if counting his witnesses.
The conversation continued in a low voice for another minute, then ended with a curt bow from Darcy, who turned and crossed the street without looking back. To Elizabeth, it looked like a retreat.
Wickham lingered a moment, then greeted the tradesman who had spoken with Darcy. They exchanged words that made the man laugh, and in a moment, Wickham had gathered a small following of admirers, both male and female. Whatever his story, his audience received it well.
Mary and Elizabeth walked on, silent until the next turning. Elizabeth glanced back once, catching the last sight of Darcy as he turned down a side street.
“Some men do not need to speak much to make their character plain,” Elizabeth said.
Mary replied, “Some men say only what everyone wishes to hear, and make themselves more agreeable.”
Elizabeth gave her a look that was half amused and half dismissive.
Wickham watched Darcy’s retreat until he turned the corner, then turned back to the street as if nothing serious had transpired.
In less than a minute, he greeted two women outside a stationer’s and resumed the pleasant manner of a man at home in his neighborhood.
If anyone noticed the tension of the previous exchange, they blamed it on Darcy, whose reserve had become a local joke.
Elizabeth followed Mary past a cluster of market stalls, their progress slowed by an argument between a delivery boy and a housemaid over the fate of a crushed pastry.
Mary waited with the patience of a judge while Wickham moved from one acquaintance to another.
He accepted a compliment on his uniform from a milliner’s assistant, bowed to the tradesman’s wife whose basket he filled with oranges, and joined a pair of elderly gentlemen whose high-voiced laughter carried across the street.
“He is quick to recover,” Mary said.
Elizabeth’s attention returned to Darcy, whom she glimpsed again through a break in the crowd. He moved with speed but not disorder, as if determined to put a mile between himself and the town before anyone drew him into further company. She wondered how a man sustained such constant displeasure.
She said as much to Mary, who replied, “Perhaps he wishes to avoid a scene.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Then he should not provoke one.”
Wickham finished his conversation with the old gentlemen and made his way toward the sisters, pausing once to offer his arm to a child who had tripped over a loose paving stone. The little girl righted herself, accepted the rescue as her due, and ran off without thanks.
“Do you think he means to join us?” Mary asked, though the answer was clear.
Elizabeth said, “He is too good-natured to let a cold greeting ruin his day.”
Wickham caught up to them at the crossing and bowed. “I hope my unfortunate meeting with Mr. Darcy did not spoil your walk. I regret that the memory of old acquaintance sometimes makes even the most charming place less agreeable.”
Elizabeth assured him it had not disturbed her. “I have seen few meetings that were less gracious.”
Wickham smiled at the defense, as if he took no pride in it. “Mr. Darcy was always the superior. He bears it without effort, which is a talent in itself.”
“You were once friends?”
Wickham hesitated, then said, “We were boys together, and his father was very kind to me. I owe more to the memory of that kindness than I can repay, and so I say nothing that would reflect on Mr. Darcy’s character, except what is clear to all.”
Elizabeth, her judgment confirmed, replied, “He does not make it easy to admire him. It is a wonder he makes friends at all.”
“Mr. Darcy is particular in his affections,” Wickham said. “He is constant to his friends, and his dislikes as well.”
“If you are uncomfortable meeting him, why did you cross the street to speak to him?” Mary asked.
Wickham’s expression did not change, but the delay in his answer was noticeable. “Old regard sometimes overcomes better judgment. I cannot pass without acknowledging my past, for better or worse. It is a failing, I suppose.”
“Not always,” Mary said.
Wickham turned to Elizabeth. “Has the militia improved Meryton, or just made it louder?”
“My youngest sisters think of nothing else, and even my mother finds the red jackets an improvement on the usual company.”
Wickham smiled. “Then we have made ourselves useful after all. I feared Meryton might tire of us before the month was out.”
Elizabeth laughed. “We have survived worse. If Lydia keeps out of mischief, we may survive the militia as well.”
Wickham laughed. “Miss Lydia does not strike me as a woman easy to govern.”
“She is not.”
“And you?”
“I have never needed any.”
“I suspected as much.”
Elizabeth felt the compliment before she understood it.
Wickham turned the conversation to the regiment.
“One of our lieutenants dined with General Harcourt last week,” he said. “He arrived late, saw a handsome young woman standing near the fire, and concluded she must be the general’s daughter. He spent half the evening praising military life, his prospects, and, I believe, his horse.”
“And she was not the daughter?” Elizabeth asked.
“The curate’s wife. He discovered his mistake when the curate came to collect her. By then he had offered to show her the regiment’s new colors and hinted that a lieutenant’s pay was not his only expectation.”
Elizabeth smiled. “How did she answer him?”
“She said she hoped his expectations included learning the names of married women before attempting to impress them.”
Mary studied him. “You must be careful whom you trust. It is easy to mistake one character for another.”
Wickham regarded her with a respect that seemed genuine. “I take your meaning, Miss Bennet. I have lived long enough to know that no one is always what he appears, least of all myself.”
They reached the square’s edge, where the market thinned and the road turned toward Longbourn.
Wickham bowed, preparing to take his leave. “It was a pleasure to walk with you. I hope my company was not an imposition.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “You made the afternoon more than tolerable.”
Mary said, “It is always interesting to see former friends meet.”
Wickham did not smile, but he dipped his head. “You remind me of my better nature, Miss Mary. I hope to see you both again soon.”
He bowed and turned back toward the regiment. Elizabeth and Mary resumed their walk, neither speaking until they had gone some distance.
Elizabeth said, “He has all the composure Mr. Darcy lacks, and twice the wit. I cannot see how anyone prefers the one to the other.”
Mary, who had been thinking, said, “It is possible to be both amiable and insincere.”
Elizabeth answered, “You are determined to find fault with everyone.”
“No, only to keep in mind that not all cleverness is for good,” Mary said.
Elizabeth smiled, not offended. “You sound like a sermon.”
Mary shrugged. “I prefer a sermon to a mistake one cannot correct.”
Elizabeth laughed, and their talk moved to new subjects.
The market square grew quieter as the afternoon passed. By the time they reached the last turning, the encounter on the street was already gossip in half the shops.