THIRTEEN
Meryton
Elizabeth
It finally stopped raining on Monday, though the grounds remained too sodden to venture anywhere of consequence.
By Tuesday the sun had done sufficient work to make the lanes passable, and Mr. Collins, who had spent the better part of four days indoors making his presence felt in every room of Longbourn, announced at breakfast that he considered it high time to see something of the village.
Mrs. Bennet, entirely committed to the project of satisfying the heir of Longbourn, encouraged her daughters to accompany him.
Jane was indisposed and remained at home.
Elizabeth would have stayed behind as well, she had endured three days of Mr. Collins's company and felt she had acquitted herself admirably, but the prospect of fresh air after so long indoors proved stronger than her reluctance.
Mr. Collins had shown no particular inclination to seek her out since the second afternoon of his visit, and she reasoned he would spend the walk in Mary's company in any case, which left her free to enjoy the morning in relative peace.
She was not wrong. Kitty and Lydia had darted ahead before they reached the gate, while Mr. Collins had secured Mary's company and was already discoursing at length on the proper conduct of ladies during parish disputes.
Mary listened with admirable seriousness, though whether from interest or perseverance was difficult to determine.
Elizabeth walked some yards behind them, enjoying the rare luxury of fresh air and freedom from conversation. After several days confined indoors with Mr. Collins, she found both equally restorative.
They were perhaps halfway to their Aunt Philips's house when Lydia's voice reached her from some distance ahead.
"Mr. Denny! Mr. Denny, here!"
Elizabeth looked in her direction. Lydia was calling at the top of her voice and waving with characteristic abandon at two officers crossing the street towards them. Kitty had already hurried forward to join her.
Elizabeth quickened her pace slightly to see what had occasioned the excitement.
One of the officers she recognised as Mr. Denny, a young man of pleasant enough manners who she had seen at balls once or twice with the usual militia party.
The other she did not know. He was tall, fair-haired, and possessed of the kind of easy, open countenance that presented itself well at a first glance.
"Who is that with Mr. Denny?" Elizabeth asked as she reached Kitty's side.
"That," Kitty said, with evident satisfaction on her face, "is Mr. Wickham. He is one of the newest officers in Meryton and quite one of the most handsome in the regiment. Everyone says so."
The two men soon crossed the road to meet the group.
Mr. Denny made the introductions. Mr. Wickham bowed with a grace that suggested he had done it many times and found it no effort at all.
He smiled at the party generally and settled into easy conversation with the group.
Lydia and Kitty immediately claimed Mr. Denny, informing him that they were on their way to their Aunt Philips's after visiting the market.
The two officers offered to accompany the ladies and their cousin.
The two youngest sisters walked ahead with Mr. Denny.
Mr. Collins, who contributed little beyond observations on Lady Catherine de Bourgh's opinions regarding the militia and the ongoing war, remained beside Mary.
Elizabeth soon found herself walking beside Mr. Wickham more by circumstance than design. He walked to her left.
Curious as to how she had never encountered him before, particularly when Kitty and Lydia appeared already well acquainted with him—in fairness, they contrived to become acquainted with every militia officer, whether in life or in print—Elizabeth initiated a conversation.
"You have not been in Hertfordshire long?" she asked.
"Less than a month," he said pleasantly. "We came the day after the Meryton assembly. Denny told me I missed a great deal."
"He was not wrong," Elizabeth smiled. "The neighbourhood considers a good assembly a considerable event."
"And do you?" Wickham asked.
"I find them useful," she replied. "One learns a great deal about people in a crowded room."
Wickham smiled and shook his head in agreement.
"That has been my experience also. Though I confess I had heard something of Hertfordshire before I came. I spent a summer at Luton not far from here as a boy and have always thought well of Hertfordshire."
"Then you are already half acquainted with us," Elizabeth said. "That puts you at a considerable advantage over most new arrivals."
"I am not sure about that," he confessed. "Meryton appears to have formed very decided opinions about its new arrivals already."
Hearing this, Elizabeth's thoughts drifted to the Meryton assembly.
The crowded room, the musicians, and the various new arrivals.
Then came the memory of Darcy himself, particularly the moment she had repeated his words to Mr. Bingley and watched his expression shift from indifference to shock across a candlelit room.
The recollection brought with it a warmth she had not quite expected. Elizabeth did not realise she was smiling until she heard Wickham gasp softly.
At once she composed her features, hoping he would not suppose she was laughing at something he had said, and turned towards him.
He was not looking at her.
She followed his gaze.
In the distance, Darcy was riding through the high street at a steady pace. Forgetting entirely why she had turned in the first place, Elizabeth stepped forward instinctively and raised a hand to catch his attention.
He saw her. She was certain of it. His eyes found her face.
His expression was harder than anything Elizabeth had ever seen upon it. Not displeasure. Not reserve. Something colder. Something sharper.
Anger.
His gaze moved from her to Wickham and lingered there.
He did not stop. He did not slow. His eyes remained fixed upon Wickham for a moment longer before he looked away entirely and rode on. He neither bowed nor acknowledged her greeting.
Elizabeth lowered her hand slowly.
What on earth had just happened?
What had she done to Mr. Darcy to earn such rudeness?
She turned back to Wickham. His colour had gone. He was watching Darcy's retreating figure with undisguised alarm, as though the encounter had overturned some expectation of his own.
"Mr. Wickham?" she called gently.
He turned back, recovering himself.
"Forgive me." He managed a weak smile before turning to Denny. "I have just remembered something of great importance. I cannot escort the ladies any further, I need to attend to a matter rather urgently."
He smiled at Elizabeth with every appearance of ease.
"Miss Bennet, it has been a pleasure. Denny, I shall find you later."
He turned in the direction from which they had met the gentlemen and hurried away before Denny had time to reply.
Elizabeth watched him go. Then she looked back down the high street in the direction Darcy had ridden.
She stood with it for a moment.
Then it struck her.
Whatever had just happened had nothing to do with her.
The two men knew one another. That much was plain. Whatever else it was, it was not a friendly acquaintance.
She filed the observation away and hurried to rejoin her sisters, who were already demanding to know why Mr. Darcy had not stopped to speak to them.
Elizabeth had no answer to offer.
? ? ?
Netherfield
Darcy
He had ridden out that morning for no particular reason beyond the need for open air after days of confinement indoors. The grounds of Netherfield had sufficed for a time, but he had wanted distance and had taken the Meryton road without giving the matter much thought.
He was thinking a great deal now.
The sight Darcy had just witnessed would not leave him.
Elizabeth, smiling. That particular smile, the genuine one, the one she did not bestow upon general company. Standing beside George Wickham in the middle of Meryton High Street as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
He urged his horse into a faster pace.
So Colonel Forster's George Wickham was indeed the same George Wickham he knew.
How long had he been in Meryton? How long had he and Elizabeth been acquainted? Had Wickham sought her out deliberately, or had the meeting been accidental?
Darcy did not know.
The questions arrived more quickly than he could answer them, and each was more unwelcome than the last.
He thought of Mrs. Younge. Of how thoroughly she had deceived him.
Of how completely he had trusted her with Georgiana, how carefully he had selected her, how certain he had been of her respectability.
He had been mistaken in every particular, and by the time he understood the truth, Wickham had vanished and the damage had already been done.
And now here was Elizabeth Bennet, smiling at George Wickham in a Hertfordshire Street.
He had trusted her.
He had trusted her easy confidence, her warmth, and that particular quality of attention which seemed to make every person she spoke to feel heard.
He had placed Georgiana in her company and assured himself it was solely for his sister's benefit.
He had walked with her just four days earlier and told her he admired her, and had meant every word.
He had been on the verge of courting her.
He had admitted as much to Georgiana.
Had Wickham engineered it?
The thought arrived cold and clear and settled in his chest like a stone.
Wickham knew about Lady Anne. He knew the effect a hard-of-hearing woman's example would have upon a man carrying Darcy's particular history. He knew Darcy would be drawn to a woman who navigated the world with such composure, such intelligence, and such confidence.
Had Wickham placed Elizabeth deliberately in his path?