Chapter 9
A Gentleman Called Wilson
The return to Longbourn restored its customary rhythms with surprising speed, though beneath the familiar comforts of home Elizabeth remained aware of a subtle disruption she could not entirely dismiss.
Jane’s illness naturally occupied much of the household’s attention.
Mrs. Bennet moved through the day with her usual composed efficiency, directing servants, checking on draughts and broth, and ensuring that Jane received every comfort likely to hasten her recovery.
Mrs. Hill maintained a determined watch near the sickroom.
Mary had already selected several improving passages to read aloud should Jane’s strength permit it.
Kitty and Lydia alternated between genuine concern and disappointment at being admitted to their sister’s chamber only under strict supervision.
As for Thomas and Toby, they endured their punishment with all the visible misery of condemned princes.
Elizabeth observed them closely throughout the day.
The twins had never openly confessed to sabotaging the carriage.
They had also avoided any direct falsehood on the subject, a circumstance that in some respects proved even more alarming.
Both boys carried themselves with an exaggerated meekness wholly foreign to their nature, and whenever either met Elizabeth’s eye, a fresh expression of guilt crossed his face before vanishing beneath studied concentration upon whatever happened to occupy him.
It would almost have been easier had they displayed less remorse.
Elizabeth found it exceedingly difficult to maintain proper indignation while Toby attempted to smuggle extra jam to Jane’s tray under the sincere but mistaken conviction that preserves cured fever, and Thomas offered to surrender his favorite soldiers for an entire week if only Mama would cease looking disappointed in him.
Mr. Bennet, however, appeared far less susceptible to such tactics.
By dinner that evening, the twins sat unusually subdued between their father and Mary, both boys regarding their plates with tragic resignation while the rest of the family attempted, with varying degrees of success, to behave as though nothing extraordinary had occurred.
The dining room glowed warmly beneath candlelight, the curtains drawn firmly against the autumn darkness beyond the windows.
Jane, though improving, remained upstairs with a tray, having been judged still too weak for a full family dinner.
Mrs. Bennet had objected mildly on the grounds that illness was miserable enough without solitary meals, but Jane herself preferred to rest, and the matter had been decided accordingly.
Elizabeth found herself more conscious than usual of the empty place at the table.
Or perhaps, she admitted privately, she was simply too conscious of the place Mr. Darcy had occupied in her thoughts throughout the afternoon.
That realization alone was enough to irritate her with herself.
She ought to think of him less often.
She certainly ought to feel no sudden blush in her cheeks whenever particular moments from their morning walk returned to her mind. The steady sincerity of his apology had unnerved her sufficiently without her imagination revisiting the expression in his eyes when he spoke of her family.
More troubling still, she had believed him.
That was the true danger.
Elizabeth reached for her wineglass, partly to distract herself from the thought.
Across the table, Lydia was attempting with little success to draw the twins into conversation.
“You are both behaving like monks,” she declared. “I should think confinement to the nursery would make you desperate for company.”
Thomas pushed a carrot around his plate with solemn concentration.
Toby released a sigh substantial enough for the entire table to hear.
“We are reflecting upon our crimes,” he informed her.
Kitty snorted inelegantly into her napkin.
Mrs. Bennet directed a warning glance toward the twins. “You may reflect silently.”
“Yes, Mama,” they chorused.
Mr. Bennet, who until that moment had seemed chiefly occupied with his wine, reached beside his plate and lifted a folded letter.
“Speaking of disturbances to household peace,” he said mildly, “I received this today.”
The change in his tone drew immediate attention.
“From whom?” Mrs. Bennet asked.
Mr. Bennet adjusted the letter in his hands. “That depends upon whether you are acquainted with a gentleman by the name of Alfred Barnett Wilson.”
Grace Bennet blinked.
For perhaps the first time that day, genuine surprise crossed her features.
“Alfred Wilson?” she repeated slowly. “My late husband’s cousin?”
“The very same, unless Hertfordshire contains another Alfred Barnett Wilson distinguished by extraordinary confidence.”
Mrs. Bennet frowned slightly. “I have heard nothing from Alfred in years.”
“That makes two of us fortunate until now.” Mr. Bennet opened the letter with exaggerated care. “Unfortunately, the gentleman appears eager to renew the acquaintance.”
Elizabeth instinctively turned toward Jane’s empty chair before recognizing the absurdity of the impulse and directing her glance instead toward Mary, who had already straightened with visible interest.
“What does he say?” Kitty asked.
Mr. Bennet cleared his throat.
“‘Dear Bennet,’” he began, “‘it has been too long since our families enjoyed proper familiarity. I have determined at last to correct this neglect and shall therefore arrive at Longbourn on the twentieth of November at four o’clock. I anticipate remaining a fortnight at minimum and look forward greatly to renewing old connections.’”
Mr. Bennet lowered the page.
“It appears,” he observed dryly, “that I have been afforded neither the opportunity to accept nor decline. The gentleman assumes his welcome as an established fact.”
Lydia giggled. “How very bold.”
“How very alarming,” Mrs. Bennet corrected.
Mr. Bennet turned toward her. “What precisely can you tell us of this determined invader?”
Mrs. Bennet leaned back slightly, thoughtful now and not merely surprised.
“The last I heard,” she said slowly, “Alfred had purchased a mill in Lancashire.”
Elizabeth noticed the brief flicker of expression that passed over Kitty’s face at the word mill. The distinctions of trade and consequence, so freely discussed at Netherfield, seemed suddenly nearer home.
Mrs. Bennet continued.
“He always possessed more ambition than judgment, though whether that has improved with age I cannot say. After my husband died, Alfred wrote with condolences and offered to purchase the business.”
Mr. Bennet’s brows lifted. “Indeed?”
“Yes. For ten thousand pounds.”
Thomas stopped moving his fork.
Toby looked openly scandalized.
Elizabeth could not fully blame them. Even she, who knew perfectly well the value of the business eventually sold to Mr. Gardiner, recognized the absurdity of the offer.
Mrs. Bennet’s expression confirmed it.
“I refused him immediately, of course, and after that I never heard from him again.”
“Until now,” Mr. Bennet said.
“Until now.”
Silence lingered briefly around the table while everyone considered this unexpected development.
Mary spoke first.
“Do you suppose he has experienced some reversal of fortune?”
“Or improvement in it,” Kitty suggested.
Lydia's expression transformed with happiness. “Perhaps he is rich.”
Mr. Bennet regarded her over the rim of his glass. “My dear Lydia, wealth does not invariably improve a visitor.”
“It improves many things.”
“Not conversation,” Mary murmured.
Lydia ignored her.
Mrs. Bennet folded her hands together lightly. “I confess I cannot imagine what Alfred means by appearing now after so many years. We were never particularly intimate.”
Mr. Bennet glanced down at the letter once more.
“He offers no explanation beyond a desire to renew family connections. Which means,” he added dryly, “that he almost certainly possesses another reason entirely.”
Elizabeth suppressed a smile.
Her mother sighed. “That is likely true.”
“When does he arrive?” Kitty asked.
Mr. Bennet consulted the page again. “The twentieth of November. At four o’clock precisely, if we are to trust his confidence in both travel and destiny.”
“That is only a few days away,” Mary observed.
“Yes,” Mr. Bennet replied. “Which means we have very little time to prepare ourselves for whatever manner of man Alfred Barnett Wilson has become.”
Elizabeth watched her mother’s reaction.
There was no alarm in Mrs. Bennet’s expression, only thoughtfulness touched faintly with concern. Grace Bennet rarely allowed herself dramatic speculation, and that restraint alone made Elizabeth more attentive.
“You truly have no idea why he comes?” she asked.
Mrs. Bennet shook her head slowly. “None.”
Mr. Bennet folded the letter once more. “Then it appears we shall discover the answer together.”
Across the table, Thomas and Toby exchanged glances.
Guilty ones.
Elizabeth caught the look promptly.
So did Mrs. Bennet.
The twins lowered their eyes and resumed picking mournfully at their food.
Elizabeth raised one brow toward them.
Thomas flushed.
Toby became suddenly fascinated by his potatoes.
The effect was so transparent that Kitty nearly cackled aloud trying to suppress it.
Mr. Bennet noticed at last. “What new conspiracy brews there?”
“None, Papa,” Toby answered instantly.
“Absolutely none,” Thomas agreed.
“An excellent beginning,” Mr. Bennet observed. “Whenever two boys insist upon innocence before accusation has occurred, disaster invariably follows.”
Lydia giggled.
Mrs. Bennet regarded the twins steadily. “You are already confined for one scheme. I advise against planning another.”
“We are reformed,” Thomas said mournfully.
“Absolutely,” Toby added.
Elizabeth nearly succumbed to amusement herself at the expression on their faces. Remorse sat upon the twins awkwardly, like coats borrowed from someone much older and less inclined toward mischief.
Still, her suspicions stirred anew.
The broken carriage fittings.
Their transparent efforts to strand her at Netherfield.