Chapter 9 #2
The strangely triumphant glances they exchanged whenever Mr. Darcy’s name arose.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes slightly.
What precisely had her brothers decided to accomplish?
The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Not because she truly feared some elaborate manipulation on the twins’ part. Thomas and Toby possessed enthusiasm in far greater measure than strategy.
No—the discomfort lay elsewhere.
In the increasingly undeniable fact that she herself no longer knew precisely what she wished regarding Mr. Darcy.
That uncertainty lingered long after dinner concluded and the family withdrew to the drawing room.
While Mary played at the pianoforte and Lydia attempted unsuccessfully to coax the twins into a game of cards despite their punishment, Elizabeth sat near the fire with her embroidery untouched in her lap.
Her thoughts wandered.
To Netherfield.
To Darcy.
To the warmth in his voice when he spoke of her father.
To the unmistakable sincerity in his apology.
And most dangerously of all—to the possibility that beneath the reserve and pride she first encountered existed a man very different from the one she had believed him to be.
Elizabeth stared into the fire a moment longer before forcing her attention back to the room around her.
Alfred Barnett Wilson would arrive in a matter of days.
The prospect introduced a fresh element of uncertainty into Longbourn, though whether it would bring amusement, irritation, or genuine trouble remained impossible to guess.
Brief though the visit might prove, Elizabeth suspected their household would not remain unchanged by it.
And somewhere across Hertfordshire, at Netherfield Park, lived a gentleman whose opinion now mattered far more to her than it ought.
Mr. Alfred Barnett Wilson arrived at Longbourn precisely as promised.
At four o’clock on the twentieth of November, the sound of carriage wheels upon the gravel announced his approach with such punctuality that Mr. Bennet, who had spent part of the afternoon doubting whether any man so confidently certain of his welcome could also prove equally reliable in his timing, lowered his book and remarked that perhaps arrogance and efficiency occasionally traveled together after all.
Elizabeth, seated near the window with Jane and Kitty, peered out in time to see the carriage draw to a halt before the house. It was a respectable vehicle without pretension, well maintained though not especially elegant. A servant descended first, followed shortly by the gentleman himself.
Her first impression was one of solidity.
Mr. Wilson stood somewhat above middling height, broad through the shoulders in the manner of a man accustomed to movement and work rather than fashionable idleness.
Sandy blond hair, with subtle darker accents at the temples, bordered a face that might have been considered attractive if it had exhibited greater self-control.
His hazel eyes moved quickly, taking in the house, the grounds, and the waiting servants with open curiosity before settling upon the door as though he anticipated conquering Longbourn by sheer enthusiasm.
“Well,” Mr. Bennet murmured from his chair, “he approaches like a man storming a city.”
Mrs. Bennet cast him a look. “Be kind.”
“I intend every kindness short of surrender.”
The door opened moments later.
Mr. Wilson entered with an energy that filled the hall before his voice had properly done so. He removed his gloves while apologizing for the weather, praising the roads, admiring the approach to Longbourn, and greeting Mrs. Bennet all within the span of half a minute.
“Mrs. Bennet!” he exclaimed warmly. “It has been far too many years.”
Grace Bennet smiled with genuine civility, though Elizabeth noticed a slight hesitancy before she offered her hand. “Mr. Wilson. We are pleased to receive you.”
“And Bennet!” Mr. Wilson crossed toward Mr. Bennet, extending his hand with hearty confidence. “You look exactly as I imagined you.”
“That is alarming,” Mr. Bennet replied mildly as they shook hands. “I scarcely know how to defend myself against such accuracy.”
Mr. Wilson laughed loudly and without reserve.
Elizabeth studied him more closely while introductions commenced.
There was intelligence in him, certainly.
One could see it in the quickness of his observations and the alertness with which he measured the reactions of those around him.
His manners lacked the effortless polish of men raised solely within genteel society.
Every phrase appeared carefully chosen, as though he had spent years teaching himself how gentlemen ought to speak and occasionally still paused to ensure he had selected the proper form.
The effort showed most clearly whenever he became animated.
His speech then lost some refinement, growing broader and more direct before correcting itself again a moment later.
When at last Mrs. Bennet began introducing the daughters, Mr. Wilson’s attention sharpened visibly upon Elizabeth.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, bowing with particular warmth.
“Mr. Wilson.”
“Or Miss Barnett, perhaps I ought to say.”
Elizabeth blinked slightly.
Mrs. Bennet’s expression altered almost imperceptibly.
Mr. Wilson continued without pause, apparently unaware he had introduced a minor awkwardness.
“You favor your father strongly about the eyes,” he said. “I should have known you immediately.”
Elizabeth managed a polite smile. “I was very young when my father died. I fear I remember little that would help me return the compliment.”
“Well, you have his look about you regardless.” Mr. Wilson nodded with evident satisfaction. “Yes. Very much.”
The scrutiny made Elizabeth mildly uncomfortable, though she could not have said precisely why. There was nothing improper in his manner, only a degree of familiarity that felt strangely premature.
Introductions continued.
Jane received his compliments with graceful calm. Mary earned immediate approval when she admitted enjoying history. Kitty and Lydia appeared chiefly interested in whether mill owners encountered highwaymen regularly.
As for Thomas and Toby—
Elizabeth noticed the change in them straightaway.
The twins, who ordinarily greeted new arrivals with eager curiosity bordering upon interrogation, sat unnaturally still.
Not shy. Watchful. Thomas narrowed his eyes the instant Mr. Wilson turned away from Elizabeth. Toby’s mouth was fixed into a line of unmistakable suspicion.
Elizabeth exchanged a quick glance with her father.
Mr. Bennet, who had observed the same thing, lifted one shoulder very slightly and returned his attention to the conversation.
Mrs. Bennet noticed as well.
Unlike her husband, she frowned.
Dinner was announced shortly afterward.
If Mr. Wilson had seemed energetic before, the meal revealed him fully.
He spoke constantly.
Not rudely, perhaps, for he asked questions and occasionally paused for replies, but every answer merely served as a bridge back toward another tale of his own experience.
Within the first quarter hour, the table had learned about the difficulties of transporting machinery through flooded roads, the stubbornness of Yorkshire suppliers, and the extraordinary incompetence of a clerk dismissed after losing three months’ worth of invoices.
“And then,” Mr. Wilson declared, carving enthusiastically into the beef before him, “the fools decided smashing looms would somehow improve wages.”
Lydia leaned forward eagerly. “The machine breakers?”
“The very same. Frightful business for everyone involved.”
Mary leaned forward with interest. “Were you in danger?”
Mr. Wilson appeared pleased by the question.
“My dear Miss Mary, there were moments when I believed half Lancashire intended to burn itself to the ground.”
Kitty gasped.
Elizabeth caught Jane hiding what appeared suspiciously like a smile behind her wineglass.
Mr. Wilson continued, apparently encouraged by his audience.
“One night they came near the western mill with clubs and hammers enough to destroy every frame we possessed. Had I not reached the yard beforehand—”
“You stopped them yourself?” Lydia interrupted.
“Well, not wholly alone,” Mr. Wilson admitted. “Though someone had to speak sense into the lot of them before soldiers became involved.”
“And did they listen?” Kitty asked.
“Eventually. Men are easier managed when one understands what drives them.”
Mr. Bennet lifted his brows slightly. “An observation applicable well beyond mills, I suspect.”
Mr. Wilson laughed heartily. “Very true!”
Elizabeth listened politely while observing the rest of the table.
Mary appeared thoroughly absorbed.
Kitty and Lydia exchanged fascinated glances every few minutes.
Jane, though attentive, seemed less engaged by the subject matter itself than pleased by the general harmony of the evening.
The twins, however, had progressed from suspicion to outright hostility.
Thomas stared at Mr. Wilson with the expression of a young knight witnessing an invading army. Toby, ordinarily incapable of sustained silence through any meal, had scarcely spoken three words since dinner began.
Elizabeth caught Thomas glaring openly when Mr. Wilson leaned slightly across the table to address her directly.
“And you, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked. “Do you never tire of country life after spending your early years in town?”
“I prefer the country,” she replied.
“A sensible preference. Though I suppose I cannot wholly agree after making my fortune elsewhere.”
“You enjoy Lancashire, then?”
“I enjoy success,” he answered frankly. “Lancashire simply happened to provide it.”
The directness of the statement once again made an impression on her. A gentleman raised wholly within fashionable society might have phrased the sentiment differently, ambition disguised beneath polish.
Mr. Wilson saw no reason to disguise it.
Mrs. Bennet interrupted gently before he could continue further. “We must remember Wednesday’s dinner arrangements. The Netherfield party is expected at four.”
Mr. Bennet nodded. “So they are.”