Chapter 17
The Matter of Mr. Wilson
Mr. Wilson had become difficult to avoid.
Not impossible. Elizabeth had grown up with sisters, brothers, visiting neighbors, and a father who could vanish behind a book in the middle of a household commotion.
She knew something of evasive movement. She could cross a room under cover of fetching thread, retreat upstairs under the pretense of checking Jane’s shawl, or place Mary between herself and an unwanted conversation with the skill of long practice.
But Mr. Wilson had become patient.
That was new.
The first days of his visit had been marked by an excess of conversation, too many recollections of her childhood, and a degree of familiarity unsupported by so recent an acquaintance.
Elizabeth had found him tiresome, though never unkind.
He had since learned to wait for her attention rather than attempting to claim it.
That improvement made him more difficult to dismiss.
He addressed her as Miss Elizabeth more often than Miss Barnett, a distinction she appreciated more than she cared to admit.
He spoke of her father with greater respect and far less proprietorial warmth.
When the subject turned to trade, he did so without the awkward defensiveness of a man anxious to prove himself genteel, but with the quiet confidence of one who had built his life through labor, judgment, and no small measure of stubbornness.
That morning he entered the sitting room carrying a small packet wrapped in brown paper.
“For you,” he said.
Elizabeth looked up from the mending she had taken into her lap only because Mrs. Bennet had passed through the room ten minutes earlier.
“For me?”
“It is hardly a gift,” he said quickly. “Or rather, nothing likely to alarm anyone. Papers only.”
Mr. Bennet lowered his book. “My dear Wilson, any gentleman who presents papers to a young lady before noon risks alarming the entire household.”
Mr. Wilson laughed, though a light blush rose in his cheeks. “Old shipping invoices. Copies rather than originals. Your father’s hand appears on two of them.”
Elizabeth’s fingers grew still.
That did alarm her.
But in the most welcome way.
She accepted the packet with more care than the plain brown paper appeared to merit. Inside were several folded sheets, the ink faded in places but still perfectly legible. Her father’s name appeared near the bottom of one page.
Barnett Darcy examined it. Mr. Wilson admired her father’s business because it connected them; Darcy respected it because he considered work honorable. Mr. Wilson wanted her to recognize shared origins. Darcy made her feel those origins required no defense.
Unfair comparisons.
She knew it and made them anyway.
At the far end of the orchard, Mr. Wilson paused beside the low stone wall.
“I shall speak to Mrs. Bennet again,” he said.
Elizabeth turned sharply. “About what?”
His brows lifted. “Nothing improper. Only whether my continued attentions are unwelcome to the family.”
“To the family?”
“To you, chiefly.”
“Then ask me.”
He appeared startled.
Elizabeth regretted the sharpness, though not the sentiment.
“If you wish to know whether I welcome your attentions, Mr. Wilson, you must ask me. Mama may advise me. Papa may tease me into madness. But they cannot answer for me.”
A slow smile touched his mouth. Not triumphant. Respectful.
“You are very much your mother’s daughter.”
“I am also my father’s.”
“Yes,” he said. “You are.”
That pleased her.
It complicated nothing. It solved nothing. It pleased her nonetheless.
When they returned to the house, Mrs. Bennet received them with an expression too perceptive for Elizabeth’s comfort. Mr. Wilson asked for a word with her later that day, and Mrs. Bennet agreed without surprise.
Elizabeth escaped upstairs before she could be asked any questions.
Jane found her in her chamber an hour later.
“You walked with Mr. Wilson.”
“I did.”
Jane sat upon the bed, still careful with her strength though nearly restored. “Was it pleasant?”
Elizabeth rolled the same ribbon three times. “Yes.”
Jane waited.
Elizabeth made a face. “Do not look so patient. It is unkind.”
“I am saying nothing.”
“That is the worst of it.”
Jane giggled politely.