Chapter 29
Elizabeth had caught only the last words: no wish to stand up with a Bennet.
They reached her as the music fell away.
She turned and found the speaker: a tall officer, his expression half-shadowed, his complexion fairer than most, the uniform sharpening the severity of his aspect.
The lamplight touched the planes of his face but found little warmth there.
His eyes met hers, then moved away as if she were not worth the trouble of offence.
Jane’s hand touched her arm. “Lizzy?”
Elizabeth’s lips curved, but the smile had an edge. “Only a remark, my dear. Nothing worth repeating.”
The handsome officer beside him saw her and smiled. The other officer remained seemingly indifferent. His gaze flickered once more to her, then dropped to the floor.
Elizabeth stepped towards him, her colour high. “How fortunate, sir,” she said, her tone carrying. “It spares the rest of us the trouble of declining.”
The words fell into the small hush between tunes. Several nearby faces turned; Wickham’s smile widened, delighted by mischief. The other man’s jaw tightened.
Jane pulled her back a step and whispered, “Lizzy, that was unkind.”
“Do we not reap what we sow?”
Jane sighed. “Still, he seemed—startled, not cruel.”
Elizabeth drew a measured breath. “Then he may comfort himself with surprise.”
Across the room, the handsome officer laughed at something the rude officer said.
“Mr Wickham,” Jane murmured. “The handsome one. Mrs Long had the name from Captain Townsend.”
The other officer did not join in. His gaze caught hers. It was not admiration.
Elizabeth turned away first. “Come, Jane. Mama will expect our gratitude for the colonel’s notice.”
They crossed the floor towards their mother’s party.
Halfway there, Elizabeth found her father in the crowd.
He stood a little apart, one hand resting on his cane, the easy humour gone from his face.
His gaze was fixed not upon his wife’s triumph, but on Mr Wickham and the rude officer beside him.
For an instant, she thought he might come forward, but he only inclined his head.
Jane touched her arm. “Lizzy, are you well?”
“Perfectly,” Elizabeth said, though her voice lacked conviction. She looked again, but her father had turned aside.
* * *
The evening wound to its noisy close—music spent, candles guttering in their sockets, voices raised in cheerful disorder.
Outside, the air had turned sharp, the night cooled after the heat of the rooms. The Bennet carriage waited with its lamps burning low. Mrs Bennet’s triumph was unrestrained; her praise for Jane flowed without pause.
Mr Bennet offered his hand first to his wife, then to Jane, whose composure never faltered even under her mother’s exultation. Elizabeth lingered a step behind, drawing her shawl close.
“Come, Lizzy,” her father said, his tone half amusement, half weariness. “Let us flee before your mother decides to present us all with medals.”
Elizabeth smiled and placed her hand in his. As he steadied her into the carriage, something made her glance back towards the hall.
Near the doorway stood the rude officer, his coat unbuttoned at the throat, his eyes fixed upon her. He did not move. The light from the carriage lamp caught the hard set of his mouth.
Mr Bennet followed her gaze, then closed the door. “You have made a conquest,” he said lightly.
“I have a critic,” she replied. “There is a difference.”
* * *
Kerr stood where the carriage had been, breath clouding faintly in the cold.
“So,” he said under it, “that is Bennet. Mr Thomas Bennet. Thomas Robert Bennet.”
He blew onto his cupped hands. “Failed of Cambridge.”
Wickham’s voice spoke over his shoulder. “You stare like a ghost, Kerr. What’s caught you so?”
Kerr did not turn. “You know what has caught my attention, as you seem to take pleasure in provoking me about it.”
“Provoking? Baiting, perchance.” Wickham laughed softly. “Providence has a taste for comedy, does it not?”
Kerr’s mouth tightened. “Yes. I am in agreement with you, though I am not yet certain what the approach is.”
Wickham stepped nearer, his gaze following the road where the carriage lamps had vanished. “He saw you.”
“So did half the room.”
“Not as half the room did.”
Kerr turned his head.
Wickham smiled. “A father may forgive a slight to himself. He seldom forgives one to the daughter who has his heart.”
Kerr looked back towards the empty road. “You are very quick to discover hearts.”
“I am quicker with weaknesses.” Wickham adjusted his glove. “The trick is knowing which name opens which door.”
Kerr said nothing.
“You heard the mother,” Wickham went on. “A civil word travels far with her. A compliment farther. The eldest daughter has beauty enough to make every fool in the county honest for half an hour. The younger—” He paused, amused. “The younger has teeth.”
Kerr’s gaze sharpened. “And Bennet?”
“Bennet watched you.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one worth having.” Wickham’s smile thinned. “You came to Hertfordshire for a living man. Now he has seen you.”
Kerr looked back towards the dark road, the lamps gone beyond the turn.
Wickham clapped his gloves together. “Come, my friend. Enough ghosts for one night. There is brandy waiting, and I would rather think of the living.”
Kerr did not move. “Go on,” he said. “I shall follow presently.”
Wickham shrugged, turned up his collar, and walked whistling into the dark.
Kerr waited till the sound was gone. The street was nearly empty now—only the guttering lamps and the faint hiss of frost upon the cobbles. He walked slowly, the night pressing close about him. Each step struck with the dull rhythm of thought—measured, relentless.
The windows above were shuttered; laughter drifted faintly from some upper chamber, muffled, careless, already forgetting the evening. Kerr passed beneath it without looking up.
He reached the bootmaker’s door and climbed the narrow stair. Within, the candle had guttered low. The folded note lay where he had left it, face-down beside the washstand.
He removed his gloves, set them beside it, and turned the paper over.
Roark will have his due.
“So will I,” he said quietly.