Chapter 30
“Half a year gone,” Kitty said, twisting her threadbare ribbon round her finger. “And not one proper assembly to speak of.”
“We have seen Charlotte and Maria Lucas twice this week,” Jane reminded her gently. “They bring all the news one could wish.”
“Between them, Meryton wants for nothing,” Elizabeth murmured. “Charlotte brings sense. Maria begins and ends with militia officers.”
Lydia sighed with theatrical despair. “Because they are the only creatures worth looking at! If Mama would but invite them again—”
Mrs Ecclestone cleared her throat. Lydia straightened at once, hands folded.
Mrs Bennet’s fan stirred faintly. “I understand your exuberance, my dear. It is natural in youth. Yet,” she added, glancing at her husband, “we shall continue as we are. Your father is resolved, and I am not inclined to quarrel with prudence.”
Mr Bennet looked up from the small volume in his hand and inclined his head. “A rare alliance indeed, madam.”
Jane smiled across the room. “It is not as though we live friendless. The Lucases call, the Harringtons have entertained, even Mrs Long sent an invitation to dine. We have refused nothing.”
“But we missed a very fine house party at Purvis Lodge,” Kitty put in. “Maria said they had cards and danced twice.”
“And the same stories repeated thrice,” Elizabeth said. “If I am to endure talk of scarlet coats, I prefer to remain at home.”
“Still, Lizzy, it grows dull,” Mrs Bennet said. “Even your father will own that six months of restraint tries the spirits.”
Mr Bennet closed his book upon a finger. “I own nothing of the sort. The house has been tranquil, the tenants sober, and the chickens at last outnumber the officers.”
Kitty groaned. “But Papa, we have not once seen you in the stable since Michaelmas.”
“My talents lie in keeping my feet upon the ground.”
Elizabeth looked up from her sewing. “Then we are all as constant as the weathercock—turning little, rusting not at all.”
A small laugh went round the room. Even Mrs Ecclestone’s needle paused.
“There,” Mrs Bennet said with satisfaction. “We are agreed. No scandal, no headaches, no broken hearts. A little dullness is a small price.”
Mr Bennet reached for his tea and gave her a quiet nod. “Wisely spoken, my dear.”
* * *
It had been a week since the parlour had last known callers, and the morning proved too fine for solitude.
The house was unusually bright—the air fresh through the open casement, the tea-tray cleared, the room set to rights—when Hill appeared to announce, “Miss Harrington and Miss Long, if you please, ma’am. ”
“Show them in,” Mrs Bennet called. “We have been half-forgotten of late, and I will not have it said that Longbourn refuses callers.”
Jane and Elizabeth rose as their guests entered—two young ladies all in ribbons and spring cheer, breathless with the delight of having news. Jane offered them tea; they declined with gratitude but accepted at once when the cups were poured.
“Such a stir in Meryton!” cried Miss Long, her eyes round with pleasure. “The officers have returned from St Albans, and everybody was abroad to greet them.”
“Mr Wickham most of all,” Miss Harrington added. “He looked the very picture of good humour. I do not know when Meryton has looked happier.”
“Only Mr Wickham?” Elizabeth asked, arching a brow. “Not his friend?”
“His friend?” Miss Long looked puzzled a moment, then laughed. “Oh! You mean Mr Kerr, the gentleman who never smiles. I cannot think him half so handsome as Mr Wickham.”
“Nor half so charming,” Miss Harrington agreed, her cheeks flushed. The two exchanged glances above their teacups and hid their laughter poorly.
Jane smiled faintly and poured the tea. “Mr Wickham seems fortunate in his admirers.”
“He deserves it, poor man,” Miss Long said, leaning forward. “He told us last night how cruelly he was cheated out of a living promised to him! Imagine it, dear Miss Bennet—left quite destitute through no fault of his own. He bore it so modestly; I declare, it brought tears to my eyes.”
Elizabeth’s smile was thin. “Mr Wickham’s wrongs are many indeed, if every drawing-room in Hertfordshire must bear witness to them.”
The door opened before Miss Harrington could answer. Mr Bennet appeared, hat in hand.
“He would not have spoken at all,” Miss Harrington continued, “had we not pressed him. He is the most amiable creature, and so discreet! He said only that he had once known the family at Pemberley, and that friendship had turned to injustice.”
“Ladies,” Mr Bennet said with a slight bow, “I beg you will forgive the intrusion. I came only to pay my respects.”
The visitors rose at once, all curtseys and delighted simpers. “We were just telling of Mr Wickham’s return, sir,” said Miss Harrington. “And the horrid treatment he received from the gentleman who ought to have honoured his father’s wishes.”
“Indeed?” Mr Bennet’s tone was mild. “And what is the name of this necessary villain?”
“Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, sir,” Miss Long supplied readily. “A very great man in his own eyes, though none in ours.”
Elizabeth met her father’s gaze. For an instant, amusement crossed between them; then something in him stilled. He inclined his head, his expression as mild as before.
“Then I must take care not to offend him,” he said. “The last thing Hertfordshire requires is another man of consequence.”
The ladies tittered. Mr Bennet bowed, wished them a pleasant morning, and left the room as he had entered.
Elizabeth watched the door close behind him.
Miss Harrington had already resumed Mr Wickham’s praises. His sensibility, his modesty, his injured prospects came in admirable order. Jane listened with patient kindness. Miss Long took another lump of sugar.
Elizabeth folded her hands, eyes steady on the teacup before her. “How singular,” she said, “that Mr Wickham’s sufferings should improve with every telling.”
* * *
Bennet went directly to his study. The rain had left the air cool enough for a fire, and the lamp cast a low, amber circle upon the desk. He shut the door, not to keep anyone out, but to keep memory in.
Darcy of Pemberley. Edmund Darcy.
He stood a moment by the shelves, his hand tracing the spines.
Some volumes had not been moved since his return from Barbados; others bore the faint scent of salt even now.
Near the end of the second shelf sat a narrow book in blue calf, its edges roughened by heat and years—Cowper’s The Task.
He drew it down, brushed the dust from the cover, and turned the pages with the care one gives to an old wound.
The folded sheet lay where it had always lain, pressed between verses on mercy and storm. The paper had yellowed to a pale ochre, the ink browned, but the hand was unmistakably familiar. He unfolded it and read once more:
My dear Bennet,
I write only to acknowledge a debt of honour. I would not have you suppose that silence or delegation arose from indifference. There are obligations a man must own, even when he cannot name them aloud.
May Providence keep you.
ED
Meministi, amice
The words had faded slightly, but the intention had not.
He read them again, and the voice returned—measured, dry, steady as it had sounded across a Cambridge quad half a lifetime ago.
A debt of honour. There had been no further letter, no proof of what that debt entailed, and yet it had been enough.
He sat, the letter open on his desk. Twenty-seven years since that packet had reached him in Bridgetown, one month after the lawyer’s note that had closed their acquaintance.
He refolded the paper and slipped it back between the same verses: To feel Thy presence in the calm, and own Thy mercy in the storm.
The book closed with a faint sigh.