Chapter 40
Hill showed Mr Wickham in.
He entered with his hat beneath his arm and civility arranged upon every feature. The morning had touched him handsomely: a little dust upon his boots, a little colour from the ride, a little concern in his eyes, worn as another man might wear mourning.
Bennet remained seated.
“Mr Bennet,” Wickham said, bowing. “I beg your pardon for calling at such an hour.”
“Do you?”
The smile flickered, then returned. “Most sincerely. I would not intrude, were the matter less urgent.”
Hill stood near the door. Bennet did not dismiss him. Wickham observed the omission and made no comment.
“Then make it urgent, Mr Wickham.”
Wickham drew a folded paper from within his coat. “I was asked to deliver this.”
Bennet looked at the paper, then at him. “By whom?”
“I am afraid I cannot say.”
“Cannot, or will not?”
“Sir, I am only the bearer.”
“Of what?”
Wickham’s fingers tightened once upon the fold. “A message.”
“Concerning whom?”
The silence was answer enough.
Bennet’s hand closed over the horse’s head of his cane. “Say her name, Mr Wickham.”
Wickham lowered his eyes, as if delicacy had suddenly found him. “Miss Elizabeth.”
“No,” Bennet said. “You are not only the bearer. You are the man who crossed my threshold with a letter concerning my daughter. Bearer is too soft a word for it.”
Wickham’s fingers tightened once upon the paper. “I assure you, I know very little of the matter.”
“You know enough to come, and too little to answer. How fortunate.”
For the first time, Wickham looked not at Bennet, but at the door. It was a small glance, quickly corrected, yet Bennet saw it and understood that Wickham had expected grief, not resistance.
He took one step nearer and extended the message. “You will wish to read it.”
Bennet did not move.
“Read it aloud.”
Wickham’s brows lifted. “Aloud?”
“Yes.”
“It is private.”
“Then you have already erred in bringing it.”
A faint colour rose under Wickham’s skin. “Mr Bennet, I come at some personal hazard to myself.”
“Do you? Then speak clearly, that Hill may appreciate the extent of your courage.”
Hill made no sound. Bennet felt rather than saw the man’s attention sharpen.
Wickham looked from master to servant and back again. The concern in his face altered by the smallest degree, thinned at the edges.
“I was instructed to place it in your hand.”
“And I decline to take it.”
“Sir—”
“If you place that paper upon my desk and leave, you will afterwards claim ignorance of its contents. You will say you carried a sealed message as one gentleman may carry any other. You will protest yourself deceived, imposed upon, innocent in all but kindness.” Bennet’s fingers tightened on the cane.
“No. You shall read it aloud, and Hill shall hear you read it. Then, if harm comes to my daughter, you may explain at law why a man entrusted with such a message thought silence his safest duty.”
Wickham’s colour changed. “At law?”
“Before a magistrate first. Before a judge, if God is just.”
“You would risk Miss Elizabeth’s life for a point of form?”
“No. I risk yours.”
Wickham’s mouth opened, then closed.
“You cannot mean—surely, sir, you cannot be so careless of your own daughter’s safety.”
Bennet rose. The pain in his leg came with him; he gave it no place in his face.
“Do not dress your cowardice in my daughter’s name.”
Wickham stared at him. The charm had not gone; it had only lost its footing.
“You mistake me,” he said. “I came to assist.”
“No. You came to perform innocence before witnesses could be chosen.”
“If you refuse the terms—”
“I have heard no terms.”
“Then take the message.” Wickham’s certainty faltered upon the last word.
“Read it.”
“Sir, I cannot answer for what may follow if you make sport of this.”
“You mistake me in your turn, Mr Wickham.” Bennet inclined his chin. “I have never been less amused.”
A muscle moved in Wickham’s cheek. His eyes went once towards Hill, then back.
“There are men,” he said, slowly now, “who will not be crossed. They are not gentlemen. They will not be moved by appeals to feeling. If they think themselves exposed, if they suppose you have raised alarm, they may act before anyone can prevent it.”
“How well you know them.”
Wickham drew breath too quickly.
“I know enough to warn you.”
“And too little to answer. We have established your position.”
Wickham’s hand tightened upon the message.
Bennet looked at the crease. “You damage your commission.”
For an instant Wickham’s eyes flashed. The neat mask slipped, and Bennet saw, not guilt entire, but vanity wounded past prudence. Wickham had come prepared to be necessary to a frightened father. He had not expected to be reduced to a clerk reading another man’s threat.
“If I read it,” Wickham said, “you will listen.”
“I shall hear.”
“And answer?”
“When I have determined whether the message deserves answer or the messenger deserves irons.”
Hill stirred by the door. Wickham heard it.
“Irons,” he repeated, and the word came out without its polish.
“A plain word. Useful in plain matters.”
“You would not dare.”
Bennet stepped nearer the desk, leaving only its corner between them.
“Mr Wickham, my daughter has been taken from a lane within reach of my own fields. Her bonnet was found in a hedge before dawn. There were cart marks, two men’s prints, and the sign of a struggle.
You arrive this morning carrying a concealed message concerning her, yet cannot name the hand that gave it you. Do not mistake gentility for shelter.”
Wickham’s gaze shifted again, this time not to the door but to the window, as if measuring distance. Bennet marked it.
“Shall I call John from the yard?” Bennet asked.
“No.” Wickham recovered the word too quickly. “No, sir. There is no need.”
“Then read.”
Wickham broke the seal with his thumb.