Chapter 4 Enquiry Into Wickham
Could he expect that her friends would not step forward? –Mr. Gardiner, Pride and Prejudice
Though he had been sorely provoked, Thomas Bennet labored under the weight of guilt. He might have killed a man. The thought gnawed at him. He could not eat. His breeches hung loosely at the waist, and the grey cast of his face aged him.
With Kitty and Lydia now settled at school, his mind turned entirely to the matter of Wickham. If the man yet lived, there remained the risk of exposure. If he were dead, worse consequences might follow.
By midmorning, the day after returning to Hertfordshire, Bennet rode into Meryton and sought out his brother-in-law. He found Mr. Phillips just outside his office, speaking with a tradesman.
“Thomas,” the attorney called with a genial smile. “Come into the office.” After they were seated, he asked, “What brings you out at this early hour?”
“I need information,” Bennet said quietly, “about a man in the militia named Wickham. I want no mention of my name in connection with the inquiry.”
Phillips raised a brow, curiosity stirring in his expression. “If you give me a fortnight, I shall have news. I will meet with most of the merchants by month’s end. If this Wickham is a drinker, debtor, or libertine, his name will come up soon enough.”
Bennet gave a single nod. “That is precisely what I wish to know. The girls saw him at the May Day festival and remarked on his good looks. I would rather not invite a scoundrel to tea.”
Phillips chuckled. “Very wise. Let me make a few inquiries. I shall send word if I learn anything of use.”
“Thank you, Joseph,” Bennet said. “I am much obliged. I have other business in town, so if you will excuse me.”
He tipped his hat and turned away, the dread in his chest gnawing at him. Whatever the truth, he would know it soon, and he would be ready.
Bennet left the attorney’s office and crossed the street to the Rose and Crown, Meryton’s only tavern. He sat in the corner and ordered bread, cheese, and a mug of ale.
He sat nursing his drink for nearly an hour, picking at his meal, and observing the town’s men gather for their noon repast. Several militia officers laughed over their plates at the long table in the center, loud and easy in one another’s company.
It did not take long to identify the Lieutenant. Wickham sat with his back straight, surrounded by eager young soldiers who listened to his every word. There was no bruise, no visible sign of what had passed between them three weeks earlier.
Bennet’s fingers tightened around the handle of his mug. He was grateful not to have killed the man, but fury stirred in his gut at the sight of him, unmarked, charming.
Wickham was genteel in manner, well-dressed, and soft-spoken. It was a dangerous combination. Bennet could easily imagine a dozen foolish girls drawn in by such a face, such polish.
If Wickham was not independently wealthy, and Bennet doubted he was, then he was surely living beyond his means. With any luck, he would catch Wickham through his debts before the man could ruin another innocent or expose Lydia.
Bennet drained the last of his ale and rose, a hard knot of resolve tightening in his chest. He had been blind once. He would not be so again.