Chapter Eight Cold Calls and Dark Eyes #3
Mrs Philips drew her chair closer when Mr Collins finally sat. Within moments, she had obtained a description of Rosings, its windows, chimney pieces, number of servants, and probable annual expenditure. Mr Collins answered every question with expanding importance.
Elizabeth settled next to Mary and enjoyed her temporary freedom.
“You might have found the Hunsford poultry shed interesting,” she murmured.
Mary opened the book she had brought with her. “I have no wish to observe chickens from an upper window.”
The arrival of several male voices in the entrance hall caused Lydia and Kitty to abandon the cake plate. Mr Denny entered first, followed by Mr Carter and a third officer whom Elizabeth had not seen before.
He was remarkably handsome. His features had an easy openness, and his smile moved through the room with warmth.
He greeted Mrs Philips as though her invitation had rescued his day, bowed to Mary, listened attentively while Kitty reminded him of her name and allowed Lydia to present him to Elizabeth.
“Mr Wickham, this is my sister Elizabeth. Lizzy, Mr Wickham has only just joined the regiment, although everyone already knows him.”
“Not everyone, Miss Lydia.” Mr Wickham bowed. “But I am encouraged by the speed of your campaign.”
Lydia laughed and pulled Kitty to the sofa, where Mr Denny and Mr Carter had seated themselves. Mrs Philips summoned more tea, Mr Collins rose to another introduction, and the room reorganised itself around the officers.
Mr Wickham received the information that Mr Collins was a clergyman with suitable respect. “Hunsford, you say? I believe I have heard of the parish.”
Mr Collins had been advancing towards him, but he stopped several feet away.
His expression changed with no apparent cause. He glanced at Mr Wickham, then at the chair, and moved that chair backwards before sitting. When Mr Wickham approached to shake his hand, Mr Collins reached for the tea table instead and pulled it between them.
“I am honoured,” Mr Wickham said, allowing his hand to fall.
“Yes.” Mr Collins cleared his throat. “Quite.”
Elizabeth stared at him. She had known Mr Collins for little more than a day, but the discovery that he had a one-word answer deserved investigation.
Mr Wickham was merely amused. He accepted tea from Mrs Philips, complimented the room, and devoted several minutes to charming every woman present without appearing to neglect any of them.
Yet his attention repeatedly returned to Elizabeth.
Lydia had informed him that she had spent more than a week at Netherfield, and the mention of Mr Darcy’s name soon followed.
“I understand Mr Darcy is staying with Mr Bingley.” Mr Wickham took the chair opposite Elizabeth. “It is an unexpected pleasure to find an old acquaintance in Hertfordshire.”
“You know Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth asked.
“We were raised together.” Mr Wickham rested one arm along the chair and regarded the fire. “My father managed the previous Mr Darcy’s estate. No kinder or more generous gentleman ever lived.”
The distinction between father and son had been placed carefully enough to demand attention.
“And the present Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth enquired.
Mr Wickham released a breath, though Elizabeth noticed that his chest did not move accordingly. “We have not remained close.”
Mr Collins shifted his chair farther away. One leg of the tea table scraped across the carpet as he dragged it with him.
Lydia leaned forwards. “Did you quarrel?”
“I would not describe it so.” Mr Wickham smiled regretfully. “He caused me to lose a considerable fortune, but I cannot discuss the circumstances. My father was treated with great generosity, and I shall not repay that kindness by exposing Darcy.”
The refusal was admirable in construction. He had accused Mr Darcy of injustice, introduced a lost fortune, and then claimed too much honour to provide evidence. Elizabeth was expected to complete the offence for him and admire his discretion while doing so.
She placed her teacup on its saucer. “Mr Darcy may seem proud, and his manners do not always encourage immediate affection, but I have witnessed principles in him which I respect. I cannot readily believe that he would deliberately deprive another man of what was rightfully his.”
Mr Wickham’s eyes sharpened before his smile returned. “You are generous in your judgement.”
“I am cautious in it.”
For the first time since entering the room, he seemed uncertain of his ground. His fingers tightened briefly on the arm of his chair, then relaxed as he inclined his head.
“Perhaps I have allowed an old injury to influence me. Time may have altered him, or I may have misunderstood motives he never chose to explain.”
It was a graceful retreat, although Elizabeth noticed that he withdrew the accusation only after discovering she would not accept it unexamined.
Mr Wickham redirected the conversation to Netherfield. He asked how long Jane had been ill, whether Elizabeth had remained with her throughout and whether Mr Darcy often joined the family in the evenings.
“He was frequently present,” Elizabeth answered.
“And did you find his company improved upon acquaintance?”
“Well, he apologised when he believed he had been unjust.”
Mr Wickham’s smile held, but only through effort. “That is unlike the Darcy I remember.”
“Then perhaps time has altered him, as you said.”
Mary’s book remained open, but she had not turned a page. Kitty and Lydia listened with open fascination. Mr Collins sat behind his protective tea table, his face growing paler whenever Mr Wickham laughed or shifted in his direction.
“Will Darcy attend the Netherfield ball?” Mr Wickham asked.
“I presume so.”
“And you?”
“The entire neighbourhood has been invited.”
Mr Wickham’s gaze rested on her with greater interest than the answer warranted. “Then I shall look forward to the evening.”
Mrs Philips ordered the teapot replenished.
Conversation widened around them, allowing Mr Wickham to entertain Lydia with anecdotes while Mr Carter admired Kitty and Mr Denny attempted to draw Mary into a discussion of music.
Mr Collins said almost nothing. He watched Mr Wickham from behind the tea service and flinched whenever the officer’s gaze passed over him.
The shortening afternoon eventually forced Elizabeth to insist on leaving. She rose, collected her gloves from the table, and reminded Lydia that they were expected at home.
Mrs Philips protested. “You have scarcely finished your tea.”
“We have finished it twice, Aunt,” Elizabeth replied. “Any further refreshment may require us to remain for dinner.”
Lydia complained that the officers were not leaving. Kitty added that they had promised another story. Elizabeth handed Mary her bonnet and directed Mr Collins to the door before either younger sister could secure an invitation to stay permanently.
Mr Wickham reached Elizabeth first.
“Allow me.”
He retrieved her glove from the carpet where it had fallen, then took her bare hand before returning it. His fingers were cold enough to remind her of Mr Darcy’s touch, but where Mr Darcy’s restraint had made his coldness curious, Mr Wickham’s contact produced immediate alarm.
He bowed and pressed his lips to her knuckles. Then his body became rigid, the genial expression vanishing. His grip tightened until pain travelled through her fingers, and when he raised his face, his eyes were black.
No white remained, no iris separated pupil from shadow. For one impossible moment, the handsome officer disappeared behind the face of a hungry creature.
Mr Collins retreated blindly, his face a mask of horror. “No,” he whispered.
Mr Wickham released Elizabeth.
His eyes returned to normal so quickly that she might have doubted what she had seen if her hand had not remained trapped. His smile reappeared, polished and effortless, although hunger lingered beneath it.
“Forgive me.” He opened his fingers. “I fear I held you too firmly.”
Elizabeth withdrew her hand and pulled on the glove. “You did.”
Lydia laughed at Mr Collins, who stood white-faced by the wall, while Mr Denny asked whether Mr Collins had stumbled.
Mr Collins continued staring at Mr Wickham. “We should leave,” he said with a trembling voice.
Elizabeth had never agreed with him more readily.
“Mary, Kitty, Lydia.” She fastened her second glove and moved to the door.
Lydia groaned but followed her sister.
Mr Wickham bowed again but did not attempt another touch. “Until the twenty-sixth, then.”
Elizabeth gathered her sisters, took Mr Collins by the arm when he failed to move and led the party from the house before Mrs Philips could produce another argument or another pot of tea.
Cold air struck her face when they reached the street.
Mr Collins remained close, but his earlier courtship had been replaced by fear.
He glanced behind them twice before they passed the first shop and a third time when the Philipses’ door closed.
Elizabeth’s hand still felt cold inside her glove where Mr Wickham’s lips had touched it.
She walked faster, unable to dismiss the instant when his charming face had become inhuman.