Nothing to Observe #2
“Forgive the intrusion,” Wickham said, with a smile that Darcy had watched work on better people than Caroline Bingley. “George Wickham. Darcy’s guardian, though brother-in-law is the warmer claim. And this is my wife, Mrs Wickham.”
Miss Bingley glanced at Darcy, then back at Wickham. “How delightful,” she said. “We had no idea you were coming.”
Darcy came forward. “Bingley, allow me to present my brother-in-law, Mr Wickham, and my sister, Mrs Wickham.” He kept his voice entirely even. “Wickham, this is my friend Mr Bingley, our host. Miss Bingley, his sister. Colonel Fitzwilliam is also staying at Netherfield.”
Wickham’s eyes moved to Richard with the briefest flicker.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he said, bowing with every appearance of pleasure. “I did not expect to find you here.”
“Mr Wickham,” Richard said. His bow was shorter. “I came down for the shooting. Bingley has excellent grounds.”
“Of course.” Wickham’s smile did not alter. “Darcy has always been fortunate in his friends.”
He turned to Bingley. “We would not dream of imposing on your hospitality. There is an inn in Meryton, I believe.”
“Absolutely not,” Bingley said. “You are family to Darcy. Netherfield has rooms enough.”
“You are very good.” Wickham stepped back to the door. “Come along then.”
The nurse appeared with Anne and George. At seven and nearly five they were travel-worn and faintly resistant to being presented, but Anne straightened when she saw Darcy and came forward with her mother’s composure.
“Uncle Darcy,” she said.
Darcy crouched down to her level. “Hello, Anne.”
George pushed past his sister and attached himself to Darcy’s leg without ceremony. Wickham watched with every appearance of paternal fondness. Darcy did not look at him. They had barely settled in the drawing room when Wickham noticed the damaged door.
“Forgive me,” he said pleasantly. “That door looks damaged. Has something happened?”
Bingley glanced at Darcy.
“There was a fire,” Darcy said. “A few nights ago. The library.”
Wickham produced shock and concern with practised ease. “A fire. Good Lord.” He looked at Darcy. “Were you…”
“I was in the library at the time, yes.”
“Darcy.” Wickham set down his glass. The distress in his voice was very well done. “Thank God you are safe. When I think…” He shook his head. “This is exactly why I came. I said to Georgiana, I cannot simply sit at Pemberley while Fitzwilliam is so far from home. We worried.”
“You need not have worried,” Darcy said.
“And yet here I am,” Wickham said, with a small smile, “proven right.”
Georgiana looked across the room at her brother.
“We are very glad you are safe,” she said quietly.
The children were taken upstairs before dinner, travel-worn and overexcited, George protesting only until the nurse promised him bread and jam. Anne submitted more quietly, though she looked back once at Darcy before the nursery door closed behind her.
Wickham watched him with mild amusement. “They are very fond of you.”
“They are children,” Darcy said.
“And therefore honest?” Wickham smiled. “A dangerous quality. Fortunately most people grow out of it.”
Dinner was a performance in four parts.
Bingley played the generous host with his usual warmth, which required no performance at all and was therefore the most convincing thing at the table. Miss Bingley played the gracious hostess with rather more effort, her attention moving between Wickham and Darcy as she recalibrated.
Richard played an old friend enjoying the country, easy and unhurried, his attention apparently on his food.
Darcy played himself, which was the hardest part.
Wickham played the devoted guardian, the concerned brother-in-law, anxious enough to ride south because he could not rest easy with his ward so far away. He was very good at it. He had been very good at it for five years.
The conversation moved through the fire, a terrible business, so fortunate, these old houses, and through the neighbourhood, and through Bingley’s plans for the estate, and through the shooting, which Richard discussed with enough specificity to be entirely convincing.
Wickham listened easily, filing away every detail.
Georgiana sat where Wickham could see her and Darcy could not speak to her without being observed. She spoke when spoken to, kept her eyes mostly lowered, and never looked from her husband to her brother in a way that might make a bridge of her own face.
When the ladies withdrew, Mr Hurst remained with the gentlemen and devoted himself seriously to the port, which had proved the most reliable part of the evening.
Bingley filled the glasses. Richard accepted his with an easy remark about the shooting. Wickham answered pleasantly, waited half a minute, and then turned the conversation with such smoothness that it seemed almost accidental.
“A bad business, that fire,” he said. “Old houses are treacherous in their own way.”
“Indeed,” Bingley said.
“Or old servants,” Mr Hurst observed. “Never trust a maid with candles.”
“I understand there were guests staying when it happened,” Wickham said. “Two young ladies from the neighbourhood, I think. The Miss Bennets, was it?”
Darcy kept his expression perfectly still.
“Miss Bennet had been unwell,” Bingley said. “She had been staying to recover. Both sisters left the morning after the fire.”