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“Richard,”

said .

“you are late.”

“I ought to have been here these two hours past,”

Richard replied with some asperity.

“had either Miss Wood Nymph or Mr. Oak been of any assistance with their directions.”

“Miss Wood Nymph? Mr. Oak? ”

echoed .

Richard shook his head.

“Think nothing of it. But where is Bingley? Or better yet, where is Miss Bingley? I had expected her charming countenance to greet me, not your ever-sullen Gloomfell face.”

“Gloomfell?”

repeated.

“Where have I heard that before?”

“,”

Richard said, exhausted.

“Where is everyone?”

“London.”

“London?”

“London,”

confirmed.

“Allow me to escort you to your chamber. Your man is already here; he told me you chose to ride. Refresh yourself, then join me below. I shall await you here.”

As Richard made to protest, replied.

“The Bingleys departed for London this morning. I had meant to follow but remained upon hearing of your arrival.”

Sometime later, after a dinner declared the finest he had partaken at Netherfield, the two gentlemen sat comfortably, port in hand, the fire crackling softly in the hearth.

“,”

Richard began, leaning back with a contented sigh.

“what prompted this sudden departure of the Bingleys? It is unlike them to forsake their own entertainment so swiftly.”

sighed, taking a slow, contemplative sip before recounting his stay at Netherfield: his dealings with the Bingleys, Bingley’s evident affection for Miss Bennet, and letters from Richard’s parents that compelled a change in his plans.

Richard’s brows rose.

“Both of them have written to you? And my mother is aware I am here?”

A flicker of dismay crossed his face.

“Good heavens. She will have her spies on the road by morning.”

smiled despite himself.

“She is your mother, Richard.”

Richard grinned, then leaned forward, his expression turning to mild concern.

“, I had hoped to spend some time here, far away from London. I have had quite enough of that society. Netherfield is perfect—peaceful, quiet, and full of charm. I have long held a particular fondness for Bingley, a fellow sufferer under the tyranny of his female relations, you know. Is there any chance the Bingleys will return? I wish not to return to London so soon. I require some respite.”

“I doubt Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst will return of their own accord,”

answered, his gaze wandering.

“As for Bingley—I cannot say. I would wish him to return, and not merely for my own sake; yet I remain uncertain.”

felt Richard’s keen eyes upon him and knew what was to follow.

“,”

said Richard quietly, a note of insistence in his voice.

“you are troubled—I can feel it. Do not deny it; confess it—I daresay it concerns a lady.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment hesitated. Then, with a slight and scarcely perceptible inclination of the head, he set down his glass and began to speak.

What followed was an account Richard had never expected to hear from his cousin. He listened intently as , with a candour most uncommon in him, revealed the particulars of his interactions with Miss Elizabeth—beginning with the assembly at Meryton, where an ill-judged remark had given offence to the lady toward whom his affections would soon, and most unwillingly, incline.

Came next the subject of Wickham, which sorely tried Richard’s forbearance, though he resisted the impulse to interject; the Netherfield ball, and the revelations of that day which had so unsettled convictions had long held; and lastly, Mr. Bennet’s firm and unequivocal demand.

The recital was long, yet by its end, Richard was persuaded that nothing of consequence was withheld.

“Good heavens, ,”

said Richard, scarcely above a whisper.

“I had thought you were enjoying a quiet stay in the country. I came seeking the same—an escape from the constant agitation of Town. Had I known all you had endured here, I might very well have stayed in London.”

“I am very glad you are here, Richard,”

said .

“It is a relief to speak freely at last.”

“Then I am pleased indeed,”

Richard replied, his tone marked with concern.

“, tell me—why did you agree to Miss Bingley’s design to follow her brother to London? Did you truly believe Miss Bennet held him in no particular regard? Or was there some other consideration?”

made no immediate reply. Had he, in truth, ever observed Miss Bennet with impartial judgment—or had he merely seen what suited his own prejudices?

“I know not, Richard,”

he said at length.

“I believed my opinion of Miss Bennet to be impartial. It is possible that I was led astray by a desire to remain distant from Miss Elizabeth. In truth, I do not know that I ever possessed the certainty I claimed.”

“I thought as much,”

said Richard, with a shrewd glance.

“One more question: why is Wickham here? And what do you mean to do about him?”

“He has accepted a commission with the local militia,”

replied, his contempt but thinly veiled.

“He continues, as ever, to play the injured party—spreading falsehoods, flattering where it suits him, and deceiving all who will listen. This morning I dispatched an express to my man of business. By tomorrow, I expect to have in hand the papers that will expose his true conduct. I mean to place them before Colonel Forster, Wickham’s commanding officer, and to see that Wickham’s duplicity is met with the consequence it deserves. His offences have gone unchecked too long—I am resolved that the matter shall be settled, and without leniency.”

Looking up, saw Richard regarding him with evident astonishment.

“Good God, !”

he cried.

“You are in love with her. That was the voice of a man whose affections are thoroughly engaged—one who would hazard everything for the woman he esteems. You cannot draw back now. Go to her! Declare yourself without delay.”

’s hand, still wrapped about the glass, turned it slowly. The firelight caught the liquid within, casting shifting glints across his fingers. He looked up but briefly, then closed his eyes, as though yielding to some inward reckoning.

“I know it, Richard,”

he said at last.

“I am in love with her—and I was a fool to have withstood it so long.”

“Indeed!”

said Richard, with a smile.

“I am glad your reason has returned. Now tell me—when am I to make the acquaintance of this paragon of a lady? I own myself impatient for the introduction.”

“Soon,”

replied.

“Once we have resolved the matter of Wickham.”

“Ah, yes,”

Richard said, more gravely.

“Let Antony and I attend to it. We shall deliver the papers to Colonel Forster. If I am not mistaken, Antony once served under him—presuming, of course, that it is the same officer.”

“And what, precisely, do you intend, Richard?”

asked, a sharpness entering his voice.

“Be easy, ,”

Richard said, with a half-smile.

“I do not mean to do Wickham unnecessary harm—though, upon my honour, I am tempted. He shall be offered a choice: to remove himself abroad and not return, if he has any regard for his own safety. If not—well, we shall say no more of it.”

inclined his head. He was heartily tired of repairing Wickham’s misdeeds.

The following afternoon, upon receiving the necessary papers from London, Richard and his manservant set off for the barracks to confer with Colonel Forster. By nightfall, they returned with intelligence: Wickham, though plainly displeased, had consented to join the battalion at Newcastle, soon to embark for the West Indies.

“Wickham resisted at first,”

said Richard, with an air of studied composure, though the satisfaction beneath it was not wholly concealed.

“He demanded to speak with you directly. Then a gentleman—Sir William—arrived upon other business with Colonel Forster. Discovering he was a magistrate, I perceived my advantage: I laid before Wickham the evidence in my possession and warned him that he would be taken into custody at once, the magistrate being conveniently at hand. He raised no further objection, and even consented to remain under the Colonel’s supervision until such time as his commission is confirmed.”

“Was Sir William informed of Wickham’s perfidies?”

inquired.

“He was. Colonel Forster deemed it necessary,”

Richard replied, with an air of indifference.

inclined his head. There was some comfort in knowing Wickham’s deceits no longer passed unchallenged—that the truth, at last, had come to light.

“,”

Richard continued, his manner more grave.

“I prevailed upon Colonel Forster to make inquiries regarding Wickham’s debts here in town. I know you will wish them settled. I also desired that his character be exposed. The most effective course, I believed, was to send word to every tradesman and establishment. His name will be asked after—word will spread.”

paused to reflect upon this. He would, indeed, discharge Wickham’s debts. He had failed in his duty to shield the respectable families of Meryton from Wickham’s deceit. At the very least, he might yet avert any financial loss.

“Then he is to depart?”

he asked at length.

“In a fortnight, once all formalities are complete,”

Richard confirmed.

“You need not concern yourself further. What now? You have a lady to win.”

“Today, dispatch a note to Mr. Bennet, acquainting him with Wickham’s detainment,”

said .

“Tomorrow, we shall call upon Longbourn.”

Friday, November 29, 1811

Longbourn

Mary

“The fate of Mr. Wickham ought to serve as a lesson to us all,”

Mary declared solemnly, her eyes sweeping the room.

“Vanity leads to ruin, as surely as pride goes before a fall.”

She let her words fall with deliberate gravity, as though hoping to awaken reflection in every heart.

Yet, as was often the case, her words found little favour. Lydia and Kitty exchanged exasperated glances. Elizabeth simply closed her eyes. Jane, ever gentle, shook her head with a soft sigh, offering no rebuke.

“Well, thank you, Mary,”

said Lydia, her tone mocking.

Mary sighed. Lydia would never understand—and, in truth, was not wholly to blame, for their mother was equally insensible.

It was at dinner the previous evening that their father had first informed them of Mr. Wickham’s arrest. The news had occasioned no small degree of agitation. Lydia, Kitty, and their mother immediately protested, declaring it a great injustice. Mary had half-expected Elizabeth to join their chorus, though, for reasons unknown, she remained unusually silent.

Papa proceeded to expose Mr. Wickham’s fabricated tale—the very story that had won him favour in Meryton. Mary took quiet satisfaction in her father’s calm refutation, though the others were less pleased. Lydia, especially, seemed resolved to persist in her partiality despite every proof arrayed against Mr. Wickham.

Mary had never held the slightest fondness for Mr. Wickham—nor for the officers who so frequently found their way to Longbourn. There was something vaguely suspect in their presence: so frequent, yet so devoid of purpose. These gentlemen did little beyond strolling the town, taking tea in drawing rooms, and bestowing light attentions upon the local young ladies. What service did they render, she wondered, if they neither protected the country nor bettered the society they frequented? Their handsome uniforms seemed their sole distinction.

Lydia, Kitty and their mother were, of course, blind to all this. The uniforms dazzled them, and so they deemed the wearers extraordinary. But Mary saw through the fa?ade. There was nothing noble—nothing truly gentlemanly—about any of those men, least of all Mr. Wickham. For all his charm—so easily assumed, yet utterly void of substance—he was the worst among them. It vexed Mary exceedingly that others failed to perceive it.

There was no real dignity in them. They were untried, untutored by experience, and it was evident in every idle boast and careless action. None among them appeared ever to have borne responsibility or known any trial that might test a gentleman’s principles.

None among them, she thought with quiet certainty, had endured hardship—not like the gentleman she had seen two days before, whose countenance bespoke a soul well acquainted with suffering. That gentleman, who both disturbed and charmed her, had left her thoughts unsettled, yet strangely captivated.

It had been but four years since Mary had come to the painful realisation that she was the least favoured daughter in the family. That day, she had stood before the looking-glass in her mother’s room, falteringly arranging her hair, striving to fashion it into some becoming style—anything that might render her pleasing and win, at last, her mother’s notice: a word of praise, a glance of affection.

She longed to be acknowledged—not as one overlooked amongst her far more beautiful and lively sisters, but as someone truly worthy of regard.

A week later, after one of her mother’s sharper remarks on her chances of ever securing a match—spoken, as ever, with lavish praise of Jane as the family’s true hope—Mary quietly rose and left the parlour. It was no grand departure, nor altogether intentional; she merely walked out of the house and wandered without purpose. Yet her feet led her to the old churchyard, where she stood at last before her grandmother’s grave.

Grandmother Bennet, who had died but two years earlier, had been amongst her dearest relations in childhood. As Mary sat before the grave, lost in sorrow, she felt a gentle hand upon her shoulder. Startled, she looked up to find Mr. Smithers, the aged vicar who had long since retired from his duties, though he remained ever-present in the village. It was he who had first introduced her to the sermons of the Reverend Fordyce.

With a gentle, fatherly smile, he had spoken to her that day, uttering sentiments she had treasured ever since:

“Every creature, Miss Mary, is beautiful in the eyes of God,”

he said softly.

“Do not concern yourself too much with your appearance, for that is not what the Lord intended. We are meant to rise above such trifles—to lead lives of greater worth: of kindness, of wisdom, and of virtue. Therein lies true beauty.”

His words had impressed upon her a truth she had never before perceived. She understood, at last, that her worth did not depend upon outward form nor upon the praise of others, but upon those qualities invisible to the eye. From that day forward, Mary ceased to frequent her mother’s chamber, no longer lingering before the glass in a fruitless attempt to mould herself into what she was not. She no longer estimated her value by appearance alone.

Instead, she devoted herself to the sermons of Fordyce, reading them repeatedly, drawing wisdom from each line, and allowing their counsel to shape her understanding of her place in the world. With much sincerity, though little success, she endeavoured to share her new convictions with her sisters; but Lydia, Kitty, and even Jane could not comprehend—or perhaps preferred not to.

Yet the path was not without its difficulties. Mary could not wholly rid herself of unease concerning the opinions of others. It was in her nature, after all, to observe the world around her, and to long for a place within it. Some part of her still sought to distinguish herself in some particular, and to be esteemed for it. The pianoforte at Longbourn, more often left idle, became her solace.

Whatever hours she could spare from her devotional studies, she devoted to music, practising daily until her fingers knew the keys as intimately as the words of Fordyce’s sermons. In time, her diligence bore fruit, and she was soon invited to play at musical evenings held by neighbours and acquaintances—occasions where, once, her sisters might have drawn every eye.

She now considered herself the most accomplished of the Bennet daughters. Her mind had been sharpened by study, her soul strengthened by purpose. She would not squander her prospects on some vain, heedless officer, whose chief concern was the cut of his coat and the admiration it invited.

No, if she were ever to marry, it must be to a man of substance—one possessing intellect, integrity, and above all, a genuine devotion to service. He must be a clergyman, one who valued a life of humility and purpose, as she did.

Yet, strive as she might to remain steadfast in her convictions, she could not shake the memory of the gentleman she had met two days before. His weathered countenance bore the marks of life’s trials; his eyes, keen and discerning, were shaded with the traces of weariness. There was a depth to him—a sorrow, perhaps—that seemed to settle deep within him, quiet and profound.

And yet, he was no clergyman—at least, not by any outward sign. His clothes, though of evident quality, lacked the plainness and modesty one might expect of a humble servant of God. Why, then, should he have stirred her so? Why could she not rid herself of the impression he left upon her mind?

She knew her sentiments were perhaps most unreasonable. After all, it was entirely possible she should never see him again. The Netherfield party had already taken their leave, and he was likely gone with them. She knew nothing of him beyond his name: Mr. Fitzwilliam.

“Mr. and Colonel Fitzwilliam,”

announced Mrs. Hill, startling Mary from her thoughts.

A flurry of activity ensued. Her mother and sisters made final adjustments to their gowns and took their seats with haste. Lydia, who had been halfway up the stairs, paused abruptly, then turned and hastened back into the room, her eyes fixed upon the doorway.

Mr. entered first—tall, grave, and impenetrable as ever. But beside him came the gentleman to whom every eye was drawn, Mr—no, Colonel—Fitzwilliam, red-coated and gold-laced, with medals that caught the candlelight and a gaze steady and kind in equal measure. Authority rested upon him like a mantle—quiet, yet unmistakable. He was everything Mr. Wickham had pretended to be, and was not.

For the first time in her life, Mary beheld Lydia truly affected. She stared at the Colonel with a look Mary had never before observed upon her sister’s face—one that mingled awe with triumph. Mrs. Bennet, for her part, regarded him as she might a particularly grand plum pudding—rich, tempting, and ripe for the taking—and then cast her youngest daughter a glance so significant, it could scarcely be mistaken. That she meant to bring Lydia to the Colonel’s notice was all too evident.

Mary observed it all in silence.

She then stood, smoothed her skirts, and offered a curtsy—low, proper, invisible.

Then, without raising her eyes from the worn carpet, she turned and quietly withdrew from the parlour.

She knew, with absolute certainty, that no one would miss her presence.