Page 19 of Disarmed

D espite his fervent wish to walk into Meryton in the hope of accompanying a certain dark-eyed beauty, it seemed the whole Bennet family wished to view the spectacle of the colonel’s wedding, and Bingley had been pressed into offering his carriage in addition to their own so that everyone could be conveyed in comfort.

The Bingley coach being the larger of the two, and Mrs Bennet keenly aware that it was also the most impressive, Darcy now found himself seated next to his moon-struck friend and opposite an equally dreamy-eyed Miss Bennet, her loquacious mother, and her suspiciously contemplative youngest sister.

Miss Lydia spent most of the short journey staring out of the window, fists of fabric from her skirt clutched tightly in her hands, giving Darcy the impression of anxiety; yet the firm set of her jaw also indicated a steely determination.

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. The previous day, she had been dogged in her demands that they all attend this wedding—or at least be present to congratulate the new Mrs Forster as she emerged from the church with her husband.

Darcy was convinced the girl could sell tea to China with her artful entreaties; even her father had agreed to join them, stating with evident amusement that “there might be some sport in it”.

The church was situated in the heart of the small town, and quite a crowd had assembled.

Numerous officers of the militia were waiting either side of the path to the church door, and the townspeople were chatting on the street in front.

With everyone’s attention fixed on the church, it seemed the merchants were resigned to the fact they would do little business that morning, and many had chosen to shut up shop or stand outside the doors of their premises, also awaiting their first view of the married couple.

As their party descended from the carriages, Darcy kept one eye on the youngest Bennet sister, the other scanning the sea of red-coated officers.

Miss Lydia had assured him that she had it on good authority that his nemesis would not be attending the wedding, but her suspicious behaviour, as well as his years of experience with Wickham, left him wary of the truthfulness of her assertion.

His attention was distracted, as it often was, by the strains of a musical laugh, and his eyes were drawn, as they often were, towards its owner.

Elizabeth. She had found her friend Miss Lucas in the crowd, and the pair had their heads together, sharing some amusing observation, no doubt.

Her cheeks were slightly flushed from the December chill, and her red lips contrasting with the paleness of her skin gave her an ethereal quality.

As she spoke, her breath formed small clouds in the cold air, and he longed to know what the pair were discussing so animatedly.

To his left, Bingley and his betrothed were surrounded by friends and neighbours, all clamouring to offer their congratulations to the couple.

The genuine warmth in their words and gestures gave Darcy pause.

He had once believed these people inferior—not worth his time or civility.

It shamed him. Had he really believed that money and connections were the only qualities that deserved respect?

What about kindness, honesty, generosity?

His musings had caused him to lose sight of Miss Lydia, and as his eyes roamed the crowd in search of her, he recognised a small woman standing near him.

Mrs Long. She was a stout lady of middle years whom he had often seen gossiping with Mrs Bennet.

They had been introduced, he was certain, but he had been at pains to avoid any unnecessary conversation with a person he had supposed to be vastly beneath him in consequence and therefore surely beneath his notice too.

She was often accompanied by two young girls he understood to be her nieces, and the lady urged them towards every single gentleman in the vicinity with the determination of a general sending troops into battle.

Every single gentleman except him.

“My mother would never wish you on any of us…” Miss Lydia’s words on that fateful day came back to him.

Now that he considered it, none of the matchmaking matrons of Meryton had ever sought to foist the young ladies in their charge upon him.

There had been not one entrapment attempt, not a single sly compliment paid to a daughter for his benefit.

In fact, ever since that dreadful remark he had made about Elizabeth at the assembly nearly two months prior, he had been shunned by the neighbourhood.

How had he not noticed it before? Because he had been too busy believing he was the one shunning them, that was how!

Whilst he had been congratulating himself on avoiding people whose manners he assumed to be poor and whose motives he assumed to be mercenary, they had been avoiding him due to his own abominably rude behaviour, which had been displayed for all to see at his first foray into Meryton society.

Bile rose in his throat, and he gripped his cane until his fingers turned white. He must have been sporting a particularly awful grimace because out of the corner of his eye he spotted Mrs Long’s eyes widen as she observed him.

Darcy took a deep breath to steady himself. “Good day, Mrs Long,” he said, offering the lady a respectful bow. “It is fine weather for a wedding, is it not?”

The lady’s eyes grew even rounder. “Y-yes, sir,” she stammered before remembering herself and dipping into a curtsey. “I fancy it bodes well for the happiness of the couple,” she added, glancing up at him with a nervous smile.

He offered her what he hoped looked like a genuine one in return. “I am sure it does,” he replied, trying to keep his tone even and friendly. He cast a quick look about. “Are your nieces not with you today, madam?”

The lady’s smile widened, and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Yes, indeed. They would not wish to miss such a spectacle for the world. They are standing over there, by the gate, with Miss Lydia Bennet.”

Darcy looked up and saw the young lady he had sworn to keep an eye on.

She was surrounded by a group of friends of a similar age.

All were laughing and chatting, but Miss Lydia looked more distracted than usual, often looking over her shoulder or glancing up and down the street.

Is she looking for Wickham? The man had still not appeared, despite the rest of the junior officers seeming to be waiting in front of the church.

Darcy cast another good look through the sea of redcoats.

No, Wickham was definitely absent from their number.

He almost missed Mrs Long’s next words but managed to turn back to her before he ruined his second chance to make a good impression.

“They are such dear girls,” she was saying.

“Despite losing their parents in such tragic circumstances… Well, they are a delight to me and my dear husband. We were never blessed with our own, but they are just as precious to us.”

It was a long speech, and remarkably candid for someone who had hated him not five minutes ago, but Darcy felt a lump rising in his throat as he saw her eyes moisten with tears. “And I am sure they are very lucky to have you,” he said gently.

At that moment there was a flurry of movement, and the officers who had been grouped around the front of the church hurried to form two lines, through which the newly married couple would presumably walk.

Then the door opened, and the crowd rushed forwards, cries of congratulation filling the air.

It was quite a commotion for a simple wedding, but Darcy supposed it had become tradition in Meryton, and he could not fault it.

The bride and groom, arm in arm, stepped forwards between the rows of officers—her cheeks flushed and eyes laughing, his posture tall and countenance beaming. Their happiness was contagious, and Darcy’s voice joined the others’ as he shouted out his felicitations.

Then all merriment was suddenly silenced as a scream rent the air.

The crowd turned as one away from the church, all eyes on the alley to the side of the butcher’s shop, from whence the scream had come. Further shouts were heard, then running footsteps and the sounds of…a stampede? Grunting?

With a scream at a higher pitch than one would expect from a grown man, George Wickham emerged from the alley, his face red, his eyes wide, and his hands desperately attempting to pull up his breeches, which were lowered around his thighs. A collective gasp went up from the crowd.

As Wickham veered around the corner, the source of the other noises became apparent; a drove of pigs came snorting and jostling through the narrow passage and out onto the high street in pursuit of their quarry.

With another screech, Wickham turned to look at the predators, his countenance now entirely grey.

It was a mistake that would have serious consequences.

As his eyes bulged at the sight of the pigs, his feet became entangled in his lowered breeches, and he fell forwards, his arms spinning as they grasped in vain for support that was not there.

Hitting the ground with a sound that made the crowd gasp again, several objects seemed to fly from Wickham’s pockets, some of which Darcy recognised as apples, and the pigs descended upon him, snuffling and rooting for their favourite fruits.

Wickham’s screaming had quietened into terrified sobs, and Darcy regarded his nemesis on the ground, his gentlemanly disguise well and truly shattered.

Amidst the onlookers stood Miss Lydia, her eyes narrowed and her face hard as she stared at the shameful scoundrel in the dirt.

Then she lifted her gaze and gave an almost imperceptible nod across the street.

Turning his head, Darcy observed the butcher’s daughter in the doorway of her father’s shop, her arms crossed over her thin frame.

She gave the tiniest of nods back to Miss Lydia, her face betraying no emotion, then entered the shop, closing the door firmly behind her.