Page 4 of Disarmed

E lizabeth wished the rain would stop. Her body longed to walk, to be surrounded by the noises of nature rather than the moaning and bickering of her family.

The previous morning, they had risked walking the mile to Meryton; she, Jane, and Mary calling on her aunt Phillips while her youngest sisters visited Maria Lucas.

But the rain had begun to pour not long after they arrived, keeping them there for a good three hours before their father finally sent the carriage to convey them home.

This morning, Mr Bennet had declared they must remain at Longbourn.

He did not want his peace interrupted by having to rescue damp daughters from all corners of the county.

Unusually, his wife had supported him; her concern was over the girls catching a cold before the ball at Netherfield on Tuesday.

Mr Collins was giving Elizabeth a headache.

His incessant droning about his noble patroness was making her suspect she had inherited her mother’s nervous condition—such was her irritability.

How her mama could imagine she might marry the man was beyond her.

She could only hope that her father would support her refusal should the dreaded proposal come to pass.

The forthcoming ball, which would usually be cause for great anticipation, felt like a looming punishment since she had been forced to agree to stand up with Mr Collins for the first set.

Looking out of the window, Elizabeth observed that the rain had ceased, at least for the time being, and she was about to invite Jane to take a turn with her in the garden when the door-bell sounded.

The lassitude of the occupants of the room gave way to a great energy, and needlework was pushed under chairs, gowns were straightened, and cheeks were pinched.

All faces except Jane’s displayed joy as the red-coated visitors were announced.

Spotting Mr Wickham behind three of his comrades, Elizabeth’s spirits lifted.

Handsome, genial, and witty, Elizabeth had come to enjoy the officer’s conversation very much, and it was just what she required after such a dreary morning.

After greeting her mother and exchanging a few words on the weather, Mr Wickham took the chair between Elizabeth and Lydia, and Elizabeth’s heart sank; her youngest sister was bound to try to monopolise the gentleman’s attention, as was her usual wont.

Surprisingly, though, Lydia was uncharacteristically quiet, and Elizabeth realised that she had been so since they returned to Longbourn in the rain the previous day.

Had Lydia caught a cold while out in the inclement weather?

She scolded the little part of herself that hoped it was so and that it would prevent her sister from attending the Netherfield ball and embarrassing her.

In his usual affable manner, Mr Wickham struck up a conversation. He spoke of a scene he had witnessed in Meryton involving a runaway dog and a pair of the baker’s trousers. Elizabeth relished his company; he always had an interesting tale to share or entertaining news to report.

Elizabeth was just telling him about the volume of poetry her uncle Gardiner had recently procured for her when her mother spoke up.

“I do hope you intend to come to the ball on Tuesday, Mr Wickham,” she said.

“Your friends have confirmed they will be in attendance and ready to dance.” The gleam in Mrs Bennet’s eyes spoke of her hope of securing dances for her daughters with the handsome officer.

“Indeed!” the gentleman replied jovially before his features became serious.

“Whilst I am a little apprehensive of seeing Mr Darcy, Mr Bingley has kindly extended an invitation to all the officers, and I intend to enjoy myself. It is Mr Darcy who has wronged me, but I shall not avoid him. I fully intend to dance with all your fair daughters, Mrs Bennet.” He smiled at Elizabeth, reaching his hand up awkwardly to the back of his neck, and she was touched to see this mark of shyness, hoping it betrayed his interest in her.

Lydia sat forwards abruptly, her intense gaze on Mr Wickham. “Perhaps if you do see Mr Darcy, you should demand compensation for the living he denied you.”

Mr Wickham’s hand came up to his neck once again, and he gave a small laugh. Elizabeth frowned at her sister for making the gentleman feel uncomfortable. She was about to scold her when Mr Wickham responded.

“Ah, Miss Lydia, it is kind of you to think of my unfortunate situation, but I am afraid Darcy does not consider he owes me any such compensation, and it would be pointless to ask for it.” He was scratching hard at his neck now—had he been bitten?

Elizabeth looked about for any errant insects, but it was November, so the chance of there being one was unlikely.

Lydia looked a little flushed, and the laugh she gave was not genuine; Elizabeth might say it was almost scornful. “Oh, I think he would consider the living had at least some value, Mr Wickham. Three thousand pounds seems to be a reasonable sum, I think.”

Mr Wickham was now flushed too. He looked away from Lydia, his fingers twisting the buttons on his coat.

“Oh, Lydia!” cried Mrs Bennet. “I do not suppose that horrid Mr Darcy would give him half so much, you silly girl. Though I might ask him myself if I thought it would help you, Mr Wickham.”

Mr Wickham stood quickly. “Please, Mrs Bennet, do not concern yourself. I do not believe Darcy would welcome the intrusion, and I would not wish you to suffer his wrath as I have. Now”—he turned to his fellow officers—“the clouds look like they are darkening again. We should return while there is a chance of staying dry.” The other guests hurried to their feet, and farewells were exchanged.

“Thank you. It has been a most pleasant afternoon,” Mr Wickham concluded; and with a last scratch of his neck, he was gone.

As the door closed behind the group, Elizabeth looked at her youngest sister’s stricken face. “Lydia,” she whispered. “Are you well?”

Kitty spoke from across the room. “She is only peevish that Wickham did not ask her to dance at the ball. You should not have provoked him so by talking about that cruel Mr Darcy, Lydia. I think—”

“Oh, be quiet, Kitty!” Lydia cried, and leaping from her chair, she ran from the parlour.

The remaining ladies looked at each other in puzzlement.

“Well, I do not know what the matter with her might be,” said Mrs Bennet.

“Leave her be, girls,” she added as both Jane and Elizabeth made to rise and follow her.

“I dare say she will have cheered up by dinner time. My Lydia is never melancholy for long.”

Elizabeth accepted that her mother might very well be correct.

Her youngest sister was too fond of enjoying herself to sulk.

What could have caused her temper, though?

Recalling the conversation, she could not understand how it might have upset Lydia.

They had talked of Mr Wickham’s sad affairs many times recently, and she had been angry on the gentleman’s behalf but never dispirited.

She shook her head; she loved her little sister fiercely, and she knew the feeling was mutual, but in recent years she had found she rarely understood her.

Of course, Mr Wickham had been exceedingly uncomfortable too.

In fact, he had been quite eager to leave their company.

It seemed that talk of Mr Darcy and his cruelty truly affected the man.

Mr Darcy did seem to make many people uncomfortable, one way or another; she hoped he would not remain long in Hertfordshire.

Lydia did seem much revived when she came down for dinner.

Elizabeth would not have said she was entirely her usual self, but she managed to argue with Kitty and roll her eyes at Mary enough so as not to cause any alarm over her health.

Elizabeth put the incident down to her sister’s age and just hoped there would not be a similar fit of temper that might spoil the ball in three days’ time.