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Chapter Eleven

T he Bennet sitting room was never what one might call tranquil.

There was always some minor contest unfolding—Kitty whispering over Lydia, Lydia talking over everyone, Mary reading aloud to no one in particular.

And if Mrs. Bennet was not lamenting the state of Jane’s bonnet or the number of unmarried officers in Hertfordshire, she was sighing over both in rotation.

Today, however, the atmosphere carried a distinct charge.

There was a guest.

And not just any guest, but a handsome man in uniform with a ready smile and just enough mystery behind his eyes to make Lydia knock over the sugar dish twice.

Because today, Mr. Wickham had come to call.

He sat near the fire, flanked by admiration on all sides.

Captain Denny had arrived with him and was now holding court beside the pianoforte, regaling Lydia and Kitty with something that required wild gesturing and made neither of them breathe properly for laughing.

Wickham, by contrast, had claimed the quieter half of the room.

His uniform—less polished than Denny’s but worn with a kind of relaxed authority—drew glances all the same.

Even Mary had smiled at him. A real smile, tentative and toothy, like a sunbeam forced through clouds.

Elizabeth watched from her corner chair, notebook balanced between her knee and the armrest, pencil moving slowly.

Sociological Study – Day One of the Militia Invasion

Sister 5 has begun speaking exclusively in exclamations.

4 has developed a stammer in Mr. Wickham’s presence.

3 may be experiencing the troubling onset of a sense of humor.

Another "lady" has said the words “good fortune” no fewer than seven times. Mr. Wickham’s smile has measurable gravitational pull.

She glanced up. He was laughing at something Mrs. Bennet had said—something about the merits of local dancing assemblies. Elizabeth doubted the actual words mattered. He would have laughed if she had told him the price of pickled herring.

She tapped her pencil against her knee.

Wickham was too smooth. That was not a flaw, necessarily—but it was a fact.

Every gesture was just a hair too practiced.

He looked people in the eyes exactly the right amount.

He let silences linger for just the right beat before he spoke.

He responded to praise with modesty and to sarcasm with charm.

He was, in short, dangerous.

And yet, Elizabeth found herself smiling, too.

When he turned his attention to her—and eventually he did—he did not offer her some repurposed line about how different she was from her sisters. He did not compliment her eyes or her wit.

He simply sat beside her and said, “May I guess something about you, Miss Bennet?”

She arched a brow. “Only if I may mock your guess afterward.”

“Accepted.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “You are the observer in the family.”

She blinked. “How adroit.”

“I have only been here ten minutes,” he went on, “and yet I suspect you could draw my character in five.”

Elizabeth smiled slowly. “Only five?”

“Well, three, but I am trying to be generous to my own poor self. No man likes to think he can be sketched in fewer minutes than he has fingers.”

She tilted her head. “And what gave me away? My silence? My notebook?”

“No.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping so only she could hear. “Your patience.”

That startled a laugh out of her. She was the least patient person she knew!

Before she could answer, Lydia dropped something breakable in the corner and shouted a breathless apology.

Captain Denny gallantly dove to retrieve it, nearly knocking over a footstool in the process, which only made Kitty laugh harder.

Mrs. Bennet declared she was certain it had been ugly anyway, and Mary cleared her throat with the grim determination of someone about to recite moral philosophy over the sound of a collapsing side table.

Elizabeth reached for her pencil again.

Note to self:

The acoustics of chaos favor the loud and the dull. Wickham: handsomer than necessary, cleverer than advisable. Possibly dangerous. Or simply well-trained in flattery, like any good predator.

She had just tucked the pencil back under her thumb when Wickham turned slightly toward her again—same smile, same tone, as though no sugar dish had ever shattered.

“But I interrupted myself,” Wickham said, turning slightly toward her again. “I had just accused you of being the most observant person in the room.”

Elizabeth tapped her pencil once against the edge of her chair. “And I was about to defend myself with a deeply unconvincing protest of modesty.”

“I am relieved to have spared us both.”

“Then I am relieved that you at least recognize your own arrogance.”

He grinned. “It is not arrogance if one is correct.”

Before she could respond—before she could even sharpen her tone—Mrs. Bennet’s voice cut across the room. “Oh! The Netherfield ball! Mr. Wickham, you must promise you will attend. Lydia has already made a list of who she intends to dance with, and you are near the top.”

“Second,” Lydia said brightly.

“Second?” said Captain Denny, looking wounded.

“You talk too much,” Lydia said.

“I have never been so insulted,” Denny declared. “Miss Bennet, defend me.”

Elizabeth turned back to Wickham instead. “I had not realized you would be joining us.”

“Would you be terribly disappointed if I did not?”

“I might write a scathing journal entry.”

“Then I am honor-bound to appear.” He leaned in. “Though I warn you—I am an indifferent dancer.”

“You are a soldier. I am told you are born knowing how.”

“Then you have been misinformed. We are born knowing how to march. Dancing is rather more treacherous—especially when one’s partner is fond of sudden turns.”

“I never change direction without warning,” Elizabeth said sweetly. “I simply change it without permission.”

Kitty giggled, though she had not heard the whole remark. Mary cleared her throat again and began, “I believe it was Cicero who said—”

“We have no objection to dancing,” Mrs. Bennet said loudly, “only to poor music and poorer partners. I have always said that dancing is the surest sign of a well-ordered society.”

“Have you?” said Jane, blinking.

“I have.”

Wickham waited until the wave of chatter crested, then returned his attention to Elizabeth.

“I meant to say earlier,” he said, quiet again, “that you seemed surprised. When you saw Mr. Darcy and me in the street.”

Elizabeth’s smile remained fixed. “Not surprised, precisely. Only… intrigued.”

“A delicate distinction.”

“Delicate distinctions are my hobby.”

He studied her. “And may I ask what, precisely, intrigued you?”

She affected a yawn. “Oh, only that Mr. Darcy’s social skills seem to become even more stunted in the presence of old friends.”

Wickham’s smile dropped into a mock-serious look. “We are not friends.”

“No,” she said. “I gathered as much when he looked at you as though you had kicked his dog.”

“Did he?” Wickham laughed. “I was too busy admiring his manners.”

“I do not believe he brought them.”

“Not even the portable version?”

“If so, he misplaced it somewhere between his saddle and his pride.”

Now he was laughing fully—shoulders shaking, head bowed. Across the room, Mrs. Bennet looked over with delighted confusion. “What have I missed?”

“Elizabeth is being scandalous again,” Mary murmured.

“She always is,” said Lydia.

Elizabeth ignored them.

Wickham composed himself and sat back slightly. “You truly do not like him, do you?”

She hesitated. “I would not say that.”

“But you would not deny it.”

“I do not dislike him,” she added, in the tone of someone who very much did. “But I find him best in small doses. Ideally preceded by a warning bell and a strong drink.”

Another laugh. This one quieter.

“He is not the warmest of men,” Wickham offered mildly.

“Oh no,” said Elizabeth. “He is positively glacial. You could store meat in his good opinion and expect it to keep all winter.”

She smiled sweetly, but her mind was already itching with what she would write as soon as Mr. Wickham looked away.

Regarding one gentleman from D-shire: Glacial. Possibly composed entirely of waistcoat starch. May be operating under the assumption that fondness is disease.

Wickham tilted his head. “And yet, for all that, you seemed rather affected to see him. Earlier.”

Elizabeth blinked.

She was not, she thought with growing unease, in control of this conversation.

He was watching her closely now. Not rudely. Not obviously. But with an intensity that suggested every word she had just spoken was being filed away.

She forced a shrug. “We have encountered each other several times. It would be unnatural not to react.”

“Of course.”

“But no,” she said, brightening deliberately. “I do not hold him in any special regard. Unless disdain counts.”

Wickham smiled. “Some would say that is a special regard.”

“I assure you, it is not.”

“Ah.” He looked amused. “And yet, you talk about him rather a lot.”

Elizabeth paused.

Not long. Barely a breath.

Surely, not enough for him to notice.

T he air was sharp, and the horses restless.

They had ridden hard that morning—not toward any particular destination, but out of the house, away from the chatter, away from Caroline Bingley's operatic planning of chair arrangements. Away from whatever it was that Bingley could not stop saying about Jane Bennet’s eyes.

“They are not merely blue,” Bingley was saying now, as they took the rise near the edge of Netherfield’s property. “They are—how shall I put it—gentle. Contemplative.”

“Lavender-blue,” Darcy supplied, voice flat.

“Yes!” Bingley lit up. “Precisely! You noticed?”

“I was present. I am not blind.”

“No, but you rarely comment. That is nearly praise from you.”

Darcy nudged his horse forward. “It was merely an observation.”

“You do not like her?”

“I did not say that.”