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CHAPTER FOUR

T hree days later, Elizabeth was sitting again in her aunt and uncle’s parlour with them, as well as Mr Wickham and Mr Denny. Kitty and Lydia had been most put out when they were required to stay home to meet a dance master their mother had secured.

“But we can learn another day!” Lydia had whined.

“We have paid for today. One day only,” their father had admonished.

Lydia had lifted her chin. “One day with the dance master? Then it might as well be none, for Kitty has no affinity for dance.”

As was her custom, Kitty began immediately to tear up while Lydia laughed and teased her about her lack of natural talent. Jane had managed to stifle the burgeoning argument while Mary looked on disapprovingly.

Later that afternoon, Elizabeth had walked alone to Meryton to call upon her aunt, and was not disappointed to be without her sisters. Mr Denny and Mr Wickham had arrived first and, after effusive greetings and much commotion, all had settled in the parlour.

“And so,” Mr Wickham was saying, “the officer fell off his horse right into the mud puddle and was too drunk to even move!”

All began to laugh, and Mr Denny added, “He remained there until morning,” which set them to laughing even more heartily.

Aunt Philips wiped her eyes with her napkin. “You young soldiers. My heavens, the trouble you all get into.”

The men exchanged glances, which suggested more trouble than puddles and a few drinks, but Elizabeth asked no questions, for she did not truly wish to know the stories of men, as she thought it might put her off them entirely.

Then Mr Wickham looked her way and her cheeks flushed, and she thought renouncing men at this juncture might be premature.

Uncle Philips nibbled at the edges of a slightly burnt biscuit with a scowl on his face.

The Philipses’ new maid of all work had been asked to prepare their repast. It was unclear to Elizabeth whether the girl was attempting a new recipe or had no gift for baking, which, given the Philipses’ love of sweets would not bode well for her prolonged employment.

Uncle Philips set down the biscuit. “What a disappointment. We ought to have secured tarts. Allard’s tarts are the most delicious of any I have ever tasted.”

“The most delicious,” added Aunt Philips vehemently.

“I have never had them,” said Mr Wickham.

Aunt Philips clutched her bodice. “Never? In all of the weeks you have been in Meryton you have never— This must be remedied!” She twisted in her seat to look behind her. “O’Brien! Where is O’Brien?”

The maid was, indeed, absent. She was likely attending to one of the many tasks required of her, but any time Aunt Philips needed her and she was absent, Aunt Philips became agitated.

Elizabeth was not certain how O’Brien could tolerate the constant bellowing and reprimands when she was, in fact, tirelessly managing the household, but it was not for Elizabeth to judge.

“We must have the tarts!” exclaimed Aunt Philips to her husband.

“Agreed, agreed,” said Uncle Philips. “Where the devil is that woman?” Now he was craning his neck in search of the absent servant. “O’Brien!” he shouted.

Elizabeth did not believe Mr Wickham would be entirely put off by such a racket, for if he had found her aunt and uncle uncouth, he would have ceased attending tea at their house sooner. Even so, Elizabeth cringed.

“If you desire tarts,” said Mr Wickham, rising to his feet, “I would be pleased to procure them.”

Elizabeth thought it alarming to have a guest purchasing sweets for a household to which he had been invited, but Aunt Philips said, “Yes. Oh yes. That would be lovely.”

“Miss Bennet,” Mr Wickham said, “the day is warm and dry. Would you care to accompany me on the short stroll to the bakery?”

There was much wrong with this scenario, but the walls of the parlour suddenly felt too close, and her desire to remain with Mr Wickham was strong enough to ignore propriety momentarily.

She rose, relieved that Jane, who was even more propriety-bound, had not accompanied her this day.

Mr Wickham opened the parlour door for her, and they walked out towards the front door.

O’Brien hurried towards them, and Mr Wickham refused his overcoat, saying the weather was fine, while Elizabeth allowed O’Brien to drape her deep green short cloak over her shoulders.

She might remove it later, but she did not desire to shiver in front of Mr Wickham.

As they strolled, a gust of wind blew up one side of her cloak, and Mr Wickham took hold of it and set it straight. The gesture felt intimate, and Elizabeth was simultaneously embarrassed and hoping the wind might blow again.

Along the road, she nodded at those she knew from Meryton, wondering if this might be her future: walking about with Mr Wickham greeting neighbours she had known all of her life.

Could he be all she had waited for? He had no title or lands, but he had a position with the militia.

Perhaps she could accompany him as he travelled, finally having the adventures she desired.

Undoubtedly, she could look at his fine face forever.

It was so perfect that it seemed as if it were made by some witchcraft: the sharpness of his chin, the prominence of his cheekbones, the crookedness of his smile that spoke of a mischief she could not help but be drawn to.

It was not just his face that she admired, though admire it she did over and over.

No, he was more than that. He was amiable and kind, and had an unnameable power that drew her in.

She noted that others were drawn to him, as well, and she found that bit all the more enticing.

Case in point: as they passed the tailor’s shop, the proprietor came out to speak with Mr Wickham, asking about a coat and pants he had altered, though since the conversation quickly turned to hunting and the weather, it seemed the man simply desired time with Mr Wickham.

Elizabeth understood why. His easy smile and ability to speak with anyone not only put others at ease but lured them closer.

At last, Mr Wickham smoothly extricated himself, explaining they were on an errand for the Philipses, and the tailor begged Mr Wickham to visit soon. Only then did the man nod to Elizabeth and offer his well-wishes, apologising for not attending to her earlier.

Mr Wickham walked away, his fingers pressing momentarily on Elizabeth’s back to direct her down the path. Elizabeth’s heart quickened. She felt electricity run through her body and wondered if he felt the same.

Just before they entered the bakery door, Elizabeth spotted the gentleman she had met a few days back at Longbourn.

She offered a nod. He smiled and approached, and only then did she recall his name: Mr Bingley.

She ought to have remembered, for he had been the sole topic of conversation for days in her household, but she had not imagined meeting him in town.

People always seemed stranger in different locations and situations than expected.

“Miss Bennet, how lovely to see you again. How is your sister?”

Elizabeth hid her joy at knowing he was thinking of Jane.

The two had seemed quite compatible, and Elizabeth hoped for a match, though would not say any such thing to Jane lest her sister retreat into herself and no longer share her confidences.

Nor had Elizabeth said a word of her thoughts to her mother lest it send Mama into an optimistic fit of wedding planning.

“My sister is well, thank you. Mr Bingley, may I introduce you to Mr Wickham?”

An expression flicked across Mr Bingley’s face so quickly that Elizabeth had no time to identify it.

Mr Bingley consented to the introduction, and Elizabeth performed the office.

Strangely, Mr Wickham gave no hint of knowing Mr Bingley, which made her all the more curious about Mr Bingley’s initial reaction.

The gentlemen spoke of Netherfield and their thoughts on Hertfordshire, both commenting on the region’s beauty.

Mr Wickham’s eyes flicked to her at the last, and her stomach flipped. What made him so alluring?

Just then a man came out of the shop. He was tall with dark hair and a knit brow as if he was lost in thought. Then he startled upon seeing his friend in conversation with others.

At his approach, Mr Bingley said to him, “Darcy, may I introduce you to Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

The man gave no reply, for his eyes were locked on Mr Wickham, his jaw clenched.

The silence pressed on them like leaden clouds before a storm.

“A-and,” stammered Mr Bingley, “Mr?—”

The tall man turned on his heel and marched away with quick paces. Elizabeth’s breath stopped. He had refused to be introduced. How rude!

Mr Bingley offered an apology and excused himself, but not before a quick glance at Mr Wickham.

The humiliation of the refusal burnt in her chest. And yet, no.

She had not been the object of the man’s distress.

It had been Mr Wickham. But why? Never had she seen such a violent reaction by one gentleman to another.

Surely some past encounter had soured their relationship, but how egregious could it have been that the brown-haired man—Mr Darcy was his name—had stormed off without engaging in the expected pleasantries?

She looked to Mr Wickham, and there was a darkness in his face she had never seen.

“How odd!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Why would?—”

“Miss Bennet,” interrupted Mr Wickham, his expression shifting to cheerfulness—forced cheer, she might say—“were we not bound for the bakery? Your aunt and uncle will be disappointed if we arrive without their beloved tarts.”

She agreed but was unable to ignore the darkness she had seen. No, perhaps it had been more than that. Had Elizabeth seen fear in Mr Wickham?