Page 24 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

She coloured faintly, more from discomfort than flattery. “You presume much in speaking so familiarly, Mr. Wickham. We are hardly such old friends.”

Wickham's smile faltered a touch, though he recovered swiftly. “I beg your pardon. I merely meant to offer what is true.”

“Truth needs neither charm nor artifice,” she replied lightly, though there was steel beneath it.

Wickham stepped back just enough to break the spell, his expression unreadable.

Elizabeth turned slightly away, drawing a breath.

There was something too deliberate in his attention—as though, having deemed Lydia too silly and Kitty too timid, he had fixed on her next, whether for sport or self-interest. The notion left her cold.

At last, Mrs. Bennet called them all together. “Girls, it is time to return home. Mr. Bennet will think we have run off with the regiment.”

Mr. Denny gave them a final bow and a promise to relay their compliments to Colonel Forster. Wickham, for his part, lingered a beat too long near Elizabeth before falling back.

As they walked away, Lydia chattered of Mr. Denny’s buttons, and Kitty clutched her gloves as though they bore some secret significance.

Mrs. Bennet, in high spirits, said with glee, “Well, my dear Lizzy, it appears we may have two gentlemen vying for your attention! What a fine thing! Mr. Denny for Kitty, perhaps, and Mr. Wickham for you—he certainly seems taken.”

Elizabeth said nothing. She glanced back once—only once—at the cluster of rented buildings fading behind them, and was struck with sudden clarity: admiration without respect was but noise. And Mr. Wickham, for all his polish, rang false.

“La! But why should Lizzy have all the attention?” cried Lydia, tossing her curls with a pout. “I am sure Mr. Wickham will ask me to dance first at the Netherfield ball. And I do not see why he should not prefer someone livelier than Lizzy, who never laughs heartily at anything!”

Elizabeth only raised a brow, choosing silence over reply. Mrs. Bennet waved a hand, unbothered.

“Nonsense, child. He may well ask you, but he spoke to Lizzy. That makes all the difference.”

But Elizabeth walked on, saying nothing—for some impressions were best left to settle.

***

The sitting room at Longbourn was unusually animated, with teacups clinking and the fire cheerfully crackling in the grate.

Lady Lucas had readily accepted her friend Mrs. Bennet’s invitation—glad to pay a call and, ostensibly, to speak of Charlotte’s approaching establishment in Essex.

In truth, however, her conversation soon strayed beyond Ardleigh and its quiet lanes, drifting instead into the livelier currents of neighbourhood gossip.

“Of course, my Charlotte is most pleased,” Lady Lucas said, settling herself with contentment in the nearest armchair.

“The estate is a fine one—very neat—and the house quite sound, and spacious enough for comfort. Well situated, too, just east of Colchester. An income of more than six thousand pounds per annum, Mr. Bennet! And not entailed, as I am told.”

Mrs. Bennet gave a vigorous nod, though she could not help but detect the unfair allusion. “A very snug living indeed! Captain Lawrence must already fancy himself quite the gentleman.”

“He is to retire from his commission in February,” continued Lady Lucas. “And with the sale of it, they shall furnish the house most handsomely. Charlotte has always had a sensible eye for sturdy pieces—none of your French fripperies or gilded nonsense.”

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who smiled faintly behind her teacup.

“Do they remain in Portsmouth until then?” Mrs. Bennet asked as she poured another cup.

“Indeed. Though they plan to visit the estate shortly before settling for good.”

“Charlotte has always possessed a steady head and a sensible manner,” Mr. Bennet remarked, his voice touched with quiet fondness. “If her husband matches her in patience and good judgment, they shall do very well indeed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bennet. You are too considerate,” Lady Lucas replied with satisfaction, her expression smoothing into a pleased smile.

Then, turning once more toward her friend, she lowered her voice with a conspiratorial air.

“I must tell you, my dear—” she leaned forward slightly, her eyes bright—“of something that has lately stirred the neighbourhood even more than Charlotte’s prospects.

You have heard, I suppose, of Miss King? ”

Elizabeth looked up at once. “The daughter of the late Mr. King, the attorney?”

“The very same. It seems her uncle has left her ten thousand pounds!”

There was a collective pause—then an exclamation from Lydia.

“Ten thousand! Gracious, that is enough to marry twice!”

Lady Lucas laughed indulgently. “Quite so, my dear. And already, it seems, the fortune has not gone unnoticed. One of the officers—I do not know his name—was seen in her company at Dr. Robins’s dinner, this past Sunday night.”

“A red coat?” Kitty asked quickly.

“Yes,” said Lady Lucas. “A fine-looking young man. Polite, very gallant—dark eyes. Not local, I think. Someone said he is from Derbyshire, or that way north. Quiet, but well spoken.”

Elizabeth’s hand hesitated a moment at her teacup.

Lydia sat up straight. “Was his name Wickham, perhaps? Mr. George Wickham?”

Lady Lucas looked thoughtful. “Why yes, I believe that was the name. Do you know him?”

“He is the very one who dined with us on Friday,” said Mrs. Bennet, lifting her brows. “Oh, a charming young man! Very gentlemanlike manners—and such fine teeth. But really! To be trailing after Miss King so soon?”

Kitty snorted. “You see, Lydia? You were afraid he would fall in love with Lizzy, and now look! He follows after ten thousand pounds.”

“Stuff!” Lydia flared. “He admires me, and he said so. Miss King may be pretty in her way, but George knows I am more lively—and besides, I dance better.”

“George?” Jane asked unnoticed by her youngest sisters.

“You told him your dowry was five thousand,” Kitty said, triumphantly. “That is why he looked at you twice.”

“I did not!” Lydia huffed, then hesitated. “Not quite.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Bennet wondered for himself.

Mrs. Bennet turned toward her youngest with alarm. “Five thousand? Five? Child, are you mad? Your portion is no such thing! It is one fifth of what your father leaves—and even that is not certain!”

“It was only a small exaggeration,” Lydia muttered. “Men always ask such questions.”

“Well!” said Mrs. Bennet, half-rising. “We shall see what comes of it. But I will not have my daughters thought fortune-hunters or fibbers. Mr. Wickham may have taken notice of Miss King’s money, but that does not mean he has entirely given up his senses—or his interest.”

Elizabeth sat very still, her fingers curled around the edge of her saucer. Something in her chest had turned, quiet and hard.

The soft murmur of movement in the hall was followed by Hill’s voice at the doorway, clear and deferential:

“Mr. Bingley, ma’am.”

Some moments later, Mr. Bingley entered with his usual affability, offering polite greetings to all assembled, though his eye—despite every effort—lingered a moment longer upon Jane.

He expressed delight at finding them all in such good health and made some remark about the improving weather, which Mrs. Bennet received with every appearance of pleasure.

“My dear Mr. Bingley,” she exclaimed, fluttering her handkerchief as though welcoming a favoured son, “you are come at the very best moment. We were just speaking of the dinner we had last Friday, and of a most engaging young gentleman who joined us—Mr. Wickham. I daresay you have met him?”

Bingley’s brow lifted faintly. “Wickham?” he repeated, as if turning the name over in his mind. “Yes, I believe I was introduced—on Friday evening, was it not? A man in militia dress, tall, well spoken?”

Mrs. Bennet nodded enthusiastically. “That is the very one! So very genteel. I must say, he made quite an impression—such fine manners and handsome features. He seemed most attentive to all my younger girls—though perhaps especially to Lizzy.”

“Indeed,” murmured Bingley, with an expression that drifted somewhere between amusement and distraction. “He was… affable, yes. Though I confess I did not have much occasion to speak with him. His colleague Mr. Denny reminded me of a childhood friend—very kind and funny, too.”

A brief hush followed. Jane glanced toward Elizabeth, who regarded Bingley with a mild, inquisitive expression.

Mr. Bingley looked down for a moment, adjusting the glove in his hand, then added with polite reserve, “Wickham—Wickham. The name is familiar to me, though not only from Friday. I believe…” He offered a smile, but behind it, his thoughts had begun to drift.

Wickham... Wickham... Where had he heard that name before?

The smile faded slightly from his lips as memory stirred more clearly.

Yes—Darcy had spoken of someone by that name. Once. Briefly.

Elizabeth said nothing, but her gaze sharpened.

Mrs. Bennet, already tiring of anything not directly matrimonial, waved her hand as if brushing away a tiresome breeze.

“Well, whatever he was before, he is quite a gentleman now, and a very good dancer, I have no doubt. Lydia says he is to attend the Netherfield ball, with your permission, by all means!”

At this, Elizabeth stiffened slightly, but said nothing.

Mr. Bingley offered a small smile, but his thoughts had deepened. Darcy’s letter surfaced in his memory with unexpected clarity: “If ever you should come across this man—George Wickham—do not trust his appearance. Write to me at once.”

There had been no urgency then, only caution. Bingley had thought little of it at the time—Wickham was but a name. A shadow in a story Darcy never fully told. But now, hearing the name aloud again, watching Elizabeth’s subtle stillness—he began to wonder.

Could it be the same man? His brow furrowed briefly. Had Darcy confided anything more to Elizabeth?