The words might have been intended as conciliation, yet they only deepened Elizabeth’s frustration. He had managed to acknowledge her vigilance while simultaneously dismissing itsimportance—a masterful display of condescension disguised as courtesy.
“I am relieved to hear it,” she replied with matching formality before continuing towards the stairs.
As she climbed towards her chamber, Elizabeth’s mind churned with conflicting emotions. The afternoon had begun pleasantly enough, yet concluded with her feeling both foolish and frustrated. Had she imagined the surveillance entirely? The possibility gnawed at her confidence, though the sensation had been so vivid, so persistent.
More troubling was Mr Darcy’s response. She had approached him in good faith, setting aside her personal dislike in favour of household safety, yet he had treated her concerns as barely worthy of acknowledgment. The man remained as insufferably proud as her first impressions had suggested, whatever kindness he might occasionally display towards children’s welfare.
Yet as she reached her chamber door, one question lingered with uncomfortable persistence: why had she cared so much about his response? His opinion should matter not at all, yet his dismissal had stung far more than seemed reasonable.
The sound of Ambrose’s laughter drifted from somewhere below, innocent and joyful, and Elizabeth’s resolve hardened. Whatever Mr Darcy’s failings in taking her concerns seriously, she would remain vigilant. That sweet child’s safety was worth far more than her pride, and if suspicious figures lurked in Meryton’s shadows, she would not be caught unprepared again.
Chapter Five
The next day
“Lizzy, do stop fiddling with your hair!” Mrs Bennet called from the foot of the stairs, her voice carrying the particular note of exasperation she reserved for occasions when her daughters threatened to make her late for social engagements. “Your Aunt Phillips expects us within the quarter-hour, and you know how she detests tardiness.”
Elizabeth gave her reflection one final glance, noting with satisfaction that her second-best dress would serve adequately for an evening at her aunt’s modest dinner party. The prospect of Mrs Phillips’s gatherings typically promised little beyond lukewarm tea, indifferent conversation, and her aunt’s endless fascination with neighbourhood gossip. Tonight, however, carried the additional entertainment of meeting the officers recently stationed in Meryton—a development that had sent Lydia and Kitty into paroxysms of excitement.
“Coming, Mama!” Elizabeth called, gathering her shawl and reticule before hurrying downstairs to join her family’s expedition.
The walk to Mrs Phillips’s house proved mercifully brief, though the September evening carried a bite that made Elizabeth grateful for her wool pelisse. Lydia chattered incessantly about the uniforms they might observe, while Kitty speculated about which officers might prove most handsome. Even Mary seemed animated by the prospect of new company,though she maintained her usual air of moral superiority regarding her sisters’ frivolous interests.
Mrs Phillips greeted them with characteristic effusiveness, her round face glowing with the satisfaction of a hostess who had secured interesting guests. “My dear nieces! How delightful you look this evening. Come, you must meet the gentlemen—such charming additions to our little society.”
The drawing room buzzed with conversation as the Bennet ladies were introduced to their fellow guests. Several officers in their scarlet regimentals dominated the space, their presence lending an undeniable air of excitement to what would otherwise have been another predictable evening of cards and local news.
“Miss Bennet,” Mrs Phillips said, guiding Elizabeth towards a particularly distinguished figure near the fireplace, “permit me to introduce Mr Wickham. He has recently joined the regiment and comes most highly recommended.”
Elizabeth’s first impression proved entirely favourable. Mr Wickham possessed exactly the sort of address that recommended itself immediately—his bow was perfectly calculated, his smile sufficiently warm, and his countenance bore an openness that suggested both intelligence and good humour. His dark hair was fashionably arranged, his uniform impeccable, and his manner struck precisely the right balance between respectful formality and engaging friendliness.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice holding just the slightest hint of admiration that was flattering without being presumptuous, “your aunt speaks of you with such affection. I confess myself eager to make the acquaintance of one so highly praised.”
“You are very kind, sir,” Elizabeth replied, immediately at ease with his pleasant manner. “I hope you are settling comfortably into our quiet corner of Hertfordshire?”
“Indeed, though I must admit the countryside here holds particular significance for me beyond its obvious charms.” His eyes held hers with earnest sincerity. “You see, I have long-standing connections to this area that make my current assignment something of a homecoming.”
Before Elizabeth could enquire further, Mrs Phillips bustled over with her usual determination to facilitate conversation among her guests. “Mr Wickham, you must tell Miss Bennet about your fascinating history with the great families hereabouts. Such interesting stories!”
Mr Wickham’s face grew thoughtful, though Elizabeth detected a shadow that passed quickly across his features. “Ah yes, my connections to a certain visiting gentleman. It is a complicated history, I fear, though one that shaped my early years considerably.”
Intrigued despite herself, Elizabeth encouraged him to continue. The other discussions in the room seemed to fade as Mr Wickham settled into what was clearly a well-rehearsed narrative, though delivered with such apparent reluctance that she could not doubt its authenticity.
“My father served as steward to the late Mr Darcy of Pemberley,” he began, his tone heavy with nostalgia when speaking of the elder gentleman. “A finer man never lived, Miss Bennet. He treated me as his own son, provided for my education alongside his own children, and promised me a comfortable living upon taking orders.”
Elizabeth felt a flutter of recognition at the name, though her expression betrayed nothing. “You knew the Darcy family well, then?”
“Intimately. Young Fitzwilliam—Mr Darcy as he is now—and I were raised as brothers, educated together, shared the same tutors and advantages.” Here his mien darkened perceptibly. “At least, until his true nature revealed itself upon his father’s death.”
The bitterness in his voice seemed genuine, and Elizabeth leaned forward despite herself. “What do you mean?”
Mr Wickham glanced around the room as if ensuring their conversation remained private, then continued in lower tones. “The living his father promised me—indeed, bequeathed to me in his will—was denied by young Darcy the moment he assumed control of the estate. Three years of preparation for the church, years of study and dedication, all swept aside by a man who decided my father’s faithful service merited no consideration whatever.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Such callous disregard for a father’s wishes, for a servant’s loyal service, spoke to a character of shocking pride and heartlessness. “But surely there must have been legal recourse? A will properly witnessed—”
“Ah, but you see the cleverness of it,” Mr Wickham replied with a rueful smile that somehow made his obvious pain more affecting. “The language was carefully crafted to give young Darcy discretion over the timing and conditions. Technically, he broke no law while utterly violating his father’s clear intentions.”
The injustice of it stirred Elizabeth’s deepest sympathies. She had observed Mr Darcy’s proud, disagreeable nature herself, but to learn he was capable of such calculated cruelty towardsone who had been raised as family struck her with immense horror.
