The servants were up, and there was that new footman he had so narrowly escaped from noticing him the day before, sweeping the flagstones outside the kitchen.
The younger maid came out wielding a large tub. Wickham watched her closely. There was nothing different about her manner, and when Mrs. Hill summoned the footman to the kitchen, there appeared to be nothing out of sorts with her either.
No tears. No solemnity.
Maybe it was too early yet. Nobody had noticed.
What a bother. He would have to linger longer to be sure.
Wickham’s stomach rumbled, and he cursed. Bitten, cold, hungry, and bored. Would that this misery would end.
He glanced at the house once more, determined there was nothing more to be learned, then returned to his hovel to partake of his meager breakfast — stale bread and hard cheese.
Belly mostly calmed and blood warmed, exhaustion claimed him, and he woke several hours later.
Donning a coat he had snatched from a clothesline, and shoving a farmer’s hat down over his head, he walked gingerly to Longbourn. The family would be awake now.
He crept as close as he dared, listening, watching. But he heard none of the sounds he expected. No mourning. No wailing. No cries.
He lurked from his hiding place between the hedge and the carriage house, hoping to see evidence that his plan had met with success. But there was none.
Abomination! He was supposed to leave today, and now he would have to stay to help things along.
What could he do? He needed something quick. Something efficient. Something nobody could foresee or prevent. Not even him. There was no guilt in an accident.
Wickham’s gaze scanned over the yard. What to do? What to do?
A door creaked and slammed, and Wickham clung to the side of the carriage house, holding his breath when footsteps grew louder and only peeking around the corner when they faded.
It was Mr. Bennet. At least, that was who Wickham supposed it was under the bizarre costume he wore: a broad-brimmed hat with what looked like a wedding veil fluttering around it and stitched to a long, white coat of coarse fabric and long sleeves with matching gloves.
Wickham lost precious time staring at the gentleman in his extraordinary ensemble, but when he came to his senses, he scrambled along the thicket for a better view.
Mr. Bennet wandered beyond the back of the house in the direction of his fruit trees.
Opportunity? Or another stalemate?
Having nothing better to do, Wickham followed.
CHAPTER 19
Darcy woke the following morning cautiously optimistic.
Perhaps he ought not to have alarmed Richard when, in all likelihood, a night’s rest had healed the breach separating Elizabeth from him.
Mr. Bennet rose early to tend to his bees, and it had always been Elizabeth’s habit to enjoy long walks in the morning. If he hurried, Darcy might see her walking over the fields. She would turn to greet him, her smile wide and her eyes bright with recognition. He would take her into his arms, and he would spin in circles and never let go of her again.
Eager to ride to Longbourn, Darcy crept down to the kitchen, wishing to break his fast and depart before the other residents of the house came downstairs.
Bingley’s cook was not surprised to see him in her kitchen. Another would have insisted on sending amaid to serve him in the breakfast parlor, but she allowed him to sit at the table while she poached eggs and pulled freshly baked rolls out of the oven. She had placed a dish of butter in front of Darcy when Bingley tiptoed into her domain.
A light spattering of whiskers dotted his cheeks; his hair jutted wildly from his head. His nightshirt was tucked haphazardly into his breeches. He looked deliriously happy.
The fissure in Darcy’s heart widened. He ought to have been slipping down to the kitchen at Darcy House for a tray to bring up to his bride that morning, too.
Grinning like a fool, Bingley sat beside Darcy. “I ought to have known you would be up.” He nodded to the cook, who pulled out a tray and began piling it with dishes of jam and cream, rolls, scrambled eggs, ham, and strawberry tarts. Elizabeth favored tarts. His London cook would not allow the pastries Darcy had asked her to make to go to waste.
“Are you off to Longbourn?” Bingley asked.
