Wickham chuckled softly. “And Mr Long?”
“Mr Long is quite respectable and very generous to his nieces, Annabelle and Maryanne. They are often in Meryton, visiting their aunt and uncle,” Elizabeth explained.
Mr Wickham then glanced towards Darcy before continuing. “I was quite charmed by the younger Miss Lucas. Maria, I believe? However, I have had few opportunities to speak with the elder Miss Lucas.”
Elizabeth’s posture softened at the mention of her friend. “Charlotte is a dear friend, Mr Wickham. She is wise and kind, though she has been rather low-spirited of late.”
Wickham’s brows knitted. Egad, how did the man alter his entire face like that? He almost looked… sincere. “Low-spirited? That is unfortunate. Has something specific troubled her?”
Elizabeth sighed, and her fingers toyed with the fork beside her plate. “She has been avoiding company at every opportunity. She often claims some malaise, though the only thing that appears to be wrong is a lack of enthusiasm for anything. Jane and I fairly had to drag her into the carriage the other day—that was why we were so unwilling to turn back, do you see. It was difficult enough to get her out that one time. She seemed happy for a little while, though she smiles but rarely anymore. I am worried for her.”
Wickham leaned in slightly, his voice low and sympathetic, even as his gaze flicked to Darcy for an instant. “I am sorry to hear that, Miss Elizabeth. I once had a friend who suffered from low spirits.”
Darcy’s attention sharpened, the throbbing in his head intensifying. What friend could that be? Not himself, surely. Wickham could not accusehimof low spirits simply because he preferred dignity and more solitary pursuits. He still enjoyed life, hang it all—at least, he did when his eyes were not crossing from stabbing pain and he could walk without getting dizzy.
“What became of your friend, Mr Wickham?” Elizabeth asked. “What was done to help him?”
Wickham’s expression darkened momentarily. “It is a sad tale. I tried my best to encourage him, to brighten his prospects, but in the end, he took his own life.” Wickham paused, then added hastily, “But such outcomes are rare, especially for ladies. Your friend likely needs only good company and something to look forward to.”
Elizabeth’s spine had stiffened at the mention of the man—whoever it was—putting an end to himself, but he could see the forced lift of her shoulders as she nodded thoughtfully, clearly trying to take some comfort in Wickham’s words. “I hope you are right.”
Wickham raised his glass, his demeanour brightening as he raised his voice to be heard by all. “Speaking of something to look forward to, I have been wishing to host a ball at Netherfield. However, I face the dilemma of not having a hostess. Perhaps I may canvass the subject in friendly company. What are your thoughts on this matter?”
There were several murmurs of interest, but it was Kitty Bennet, unable to contain herself, who blurted the loudest. “Two years ago, Mr Northam—you know, the previous master of Netherfield—he did not have a hostess either. He asked Lady Lucas and Mrs Goulding to help plan a tenant’s harvest party for the estate. Surely, if that was appropriate, Mr Wickham could ask some lady of the neighbourhood to help.”
Mr Bennet wadded the corner of the tablecloth to dab his mouth, then dropped it, casting a deadpan look at his wife. But it seemed that Bennet’s lack of support for the notion was unique, for everyone else spoke approvingly.
Wickham’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “An excellent point, Miss Kitty. Perhaps there is a well-respected lady in the area who could be prevailed upon to act as hostess for the ball. It must be the mistress of one of the principal estates, of course—a lady with an unimpeachable reputation in the community.”
Mrs Bennet flushed with pride and half-rose from her seat. “Oh, Mr Wickham, I would be honoured!”
Darcy felt a wave of bonafide nausea as he observed Mrs Bennet’s unabashed enthusiasm. Heavens, where was the basin in this dining room? Was there a door through which he could excuse himself if the need arose? He doubted his hostess would even notice his departure.
Wickham had not actually asked her, but the woman seemed to assume the request tendered and accepted. Her face shone with delight, her voice loud and eager. Darcy’s head pounded, the noise of the room amplifying the pain. He placed a foot down in front of the chair leg and gave a slight push… only a little advantage, in case he needed to step behind Miss Elizabeth’s chair for the nearest escape.
But in plotting his path, he glanced at Elizabeth, who was staring open-mouthed at her mother’s audacity. To her credit, she forced her jaw closed and turned away, and her eyes blundered into his. The flash of pained humiliation there… that was something with which he could empathise. He offered her a slight tightening of his lips but dared risk no more.
“Thank you, Mrs Bennet,” Wickham said warmly. “I could not think of a more suitable hostess. It would be an honour to have you assist in planning the ball.”
Mrs Bennet’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Oh, Mr Wickham, you are too kind! I shall ensure that everything is perfect.”
Darcy’s expression remained one of silent horror, his eyes wide with incredulity. The very idea of Mrs Bennet in charge of such an event was almost too much to bear, and yet he could not help but feel a grudging admiration for Wickham’s deft handling of the situation. Wickham had managed to turn a potential embarrassment into a moment of triumph for Mrs Bennet and, in doing so, had ingratiated himself even further with the family.
Blast the man.
Chapter Fifteen
The weather had dawnedfair and bright, the kind of day that promised productivity and progress. However, the November rains had recommenced by the time the Bennet ladies were dressed, breakfasted, and ready to step out the door. Wet and miserable was, therefore, to be the order of the day.
Yet, there was nothing else for it. Elizabeth adjusted her poke bonnet, tying the ribbons under her chin with a secure knot against whatever wind and rain might conspire to do. The Bennet ladies would join others from town and the surrounding country, all armed with baskets of provisions to observe the repairs at the weir.
The carriage bogged down twice, requiring them all to step out to lighten the horses’ burden until they were through the heaviest of the mud. Lydia complained each time, but it seemed she was less distressed over having to walk than she was about the prospect of delay toward their goal… and seeing the gentlemen who would be there.
Upon arrival, the extent of the devastation was starkly evident. The weir was a hive of activity, with men scattered across the site, labouring under a steady drizzle to reinforce and repair the structure. Timber and stone lay in heaps, the air filled with the sharp sound of hammers and the steady rhythm of saws. Elizabeth’s eyes traced the long riverbank line where the floodwaters had breached, the force of nature having carved a path of destruction that demanded immediate and significant intervention.
She alighted from the carriage, her feet sinking slightly into the soft ground. As she walked closer, she took in the scene with curiosity and concern. The scale of the work required was immense. The air was thick with misty rain and the scent of fresh-cut wood, mingling with the earthy smell of the river.
At the forefront of the activity was Mr Wickham, astride a fine chestnut horse. He cut a striking figure, his posture erect and commanding, his expression one of focused determination. Elizabeth watched as he directed the workmen in an easy manner, his confident instructions carrying over the noise of the labour. His presence was magnetic,drawing the attention and admiration of the gathered crowd, many of whom were local gentlemen and prominent businessmen. Wickham’s ability to present himself as both capable and generous had evidently won him much favour.
