“Oh, I quite agree. Why, only yesterday, Mama was singing praises of a dreadfully dull and pompous gentleman purely because he is rumoured to have two thousand a year. As if that alone were sufficient inducement to make one of us fall in love with him!”
That coaxed a chuckle from Charlotte. “Ah, Lizzy. Only a man of true wit and depth could hold your interest, regardless of fortune.”
Elizabeth affected a playful pout. “Indeed, my standards may be too exacting. If I cannot find one to match my imagination, I may end up a spinster with only my books for company.”
“What a pair we shall be—two confirmed old maids together.” The smile reached Charlotte’s eyes this time.
Elizabeth patted her hand. “Never that, my dear. Not when any sensible man should be falling over himself to win your hand.”
“Sensible men seem in short supply, I fear.” But Charlotte’s tone had lightened perceptibly.
Sounds at the door heralded new arrivals. Elizabeth glanced over, then turned back to Charlotte with an impish grin. “More guests—your mother will want to see you circulating. But if the inanity grows too tiresome, I shall concoct a scheme to rescue you.”
Elizabeth and Charlotte moved to stand near the edge of the room, where the air was fairly crackling with anticipation. The new tenant of Netherfield, Mr Wickham, was expected to make an appearance at the Philipses’ party, and everyone was eagerly awaiting their first glimpse of the mysterious gentleman.
“I heard he is quite handsome,” Mrs Long was saying to anyone who would listen. “And so charming, too! Mr Philips said he was absolutely delightful, and of course, he must know Mr Wickham rather well after managing the lease for him.”
Mrs Bennet nodded eagerly, her handkerchief clutched in her fingers. “Oh, I do hope he takes a liking to one of our girls! Wouldn’t that be something to have a daughter married to the master of Netherfield?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, turning to Charlotte with a wry smile. “Mama is already planning weddings, and she has not even met the man yet.”
Charlotte chuckled softly. “At leastyourmother thinks you have a hope and a prayer of catching the man’s interest.”
Elizabeth turned sharply to admonish Charlotte for such a petulant speech, but she cut herself short when a sudden hush fell over the room. She strained up to her toes to watch Mr Wickham making his entrance, and even she had to admit that the reports of his good looks had not been exaggerated.
And it seemed that her appraisal was not unique among the female occupants of the room. All eyes were drawn to his striking figure. He was tall and well-built, with dark, curling hair that fell in a becoming manner across his brow. His eyes, a piercing blue, seemed to take in the room with a keen intelligence and a touch of mirth.
He approached Mr and Mrs Philips with a smile that was at once easy and confident, his manner polished and genteel. “Mr Philips, Mrs Philips,” he greeted them warmly, bowing over Mrs Philips’ hand. “Thank you so much for your kind invitation. I have been looking forward to this evening immensely.”
Mrs Philips flushed with pleasure, her eyes bright. “Oh, Mr Wickham, the pleasure is all ours! We are so delighted to welcome you to our little community.”
“Indeed,” Mr Philips chimed in, shaking Wickham’s hand heartily. “It is not every day we have the honour of welcoming such a distinguished gentleman to Meryton.”
The gentleman laughed, the sound rich and warm. “You are too kind, Mr Philips. I assure you, the honour is mine. I have heard such wonderful things about the warmth and hospitality of Meryton’s residents.”
As he moved further into the room, Elizabeth found herself observing him more closely, fascinated by the way he interacted with the other guests. He seemed to have a knack for putting people at ease, his charm and wit soaking into every conversation.
To Mrs Long, who was notorious for her long-winded tales, he listened with every appearance of rapt attention, his eyes never straying, his smile never faltering. When she finally paused for breath, he interjected smoothly, “What a remarkable story, Mrs Long. You have a gift for narrative, truly.”
Mrs Long preened under his praise, her cheeks pink with pleasure. “Oh, Mr Wickham, you are too kind. I do love a good story, it’s true, but I do have a dreadful habit of running on so, and Mr Long claims I tell the same tales over again.”
“Then your tales have fallen on the right ears, for they are all fresh to me, and I covet every word you have to say about this dear little town.”
To Sir William Lucas, who was known for his somewhat pompous manner, Wickham was all respectful attentiveness, listening gravely to his pronouncements on the state of the nation. “I quite agree, Sir William,” he said seriously. “The responsibility of the landed gentry is a weighty one indeed. I can only hope to discharge my duties at Netherfield with half the diligence and wisdom you display.”
Sir William puffed up visibly, his chest swelling with importance. “Well said, Mr Wickham, well said, indeed. If you ever find yourself in need of advice, you need only call upon me. Why, when I was presented at St. James’s Court, I found the advice of…” he paused for a wink and a theatrical whisper, “certaingentlemen… noblemen, to be sure, of course… to be valuable beyond compare.”
“As do I, sir! My mentor, a fine gentleman in his own right, would applaud such a speech. I shall not hesitate to call on you for the minutest question.”
And so it went; with each interaction, Mr Wickham seemed to know just the right thing to say, the right tone to strike, to make each person feel appreciated, respected, and heard. It was a fascinating skill, Elizabeth reflected, watching him work the room.A social grace that went beyond mere charm or good looks. There was a warmth to him, a genuine interest in others that shone through in every exchange. He asked questions, listened attentively to the answers, and always seemed to find some point of connection, some shared interest or experience.
Even the most reserved guests seemed to blossom under his attention. Mr Harrison, the rector, who was known for his shyness, found himself drawn into an animated discussion of his favourite theological texts, for apparently, there was once a time when Mr Wickham had been destined for the church.
Mrs Goulding, who rarely spoke above a whisper, was soon laughing merrily at some witticism, for the man “dearly loved to laugh.”
Midway through the evening, Mrs Philips’ voice cut through the general hubbub. “Mr Wickham! We are so delighted to have you here in Meryton. Such a surprise, Netherfield being let so suddenly!”
Mr Philips tried to hush his wife, but she barreled on, oblivious, as she waved about her glass. “Poor Mr Bingley was quite disappointed, I hear, but his loss is our gain!”
