“Ah yes, Netherfield,” he said, flashing a grin. “I thought I heard a name I recognized as one of the inhabitants. A Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes, he is one of Mr. Bingley’s guests. Do you know him?”
Wickham’s expression sobered slightly. “I once knew a man with that surname. A long time ago.” He took a sip from his glass. “But surely it cannot be the same man. He was oncemy dearest friend. Now… well, I would not expect him to acknowledge me.”
There was something in his voice that piqued her interest—melancholy, perhaps. Regret? Or something else entirely? “Mr. Darcy is from Derbyshire, master of Pemberley.”
“Then itishim. My, my… what an odd coincidence. Of all the towns in all the kingdom…. For us to both be here at the same time…”
Elizabeth watched him curiously. His tone was light, but something in his manner—something in the way he looked not at her but into the flickering firelight—hinted at a deeper history. A wound, perhaps, barely scabbed over.
“You seem surprised,” she said gently.
He smiled, but it was a weary expression. “I am. Surprised, that is. Mr. Bingley’s fortune came from trade, did it not?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“And Darcy—” Wickham gave a soft laugh. “Well, I daresay he would not ordinarily condescend to such company. His mother was the daughter of an earl. His father, one of the wealthiest landowners in the North. He was raised to expect only the highest and best.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “Mr. Bingley is all warmth and generosity. I can see how even someone a bit aloof might come to like him. They seem to be good friends.”
Wickham looked at her now, sharply. “Do they now? I can only hope so. Our own friendship did not last. It is strange,” he added, almost as though musing to himself. “We grew up together. My father was the steward at Pemberley, and old Mr.Darcy—God rest him—was my godfather. Treated me almost as a second son.”
“You were close, then?”
“Like brothers.” He gave a soft, self-deprecating shrug. “Inseparable. I was often at Pemberley. We went up to Cambridge together—though he was a year ahead—and shared rooms at college.” He paused, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “And then, quite suddenly, everything changed. He became cold. Distant. Told me he no longer wished to associate with me.”
Elizabeth blinked. “No explanation?”
“None that made any sense. He never spoke of it directly—just arranged for separate quarters and made it clear I was no longer welcome.” He sighed and leaned back slightly. “I suppose I had taken up with some rather lively company, perhaps a little too merry for his tastes. But that is what young men do, is it not? A bit of carousing, some foolishness—but nothing criminal. He disapproved. That was all it took.”
Elizabeth stared at him, hardly knowing what to say. “But surely… you were friends? Could you not have—”
“He refused to speak to me, apart from telling me one evening that he never wished to see me again. I was never even informed of his father’s funeral until after the fact.” His jaw tightened. “And when the will was read, and the living promised to me—one I had always assumed would be mine—he sent word through his solicitor that it would not be forthcoming. That it was not ‘compatible with my character or aspirations.’”
Her breath caught. “But that seems so—so arbitrary.”
He smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes. “He did send a small sum through the lawyer. Just enough to be called respectable. Not enough to do anything useful. Certainly not enough to prepare for another profession.”
She was quiet a moment. “And since then?”
“We have scarcely spoken. I saw him once—at Ramsgate. I was staying nearby and happened to see him with his sister. I called out, but he turned his back. He left that evening without saying goodbye.”
Elizabeth frowned, troubled by the story. There was something in the telling that rang sincere—but something, too, that pricked at her conscience. He spoke with sadness, but not bitterness. Yet… there was a smoothness to the narrative, a polish to the way each detail unfurled. Still, what cause would he have to lie?
“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “It sounds very painful.”
“It was,” he admitted. “Especially where Miss Darcy is concerned. I was fond of her as a child. She seemed glad to see me again, but Darcy whisked her away.” He hesitated, then offered a rueful smile. “But I understand she is here, even staying at your house? I would not wish to upset her or her brother by paying a call and causing a scene.”
“She is—” Elizabeth glanced down at her shawl. “She is in lessons during the mornings.”
“Then I shall be careful to call only before they are completed. I would very much like to continue the friendships I have made here thus far.” He gave her a dazzling grin.
She searched his expression, but he appeared to be in earnest. Still, the flicker of unease in her chest was small—insistent, but unformed. He had offered no true slight, made no direct accusation. Only a sad story. And yet, a whisper of doubt remained.
She pushed it away. There was no need for suspicion. Not yet.
“I hope you will enjoy Meryton, Mr. Wickham, and make many friends,” she said in a light tone.
