“You already did,” Elizabeth replied, handing her a pair of soap-wet gloves. “And you will again.”
It was a grim business, but necessary. By the end, Georgiana was silent, red-faced, and shaking. Elizabeth allowed her a moment in private to compose herself before sending her to bed.
But on the fourth day—there was quiet.
No tantrums. No broken dishes. No shrieking. Georgiana came down to breakfast on time, and though she ate very little, she did so in silence. Her face was pale, her shoulders stiff, but she did not misbehave.
It was a fragile hope.
But when she refused her morning lessons—claiming a headache and that her mind was too delicate for arithmetic—Elizabeth simply nodded and reminded her that refusal meant she would not be joining the others for their walk to Meryton.
Georgiana looked up, startled. “What?”
“You did not complete your schoolwork. That is the rule.”
“But I behaved this morning!”
“And that is good. It means you are learning. But lessons come before pleasure.”
Georgiana looked dismayed, but Elizabeth stood firm. The younger girl turned her face away and said nothing more.
The rest of the girls departed after luncheon, Lydia leading the way, two long braids cascading down her back, with Kitty skipping behind. Elizabeth walked a little apart with Jane, their arms wrapped close against the brisk autumn breeze.
The market town of Meryton was busy, its narrow main road bustling with tradesmen, women carrying baskets, and carts full of produce or firewood. Elizabeth always enjoyed these visits—not merely for the shops or news, but for the society of people who greeted her with familiarity and good-natured cheer.
They had just turned past the haberdasher’s when they encountered a group of officers. Several gentlemen in scarlet stood on the opposite side of the street, standing about with a practiced, easy swagger that immediately caught Lydia’s attention.
“Oh! The militia has arrived!” she cried, clapping her hands. “Kitty, look—the officers! They are speaking with our aunt Philips.”
Elizabeth looked over to see their aunt in conversation from her upstairs window with three young men. Two were in uniform, but the third was not, and it was he who caught Elizabeth’s eye.
He was striking—tall and clean-cut, with light brown hair artfully swept beneath his hat and a manner that exuded confident ease. He leaned one shoulder against the post just beneath the parlor window, his hands folded behind his back, and looked up at Mrs. Philips with a smile that seemed to charm as effortlessly as it curved his mouth. Though he was not in uniform, he stood with the others as if he belonged among them—and yet, he looked somehow separate. More polished. More amused by it all.
Mrs. Philips, spotting her nieces below, waved her handkerchief with enthusiasm. “Girls! Girls! Come meet our gallant new protectors!”
Elizabeth winced. There was no help for it—Mrs. Philips's voice carried over the street like a brass bell.
“I am making introductions!” the older woman called down. “This is Lieutenant Denny and Captain Pratt—and this young man,” she gestured expansively out the window, “is Mr. Wickham, a particular friend of Denny’s who has just arrived from London to join the regiment.”
All three men turned toward them then, but it was the un-uniformed Mr. Wickham who stepped forward with an elegant bow.
“A pleasure,” he said, addressing them all generally, but with his gaze settling—just for a heartbeat—on Elizabeth.
Jane greeted them with her usual warmth, and Kitty and Lydia both began to giggle uncontrollably, whispering behind their hands and not even trying to hide their stares. Elizabeth, deeply embarrassed, curtsied quickly and murmured a politeacknowledgment, determined to walk on before the scene could grow worse.
But Wickham, with a swift glance of amusement up at the window, stepped across the street and matched her pace.
“I must thank your aunt,” he said easily, “for saving me the trouble of arranging my own introduction. Mrs. Philips has been most obliging. It seems she feels a strong duty to ensure we officers become properly acquainted with the best of Meryton society.”
Elizabeth could not help a laugh, though her cheeks were still warm. “She does have a talent for hospitality. I only hope her enthusiasm has not alarmed you.”
“Not in the least. I find it charming,” he said. “And the introductions have been most enlightening already. I am told this town sells the best lace outside of London.”
Elizabeth raised a brow. “Indeed? I should like to know who told you that.”
“Your aunt, naturally,” he said with a grin. “She recommended it most fervently. And I confess I have a weakness for fine lace. There is something about it—so delicate, yet so precise. Like music, really.”
Elizabeth glanced at him sidelong. “An unusual taste in a soldier.”
