Wickham inclined his head. “I thank your Ladyship,” he said, taking the offered chair only after the briefest pause, as though careful not to anticipate her permission.
“I have brought with me letters of recommendation from two of my university professors, along with my Cambridge diploma, should your Ladyship wish to examine them.”
“They are of less consequence,” Lady Catherine replied, with a slight motion of the hand. “I prefer to judge for myself. Tell me, Mr. Wickham—what understanding have you of the duties you seek to undertake? And upon what foundation do you suppose yourself equal to them?”
Wickham did not answer immediately. The hesitation, slight though it was, appeared less the result of uncertainty than of consideration.
“I should not presume, your Ladyship, to consider myself already equal to so important a charge,” he said at last. “Yet I am persuaded that the office demands, above all, steadiness of conduct, attention to the concerns of the parish, and a willingness to be guided where experience is deficient. If I possess any qualification, it lies in my readiness to learn what I do not yet know, and to apply myself where I am most needed.”
Lady Catherine regarded him steadily. “You speak with moderation. That is not always a sign of ability.”
“Nor, I hope, of its absence,” he returned, with a composure that neither challenged nor yielded.
Her gaze did not soften. “You are aware, I presume, that Hunsford is not a parish in which negligence may be concealed. I expect regularity, propriety, and a due sense of obligation—not merely to the Church, but to myself.”
“I should expect no less, your Ladyship.”
“And Mr. Darcy,” she continued, “is not in the habit of recommending lightly. What am I to understand from his letter?”
“That he believes me capable of improvement,” Wickham answered, with a slight inclination of the head, “and not undeserving of the opportunity.”
A pause followed. Lady Catherine did not immediately respond, but considered him with an attention that was now more deliberate than before. She concluded, within moments, that Mr. Wickham possessed just enough polish to pass, and far too much charm to be safe. Such men, she knew, did not rise by merit, but by insinuation. And though she would not yet condemn him outright, she resolved—firmly and without hesitation—that he was a young man who must be watched.
“You are not,” she said at last, “what I had been led to expect.”
“I hope I may not, therefore, disappoint your Ladyship.”
“That remains to be seen.” Lady Catherine rose. The movement was decisive, admitting no further discussion of preliminaries. “You will take possession of Hunsford without delay. A carriage shall be provided for your immediate use, and you will find Mr. and Mrs. Yates, who have long served the parsonage, already in attendance there. They are accustomed to order, know the house thoroughly, and will expect its proper management to be maintained.”
Mr. Wickham rose at once and bowed. “Your Ladyship honours me beyond my deserts. I shall endeavour to justify your confidence.”
Lady Catherine’s smile was slight, controlled, and not wholly reassuring. She rang the bell.
“You may wait here. A servant will attend you. You will remember, Mr. Wickham, that I do not repeat my expectations.”
“I shall not require it, your Ladyship.”
She inclined her head, not in concession, but in dismissal, and withdrew, leaving the door to be opened at once by the footman already in attendance.
George Wickham bowed again, more briefly now, as the door closed behind her. For a moment he remained where he stood, his expression composed; then, very slightly, it altered—not in triumph, but in satisfaction properly restrained.
***
Alighting from the carriage, whose driver maintained a discreet silence befitting his office, Wickham arrived at Hunsford Parsonage and was received by Mr. and Mrs. Yates, the servants, who appeared respectable, attentive, and properly disposed to their duties. The house itself, however, fell short of the expectations he had permitted himself to form; its exterior bore signs of neglect, and within, though orderly, it lacked that degree of comfort and elegance which he had, perhaps too readily, anticipated.
Mr. Wickham directed Mr. Yates to have his baggage conveyed to his chamber, and having dismissed him with a brief instruction, took a moment to survey the room allotted to him. It was serviceable, if unremarkable; sufficient for present purposes, though far from what he might, in time, prefer to command. Seating himself upon the bed, he informed the servant that he was not to be disturbed until dinner. When Mr. Yates inquired whether there were any particular preferences tobe observed, Wickham merely inclined his head with careless ease, signifying that such matters might be arranged as was most convenient.
Left alone, he did not immediately apply himself to rest. Though his immediate object had been secured, George Wickham was well aware that possession was but the first step, and that retention would require a steadier exertion. There remained letters to be written, connections to be strengthened, impressions to be confirmed. Yet even here, he exercised a degree of selectiveness; one or two communications were postponed, and notably, no acknowledgement was dispatched to Mr. Darcy. Neither gratitude nor explanation seemed, at present, either necessary or advantageous.
His thoughts turned instead to the advantages now within his reach. A living under Lady Catherine’s patronage offered more than mere subsistence; it afforded position, influence, and the possibility of further advancement, should it be managed with sufficient care. All depended upon the impression he had made—and upon its continuation. He had satisfied her curiosity; whether he had secured her confidence remained to be seen.
The new vicar could not yet perceive the full consequence of what he had set in motion.
Mr. Wickham rose at last and crossed the room, pausing near the window as the light began to soften toward evening. If he had succeeded thus far, it had been by judicious restraint as much as by design, and he was not inclined to relax his efforts prematurely. Lady Catherine de Bourgh was not a patron to be deceived with impunity; her favour, once engaged, demanded consistency, and her displeasure, once incurred, admitted of little remedy.
He had no long time to reflect. The sun had not yet set when a discreet knock sounded at the door. At Wickham’s permission, Mr. Yates entered and announced that her ladyship had sent an invitation for Mr. Wickham to dine at Rosings that very evening.
The effect, though immediate, was not outwardly excessive; yet a quickening of satisfaction passed through him, too marked to be entirely concealed. He turned at once toward the servant, his composure yielding, for a moment, to a livelier expression of success, and, in a gesture of unguarded warmth, seized the astonished man by the arm in acknowledgment of the message.
