The Steine at ten o’clock in the morning was a monument to human vanity.
It was a swirling sea of muslin, silk, and desperate social ambition. The Sussex sun beat down on the promenade, illuminating the absurdity of fashionable society. Carriages rattled along the cobblestones. Gentlemen in tight breeches strutted past like peacocks. Ladies tipped their heads to whisper gossip behind lace fans.
Elizabeth Bennet adjusted her sensible brown parasol against the glare. She maintained a distance of exactly three paces behind her sister and her hostess. Three paces were close enough to prevent Lydia from initiating a public scandal, but far enough to avoid temporary deafness.
Harriet Forster and Lydia Bennet were a matched pair of terrors.
They walked arm in arm, creating a formidable tangle of ruffles and giggles, heedless of every passerby.
Lydia twirled her vibrant yellow parasol and laughed at a passing gentleman in a very tall top hat.
Mrs Forster spun her pale blue parasol in the opposite direction, and waved at an acquaintance across the grass.
Elizabeth sighed. The restorative sea air tasted mostly of salt, road dust, and expensive cologne. She had arrived in Brighton hoping for a measure of quiet reflection. Instead, she found herself trapped in a loud, moving circus.
“Oh, look!” Lydia stopped so abruptly that Elizabeth nearly collided with her. “It is Mr Wickham!”
Elizabeth felt her spine stiffen into a rod of solid iron.
George Wickham separated himself from the crowd outsideWright and Son’s Royal Colonnade Library. He looked precisely as he had in Meryton: undeniably handsome, effortlessly elegant, and untroubled by his own lack of morality. The sea breeze ruffled his fair hair in a manner that was likely practised in front of a looking glass.
He approached their trio with a smile that could charm the birds from the trees.
“Mrs Forster.” Wickham executed a flawless bow. “Miss Lydia. And Miss Elizabeth. This is an unexpected joy. The sun shines considerably brighter on Brighton today.”
He turned the full force of his charm on Elizabeth.
In Hertfordshire, this precise smile had caused Elizabeth’s heart to flutter. In Sussex, knowing what she now knew, it caused her stomach to turn. The contrast between his pleasant exterior and his ruined character was stark and deeply unsettling. It was a physical exertion to remain standing before him and not scream.
Elizabeth kept her brown parasol level. She did not return his smile nor did she offer her hand.
“Mr Wickham.” She allowed the temperature of her voice to match the waters of the English Channel in December.
Wickham blinked. The effortless smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He was accustomed to adulation. He was certainly accustomed to Elizabeth’s warm regard, and this frosty reception baffled him.
“I had heard a rumour that the Longbourn party might visit the coast.” Wickham recovered his composure swiftly. “I did not dare to hope the rumour included you, Miss Elizabeth. How is your excellent family?”
“They are well.” Elizabeth maintained her icy stare. “They remain in Hertfordshire. I find I prefer to travel.”
“And we are grateful for it.” Wickham lowered his voice to a tone of intimate confidence. “I must confess, Meryton became unbearably dull after you departed for Kent. Did you enjoy your visit with your friend Mrs Collins?”
It was a calculated question. He was searching for information regarding her encounter with Mr Darcy at Rosings Park. He wanted to know if they had spoken of him.
Elizabeth gripped the carved wooden handle of her parasol.
“My time in Kent was educational.” She tilted her head slightly. “I learned a great deal about the world. I learned how very easily one might be deceived by a pleasant countenance.”
Wickham went very still.
“Indeed?” His eyes darted across her face, searching for the specific meaning behind her words. “Deception is a terrible thing, Miss Elizabeth.”
“It is.” Elizabeth took a single step closer to him. “It is also a temporary state. The truth has a rather persistent habit of revealing itself eventually. Do you not agree, Mr Wickham?”
He did not answer immediately. He looked at Elizabeth, and the easy charm vanished from his eyes when he saw the cold knowledge resting in her gaze.
He knew that she knew.
He did not know how, and he did not know the full extent of her knowledge, but he recognised the change in her demeanour. She was no longer a willing audience for his tragic tales, but an observer, a complication.
