Very naturally then, as we sat down to dinner, the question arose as to why Fitzwilliam was leaving Rosings Park. But instead of my aunt, it was Miss Elizabeth who asked.
“I do not know what draws you away from Kent, sir, but the weather at present does not seem a likely inducement to travel,” she said.
“I do not recall a more rainy spring,” he replied. And with a nod of deference to her home county, he added, “But I have business in Hertfordshire, ma’am.”
“Hertfordshire?” Lady Catherine demanded. “I assumed you were needed at your regiment. If I had known you were only goingthere,I would not have given you leave to go. What is it that takes you to such a place, Nephew?”
“I have business with the militia there.”
“The militia! Whatever it is cannot be so very interesting. Upon my word. You must not go. I forbid it.”
“It is, however, interesting to me. There is a man of my acquaintance who has surfaced in the militia in Hertfordshire after having gone into hiding for multiple offences. I mean to roust him.”
“Yes, but why mustyougo? Send a letter to his general demanding he be punished.”
“The office would fall to his colonel, ma’am, and in any case, this matter is far too personal to be delegated. He is a practiced seducer who lies well. Good people are drawn to him. They believe his false claims of woe. For all I know, he has his colonel’s sympathy because he makes a show of being a brave, mistreated man. But, in fact, he is no one’s tool save the Devil’s.”
I tried—I truly tried—but I could not arrest the sharp glance I threw across the table. Miss Elizabeth had raised her head in surprise, and our eyes locked. By the look of dismay on her face, it was clear she knew the name of the scoundrel in question.
“He sounds very bad,” she said carefully as she dragged her eyes away from mine.
“That he is known to steal what is not his and make mischief wherever he goes is of little consequence when compared to the injury he has done to—well, so many. Yet it does not bear talking of over such a fine roast.” Fitzwilliam raised his glass in compliment to Lady Catherine and Mr Collins then drowned all talk of his going with expressions of wonder at the sumptuousness of the food.
For good or ill, this had all taken place.
My initial hope had been that Miss Elizabeth would learn of Wickham’s character indirectly. In other words, after Fitzwilliam’s intervention, I had hoped she and all her acquaintance would hear from Colonel Forster that Wickham was a reprobate unworthy of his rank. I did not wish to be present when this revelation was made because I did not want to be connected to it in any way, for it raised many uncomfortablequestions, such as why I did not say more than I did at the time. That I was there when she learnt the truth was not ideal, but at least she now knew that I was not alone in my estimation of the man.
Wickham’s presence in Meryton had been a constant worry only aggravated by what I overheard of the lady’s admiration for him, and his loss of her favour and removal from that county were now all but assured.
The subsequent days of my visit to Rosings then passed without any relief.
I felt duty-bound to stay after my cousin left, but truthfully, the obligation was not deep and could have been easily overcome. I lingered for the sake of agony, I suppose, though it made no sense at all.
Lord knows I tried to hate her. I avoided her assiduously for the time I remained in her proximity. If our paths crossed in the park where she walked nearly every day regardless of the persistent rain, I turned my horse in the opposite direction. If forced to confront her, I nodded coldly and spoke but distantly. I was not proud of how unequal I was to looking her in the eye, or how incapable I was of pretending she had not wounded me.
Time crept along as I nursed my regrets, my resentment, and the injuries upon my pride. But eventually, I concluded that no good would come of lingering in Kent. Familiarity did not, in this instance, bring to me the relief of any lasting contempt for her.
I spoke privately to my coachman and valet to make plans to go in four days’ time.
That same afternoon, Mr and Mrs Collins and their party arrived at Lady Catherine’s invitation to take tea. Anne, providentially, did not come down. Most likely she was too ill, which would account for why my aunt made no mention of her absence, for she did not wish to underscore her daughter’s weakness within my hearing.
Soon after every other formality required of such a visit had been satisfied, Miss Elizabeth announced to my aunt she would leave in the morning.
“Leaving? So soon? You must not think of it. You have barely given Mrs Collins one month of your time. Why, in my day, we did not visit anyone for less than three months together.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said calmly, “but my family expects me, and my uncle writes he has sent my older sister home from London because the roads are only getting worse. He urges me to come while I yet may.”
“And you, miss?” Lady Catherine turned her awful countenance upon poor Miss Lucas.
Mrs Collins spared the girl from having to offer what would have been a stuttering reply by answering for her.
“My father has written that my sister must stay the whole of spring, ma’am, since the rains in Hertfordshire have been constant, and he does not wish to send his carriage this far unless it is necessary.”
I could see where this reply would lead. Mrs Collins’s friend would be harassed for another half an hour, commanded to also stay in Kent, and belittled for even considering going away before she was told to leave. Having no inclination to hear more in this vein, I interrupted.
Looking directly at Miss Elizabeth, I asked, “Have the rains affected your father’s farms?”
“Unfortunately, yes. No seeds have yet been set. By all accounts we expect a poor harvest this year.”
