“No; I could also say that he is the nephew of an Earl, quite wealthy and, apparently, is the master of a large estate.”
“By which you mean that he is above your reach.”
“Exactly; so there is no point in spending any time thinking about him.”
“Do you think this is still the case, given that the Darcys are now the subject of Town gossip?”
Elizabeth replied, sharply, “I have thought of that, Mary. But the gossip will fade and he will still be the nephew of an Earl, while I will still be the daughter of an insignificant country gentlemen.” With that, she quickened her pace, leaving Mary behind.
Mary hurried to catch up with her sister. “I am sorry, Lizzy; I should not have said anything.”
Elizabeth stopped and turned to Mary. “No, it is not your fault, Mary. I am too sensitive, I suppose. Yes, I like him very much, and it is a shame that he is so very wealthy and so very well-connected, as I think we could learn to love one another. Now, please, let us speak no more of it.”
Mary nodded shame-facedly.
The two walked on in silence. Upon reaching Meryton, they went into the bookshop. Mr. Franklin, the bookseller, had known the two Bennet girls since they were born; he greeted them both, and showed them the new books and music that had come in.
Mary made a selection and was ready to leave in just a quarter of an hour, but Elizabeth could be counted on to stay for a good long time, so Mary thought she might go for a quick look at fabrics. Georgiana’s comment about colours had not been forgotten; Mary wondered what she would wear if she chose to express herself rather than hide.
In the fabric shop, she found her eye drawn, again and again, to the colour blue. She had heard, time and again, that Jane and Lydia should wear blue because their eyes were blue, so she had rather thought that particular colour belonged to them. On the other hand, Lizzy wore a good deal of blue as well, and her eyes were as brown as Mary’s. How she wished she could have a dress made of this colour, but she knew Mama would not give her the funds.
She returned to the bookstore and prodded Elizabeth until she was ready to leave. The two girls crossed the street, avoiding steaming piles of horse dung, and walked swiftly past the White Swan, the local pub.
Chapter Fifty
The occupants of the White Swan were accustomed to seeing men in rather disheveled clothing, sitting over their drinks in dark corners. So the Colonel, dressed in similar clothing and nursing a tankard in a far corner, caused neither comment nor interest.
The White Swan was the only pub in Meryton; the Colonel had no doubt that Wickham would show up, sooner or later. The Colonel was patient, like a cat at a mousehole. Sooner or later, the rat would stick its little pink nose out of the hole.
And then there he was, the very rat in question. He entered the pub with several other men in uniform and sat with them, his back to the Colonel.
Good, the Colonel thought. Perfect. He drew his knife out of its scabbard and slid it up his sleeve so that just the tip of the blade was exposed. Then he pulled his hat down over his face.
He rose, quietly, slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself. He walked on cat feet to the table where Wickham sat, and then slowly touched the rat’s back with the tip of the knife. Leaning forward, he whispered, “Get up, Wickham. No, no; if you say aword, I will kill you where you stand.” He pushed the tip of the knife into Wickham’s back, under the rib cage, to make his point.
George Wickham got up from his chair, slowly.
“Tell your friends you are going out for a piss.”
Voice shaking, Wickham did exactly that.
“Very good; now you will walk out the door and I will walk behind you. Remember that I will not hesitate to kill you at once if you make any sudden movements or call out for help. My horse is tethered just outside, and I will be gone before anyone can stop me.”
Wickham obeyed, walking out the door of the pub on shaking legs.
“Good; now turn right and walk into that alley.”
Wickham hesitated. The Colonel pushed the knife into his back harder. “Go on. This is your only chance to save your life.”
Wickham turned into the alley, the Colonel on his heels.
“Now then, if you value your life, tell me where I would find Mrs. Younge.”
“At – at a boarding house in Spitalfield. On White Lion Street.”
“Excellent. Turn around, Wickham.”
He did so and his eyes widened as he saw the Colonel holding the knife pointed at his chest. “Colonel Fitzwilliam! What are you –“
