Page 110 of A Question of Character

“It is one of his best qualities.”

Mrs. Bennet looked from Jane to Darcy and back again with mounting satisfaction. “Mr. Bingley is a most charming gentleman. So pleasant, so lively, and such excellent manners. I told Mr. Bennet last night that he could not have chosen a better tenant for Netherfield if he had ordered one from London.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I do not believe Papa has ever ordered a tenant from London.”

“He might have done if he had any consideration for me.”

Darcy, to his own surprise, nearly smiled. “Bingley would be gratified by your approval, ma’am.”

“He shall have it whenever he likes,” Mrs. Bennet said promptly.

Jane bent over her sewing. Elizabeth pressed her lips together.

The conversation proceeded with more ease than Darcy had expected. Mrs. Bennet’s enthusiasm, though somewhat alarming, held no malice; Jane Bennet’s serenity tempered her mother’s flights; and Elizabeth’s presence made the room seem familiar before it had any right to do so. She asked after Georgiana, and Darcy replied in general terms that his sister remained in London with Mrs. Annesley and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth’s eyes searched his face for a moment, remembering, he knew, his answer at the assembly. She did not press him.

He was grateful.

He was more than grateful.

He was considering whether Longbourn’s morning light suited her better than candlelight when noise sounded in the hall. A younger girl’s laugh, quick and bright. A gentleman’s lower answer. Mrs. Bennet looked toward the door with pleasure.

“Oh, that will be Lydia. And Mr. Wickham, I dare say. He is often here of a morning when Mr. Philips can spare him, and such a comfort as he is to us all.”

Darcy’s hand gripped the arm of his chair.

The door opened.

Lydia Bennet entered first, flushed from walking and carrying her bonnet by its ribbons. Beside her came a young man in a dark coat, handsome, easy in posture, with one hand extended to return a folded paper to her.

George Wickham.

For an instant the room contracted to the space between them.

The sound went wrong. Mrs. Bennet continued speaking, perhaps introducing the young lady with Wickham, perhaps naming Lydia, perhaps saying something of Mr. Philips and the office. Elizabeth’s voice followed, but Darcy could not distinguish the words. Blood beat in his ears, hot and violent, while his whole body grew cold.

Wickham stopped just inside the room.

Surprise crossed his face first. Then caution. Then something darker, guarded and assessing, gone as soon as it appeared.

Elizabeth’s hand touched Darcy’s sleeve.

“Mr. Darcy?”

The pressure was light. Enough to recall him to the room. Enough to remind him that they were in Longbourn, before ladies, beneath the eye of the woman he hoped to court and the family who received Wickham as a friend.

Darcy rose.

Every conversation died.

Lydia looked between the two men, puzzled. Mrs. Bennet’s mouth remained partly open. Jane set her sewing aside.

Wickham bowed first. “Mr. Darcy.”

“Mr. Wickham.”

The name tasted like iron.

Elizabeth’s hand had fallen from his arm, but he felt the absence of it with unwelcome clarity.