Page 114 of A Question of Character

He had not brought Georgiana.

For that, at least, he could be grateful.

fifteen

A Difference of Opinion

Elizabeth battled her confusion as she watched Mr. Darcy ride away from the window in the antechamber off Longbourn’s entrance. What she had overheard between them conflicted with her sketch of both their characters.

She had no notion they knew each other. It was clear there was some hostility, at least on the part of Mr. Darcy. His face had lost every trace of color. Mr. Wickham, usually so entirely master of himself, had stared as though confronted by an apparition.

Neither had spoken for several heartbeats.

Elizabeth had replayed the scene so often that by morning she no longer trusted her recollection. Had Mr. Wickham truly looked surprised? Or cautious? Had Mr. Darcy’s expression contained hatred—or shock?

The questions multiplied without yielding answers.

When Mr. Darcy requested a private word, Mr. Wickham had agreed almost immediately. There had been no bluster. No attempt to avoid him.

That puzzled her nearly as much as anything else.

If either gentleman possessed the villainous character the other implied, would he not have behaved differently?

She sighed and set aside the volume she had attempted to read for nearly a quarter hour without absorbing a single sentence.

Outside, voices drifted through the open window.

Lydia.

Elizabeth smiled despite herself.

Her youngest sister possessed a remarkable talent for banishing solemnity merely by existing.

She descended to the drawing room, where the remainder of the family had assembled. Mrs. Bennet discussed preserves with Hill; Kitty embroidered with uncommon diligence, having recently determined she would improve herself in every possible accomplishment; Mary copied passages from a religious text with determined application; Jane worked upon a piece of needlework.

Mr. Wickham occupied a chair beside Lydia.

He rose as Elizabeth entered.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

She responded in kind to his greeting.

After exchanging the customary civilities she noticed that something was amiss.

Mr. Wickham’s smile remained pleasant enough, but it never quite reached his eyes.

He scarcely looked toward the window, though ordinarily every passing rider invited some humorous observation. Lydia chatted about nothing in particular, yet several of her remarks went unanswered before he apologized and begged her pardon.

Elizabeth concealed her scrutiny.

Lydia, possessing far less restraint, laid aside her work. “You are distracted.”

Mr. Wickham blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have scarcely heard a word I have said.”