Page 87 of A Question of Character

After a minute, Lydia spoke again, this time in a more subdued tone. “You are distracted today.”

Mr. Wickham did not answer for a moment. “I am a little.”

“Is it the office?”

“No.”

“Have I displeased you?” She sounded worried. Lydia rarely cared what others thought of her.

He stopped so abruptly that Elizabeth nearly collided with Kitty.

“No,” he said, and even from behind, Elizabeth heard enough earnestness to believe him. “Never think that merely because I am preoccupied. A letter arrived this morning from an old friend, or a man who once was one. Its meaning is difficult to puzzle out, that is all.”

“Was it unkind?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps merely mistaken.”

Lydia’s hand tightened upon his arm. “You may tell me if you wish.”

“In good time.”

“I can listen,” she said. “I know I talk a great deal, but I can listen too.”

He patted her hand. “I know you can.”

The answer seemed to satisfy her. She leaned a little nearer, and he covered her hand with his for the space of a step before releasing it.

Elizabeth looked away.

The gesture was small, but in it she saw more tenderness than she would have believed possible when thinking of Lydia in the months before. Her sister had become someone’s concern. She was not a nuisance to be indulged or a silly girl to be laughed into greater silliness. Rather, he saw her as a young woman and her feelings were handled as if they mattered.

A person might reform out of shame or out of necessity. Perhaps, if fortunate, out of love.

Elizabeth had said once that she was an excellent judge of character. She still believed it. More than ever, now. Mr. Wickham had faults in his past; he admitted as much. But the man walking before her bore the marks of labor, restraint, and a growing desire to be worthy of the girl who adored him.

That spoke well of him. It spoke very well indeed.

They walked on until the lane bent toward the lower field, where the first hints of evening lay across the grass. Lydia, who had promised not to go far and therefore considered every step a test of obedience, declared they must turn back before Mama accused Lizzy of cruelty and Mr. Wickham of conspiracy.

“I should dislike to be accused of conspiracy before supper,” Mr. Wickham said. “It is a heavy charge on an empty stomach.”

“You would survive,” Lydia replied. “You survive Uncle Philips’s office every day.”

“With the aid of excellent tea and occasional rescue.”

“By me?”

“By you when you remember not to interrupt clients in the passage.”

Lydia made a face at him, then slipped her hand more securely over his arm. “That was once.”

“Twice.”

“The second time was Mrs. Goulding, and she was pleased to speak to me.”

“She was pleased to speak to anyone who would admire her nephew’s handwriting.”

“It was very fine handwriting.”