Her father sat forward in his chair. “Do you think Mr. Darcy is playing with your affections as a means to enact retribution for his humiliation at your hands?”
“Not at all,” she answered quickly, the question leaving a sour taste in her mouth. “He is a man of honor.”
Easing back, her father said, “Be cautious, Lizzy. These great men are known to play games where simple men like me do not know the rules. Whether it is Mr. Darcy or this Mr. Wickham will need to be determined. Possibly, it is a private matter between the two gentlemen that will have nothing to do with you at all.”
“Papa, I will not borrow trouble,” she told him firmly. “I am likely to meet Mr. Wickham, hear what he has to say, if anything, and make my own judgment. I will not allow doubt to affect what I feel.”
Rubbing his face, her father mused, “Doubt, once seeded, is a persistent weed.”
“Papa!”
Gathering the wrapping paper and string, she left his study to place the eighth drawing with the others. Fondly, she gazedat the pieces placed together. In every way, it showed Darcy’s devotion to her.
She wished they had the freedom to correspond while he was in London. For some reason, the need to be in his presence was strong. To be reassured. To feel the warmth of his love.
Elizabeth encounteredMr. Wickham quite by accident two days later in Meryton. She had walked to town with Charlotte to purchase ribbon for their ball gowns. They were leaving the shop when a gentleman in a red militia coat approached.
“Miss Lucas, I am pleased to see you again.” He bowed with practiced grace. “Might I have an introduction to your friend?”
Once Charlotte performed the task, Elizabeth looked directly at Mr. George Wickham, finding him exactly as Lydia and Kitty described. He was handsome, perhaps even more than Lydia’s descriptions suggested. Fair hair, pleasant features, and an easy smile that appeared genuine.
“Delighted.” He bowed to her with the same grace. “I hope I do not presume too much by telling you that your sisters spoke so warmly of you that I was eager to make your acquaintance.”
Lydia had been correct about his manners. He was serious and respectful. He asked intelligent questions about Charlotte’s family, listened attentively to her responses, and spoke with a gravity unusual in a young officer.
“You are not like the other militia men my sisters described,” Elizabeth observed as they began walking back toward Longbourn. Charlotte tactfully gave them the illusion of privacy while remaining a few paces behind.
His smile was self-deprecating. “I fear I am considered rather dull by the younger ladies. I lack the talent for constant entertainment that seems so valued in Meryton.”
It was well said, and she could not fault the sentiment.
“Your sisters mentioned that you were recently at Netherfield Park caring for Miss Bennet during her illness.” Mr. Wickham continued, “That must have been quite trying for you.”
“My sister needed me, sir.”
“I understand well. Family loyalty is…” He paused, a shadow crossing his pleasant features. “It is everything, is it not?”
“Do you have family in the area, Mr. Wickham?”
“I am afraid I do not.” His gaze took on a distant quality. “I grew up in Derbyshire, actually. My father was steward to a great estate there. Perhaps you have heard of Pemberley?”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. “I am acquainted with its master.”
“Fitzwilliam Darcy.” An emotion flickered in his eyes that she could not quite read. “Your sisters mentioned his particular attentions to you.”
“We are acquainted,” Elizabeth said carefully, unwilling to confirm more.
“I see.” He was quiet for a moment, weighing his words. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet. I should not have mentioned him. Our past is complicated, and I have no wish to speak ill of anyone.”
His very reluctance made her curious. “You were friends once? You and Mr. Darcy?”
“As boys, we were as close as brothers.” Genuine regret colored his tone. “Mr. Gerald Darcy, Fitzwilliam’s father, was exceedingly kind to me. He treated me almost as a second son.”
“What changed?”
Mr. Wickham’s smile was sad. “People change, Miss Bennet. Circumstances change. When old Mr. Darcy died, myconnection to the family…ended. It is a common enough story, I suppose. The steward’s son has no claim on the new master’s friendship.”
His pain was visible. Not the affected sorrow of someone seeking sympathy. Genuine hurt.
