Hurst barked a laugh. “Can I assume you refer to Darcy’s comment the night of their first encounter?”
“I beg your pardon, Hurst,” said Bennet with a grin, raising his glass to his lips again, “but I should keep some subjects in confidence.”
Knowing was the only word Bennet could use to describe Hurst’s manner. “Then she overheard him. Well, well, that is interesting and no mistake. It explains her frosty manners with him, though I will note that Darcy appeared not to perceive it.”
“When a man looks at a woman to see naught but blemishes, it is reasonable to suppose that much misses his attention.”
“If the man were not Darcy, I would agree with you,” replied Hurst. “Perhaps I should say nothing further, so I shall say only this: I doubt Darcy looked on your daughter with disfavor. In fact, I suspect his feelings were much warmer.”
“It appears we shall never know, unless he means to return.”
It was no surprise that Hurst did not reply. Matters of the heart and the romantic entanglements of his daughters were no fit subject for any man.
“Notallyour daughters are equally lively,” continued Hurst, returning to the original subject. “Miss Elizabeth and youryoungest are, but your middle daughter and your eldest appear to be cut from another cloth.”
“Mary is never so happy as when she is playing her mournful dirges,” quipped Bennet. “Or quoting Fordyce. As for Jane . . . Well, she can be lively enough when the circumstances permit. Of late, she has not been in good spirits.”
“Unhappy, is she?”
The question was mild, but Bennet knew Hurst would understand the reason for Jane’s recent doldrums, even if he had no sympathy. It was not Hurst’s place to push his brother in the path ofanywoman, so Bennet opted for humor instead of accusation.
“Let us say that a lady often enjoys being crossed in love and leave it at that.”
Hurst made no response at all, and Bennet was content to drop the subject. For a time, they sat together in desultory conversation, speaking of little of consequence.
“Tell me, sir,” said Bennet after a time of this, “do you mean to stay in Hertfordshire or will you return to London for Christmas?”
“For the moment, I consider myself quite settled here,” replied Hurst. “Nothing is drawing me back for the moment, and I find the company there not at all to my taste.”
The potential meanings of that statement were enough to raise Bennet’s interest, but he tamped it down, knowing it was none of his business.
“Then I hope you will accept my invitation to join us for our Christmas celebration at Longbourn. Christmas is not a time for anyone to be alone.”
“Thank you, Bennet, I accept,” said Hurst as Bennet had known he would. “Please give my compliments to your wife. I have heard it rumored in Meryton that she sets a fine table, indeed.”
“I shall do so,” replied Bennet. “If you find yourself at sixes and sevens at Netherfield, pray visit Longbourn at any time. Other than Lizzy, I have not had a challenge at chess for longer than I care to remember. If you play, I should be happy to pit my skills against yours.”
“I do, sir,” replied Hurst. “Thank you for the invitation—I should be happy to accept.”
MR. BENNET’S COMFORTABLEposition speaking with Mr. Hurst did not escape Elizabeth’s attention. It was curious, as she did not think her father had exchanged more than two words with Mr. Hurst before that evening. A moment’s thought told Elizabeth that they were not dissimilar in their disinclination for society, so perhaps that drew them together.
Another thing Elizabeth noticed was her mother’s reaction to Mr. Hurst’s presence. The sight of the gentleman provoked paroxysms just as Elizabeth would have expected had she considered in advance, only settling under the patient ministrations of Elizabeth’s Aunt Gardiner, who had always had a deft touch. Should her mother have the opportunity, Elizabeth knew she would question Mr. Hurst about Mr. Bingley’s absence, and given the mortification attendant on such an application, she hoped that Mr. Hurst would keep his distance.
After that one interaction with Mr. Hurst, Elizabeth had no interest in furthering a conversation with the gentleman. She had little interest in him, never having considered him much of a conversationalist, and he appeared more comfortable with her father anyway. Thus, she paid him little attention, instead focusing on her friends, and at times, the officers. Mr. Wickham had become a favorite, but as Elizabeth esteemed several of the other men, she found herself well entertained.
Of more immediate interest was how Mr. Wickham turned his attention on Miss Mary King, a young woman visiting an uncle who lived on the edge of Meryton society and occasionally joined their functions. Rumor said that Miss King had inherited a fortune of ten thousand pounds of late, which may explain Mr. Wickham’s interest in her. What to make of it was beyond her ability to understand. Had she seen it on a previous occasion, she might have considered him prudent, but the new insights she had gained that evening of the potential shades in his character suggested more mercenary motivations.
Elizabeth’s early suspicion about Mr. Wickham’s character was tested further that evening in a way she could not have predicted. Sir William was not content with a simple punch for the enjoyment of his guests; though he would tell no one what he added to the concoction, that it was present was never in question. The locals accustomed to his parties knew to moderate their consumption; anyone who rarely attended might find himself in his cups, behaving in a way he normally would not.
The officers were, of course, foremost among this group, but having been in Meryton for almost two full months by that time and having experienced Sir William’s party in October, most remembered, taking care to partake but little. Later, Elizabeth realized that Mr. Wickham had not been a member of the corps, and none of his fellows warned him. Thus, by the time the night was waning, Mr. Wickham was showing signs of too much drink.
It was a curious matter, this business of drinking too much spirits, because it affected people in different ways. Some grew despondent, some too happy, and some grew sleepy from too much drink. Mr. Wickham, it appeared, suffered from an excess of drink by becoming far bolder than he ought to be. As the evening progressed, Elizabeth discovered this side of Mr. Wickham’s character in a way that would affect her opinion of him far more than even her earlier revelations.
The first sign that anything was amiss was the officer’s slurred words when speaking in a group with his fellows. Though Elizabeth was not near enough to overhear him, the expressions of those who were closer suggested disgust, and perhaps the realization that he was not as he portrayed himself to be. While that might be attributed to an excess of drink, it was an uncomfortable truth that such things often revealed a person’s character rather than altered it.
“Miss Elizabeth,” slurred the man when she was walking by a little later, intent upon farewelling Charlotte before they departed for the evening. “How fortunate you have passed this way, for I have longed for your company.”
Elizabeth stopped and regarded him, wariness rising, though she had not learned to fear him. “It appears, Mr. Wickham, that you have sampled too much of Sir William’s punch.”
