Darcy sighed internally. Bingley’s sociable nature was his greatest charm and his most exhausting quality. His inability to comprehend how anyone might prefer solitude meant that Darcy was perpetually dragged into social situations from which he derived no pleasure whatsoever.
Now, walking along Meryton’s main thoroughfare while Bingley greeted every shopkeeper and tradesman within a mile radius, Darcy reflected that his instincts had been entirely correct. The bustling market day atmosphere only served to remind him why he preferred the ordered isolation of Pemberley.
“Such a charming town,” Bingley observed, pausing to examine a display of autumn vegetables with the keen interest typically reserved for fine art. “And the people are so very welcoming. I do believe we shall be quite happy here, Darcy.”
Darcy’s response was forestalled by the approach of what appeared to be a military patrol. Bingley immediately brightened at the sight, his natural gregariousness extending to anyone in possession of a uniform.
It was then that Darcy saw him.
George Wickham.
Darcy instinctively slowed his pace, his mind racing through options for avoidance.
“I say, is that Wickham?” Bingley’s voice carried entirely too far, effectively eliminating any hope of discreet retreat. “It is! George Wickham, of all people!”
Wickham turned, his expression shifting from mild inquiry to pleased recognition at the sight of Bingley—and then to something far more complex when his gaze settled on Darcy. The flash of calculation in those familiar eyes lasted only an instant before being replaced by a smile of such apparent warmth and sincerity that anyone who did not know him would be thoroughly deceived.
“Charles Bingley!” Wickham exclaimed, breaking away from his companions to approach them. “What a delightful surprise. And Darcy too—how remarkable to encounter you both in such an out-of-the-way place.”
Darcy clenched his teeth. The memory of Ramsgate surged unbidden—Georgiana’s tear-stained face, her devastation when she realized her “beloved” had been interested only in her fortune. The urge to seize Wickham by his regimental collar and demand an accounting for that betrayal nearly overwhelmed his rigid self-control.
“Wickham.” He offered the barest nod that civility could permit.
Bingley clasped Wickham’s hand. “Indeed, what extraordinary luck! We were at Cambridge together,” he explained to the officers who had followed Wickham. “Though I confess I expected you in the law, Wickham, not the militia. The red coat becomes you, however.”
“The law proved less enticing than I had hoped,” Wickham replied with a self-deprecating smile. “The militia offers excellent company and the opportunity to serve one’s country. Colonel Forster has been most welcoming—I have found a true home in the regiment.”
A true home indeed, Darcy thought bitterly.After squandering your inheritance, failing at every legitimate pursuit, and nearly destroying my sister.
“You must have only recently joined,” Bingley continued. “The regiment arrived in Meryton but a few weeks ago, I understand.”
“Indeed. I had the good fortune to encounter Colonel Forster in London. When he mentioned Hertfordshire, I thought a change of scenery might prove beneficial. I am, indeed, Lieutenant Wickham, at your service.” He punctuated his address with a smooth bow.
The falsehood grated on Darcy’s nerves. A few weeks ago, Wickham had been plotting at a coaching inn with Georgiana’s companion, Mrs. Younge, on trapping his young, fifteen-year-old sister into a compromising situation. One that would have resulted in social death for his sister and a forced marriage to the scoundrel who only cared for her dowry.
No doubt his debts had caught up with him, and he must have escaped to the militia here in Hertfordshire. What a stroke of bad luck for him and Bingley.
“Hertfordshire has much to recommend it,” Bingley enthused. “Fine countryside, friendly neighbors, and charming society. I have taken a lease at Netherfield Park and find myself increasingly content with the decision.”
“Have you indeed?” Wickham’s gaze flickered briefly to Darcy. “How fortuitous that old friends should find themselves in such proximity. Are you similarly settled, Darcy, or merely visiting?”
“Merely visiting,” Darcy replied, keeping his tone neutral despite the tension coiling through him. “I expect to return to Pemberley shortly.”
“Ah, Pemberley.” Something shifted in Wickham’s expression—a hunger quickly masked. “Still as magnificent as ever, I imagine. I often think of it with great fondness.”
The audacity of this statement nearly caused Darcy to forget his resolve to maintain civility. That Wickham should speak of Pemberley with “fondness” after attempting to secure it through his manipulation of Georgiana was beyond offensive.
Bingley, oblivious to Darcy’s mounting anger, filled the awkward silence. “How is your family, Wickham? Your father was steward at Pemberley, was he not? A position of considerable responsibility, I recall.”
“My father, yes.” Wickham’s countenance assumed an expression of practiced grief. “I regret to inform you that he passed away some years ago. A sudden illness—quite unexpected.”
“My dear fellow, I am so very sorry. I had no idea,” Bingley said with sympathy in his voice. “My father would have been quite distressed to learn of Ralph’s passing. They maintained such a warm correspondence over the years. Unfortunately, he, too, passed about a year ago.”
Darcy’s attention sharpened at this intelligence. While Bingley’s father maintained business ties with Pemberley, he had not known that his father’s steward had maintained a relationship with them.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Indeed, your father’s kindness to our family has never been forgotten.” Wickham’s gratitude appeared sincere. “Is your mother well?”
“As well as can be,” Bingley replied. “She is still settling her affairs.”
