“But I asked you to put my news in your letter! I would have written to her myself had I known you would not! You are jealous that you have not been invited to spend the summer with Wickham!”
“I did not tell her, Lydia, because it is not true. Mrs Forster merely said it would be pleasant if you were to go.”
“Aye,” said Kitty, “and even she admitted Colonel Forster was unlikely to agree to it.”
“And Papa would forbid you from going even if she did invite you,” Mary added.
“Mama would never allow him to do that,” Lydia scoffed petulantly. Her gaze flicked past them all briefly, then back, and in a challenging tone she said to Elizabeth, “Let us see who is right about my being invited.” So saying, she stepped out into the thoroughfare, waving and calling, “Denny! Sanderson! Wickham!”
Elizabeth turned to see a disorderly group of militiamen spilling from the Red Lion on the far corner, all evidently in their cups. She and Jane called for their sister to come back, but to no avail. With a defiant look, Lydia hitched up her skirts and ran across the road. There was little else the rest of them could do but follow her to the throng of officers.
Wickham squinted at the approaching figure. When it materialised into Miss Lydia Bennet, he attempted to hide behind Denny. Denny promptly fell over, and Wickham tripped over him and stumbled to the left, shoving Brichard into Sanderson. When he righted himself, he found he was no longer facing one Bennet woman, but five—Miss Elizabeth, with her potentially damning information, amongst them. He groaned.
“Wickham!” the youngest screeched, and he winced as the soundlanced through his head. “You’ll never guess what! Mrs Forster wishes me to come to Brighton for the summer!”
This news left Wickham utterly unmoved but for the hope that she might learn to temper her voice somewhat before she arrived.
“Only, she does not think Colonel Forster will agree. But you could persuade him, Wickham, Iknowyou could.”
Miss Elizabeth appeared by her sister’s side. “Mr Wickham is the last person you should expect to help you, Lydia. You lack the only inducement that might persuade him you are worth the trouble.”
“Are you calling me plain?” she objected, resisting her sister’s attempts to drag her away.
“No,” Miss Elizabeth said under her breath. “I am calling you poor.”
Panic assaulted him. Did she know it all then? His reduced circumstances? His less than honest schemes to acquire whatever money he could get his hands on? If she revealed his crack at Miss Darcy’s fortune or Miss King’s or any of the others in between, it would almost certainly spell the end of his career in the militia. And God forbid that his dalliance with Forster’s wife be discovered. “On the contrary, Miss Elizabeth!” he blurted. “Your sister boasts many inducements that might tempt a man.”
A gasp from Miss Bennet and the look of horror on Miss Elizabeth’s face convinced him those might not have been the most well-considered words with which to defend his honour. He stepped backwards, attempting to meld into the safety of his regiment, only to discover the bastards had all deserted him and were halfway down the street. His head began to pound.
“I would not have thought you imprudent enough to attempt it,” said Miss Elizabeth as she turned to leave, ushering her sister before her.
Seized with the conviction the wench was threatening to expose him, Wickham’s panic swelled into indignation. “What is your meaning, madam?” He walked after her but stumbled over his own drunken feet and staggered towards her, grabbing for something with which to steady himself. That something turned out to be Miss Elizabeth’s upper arm. His grip span her around to face him.
“Unhand me at once, sir!”
He made to let go but thought better of it when a wave of nauseating dizziness assailed him, and he almost fell atop her. “I hope youdid not mean to threaten me just now, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr Wickham, I beg you would release me,” she replied, looking about in alarm.
“I should not like to think you so cruel as to reveal whatever tales Darcy has filled your pretty little head with. It is not kind to gossip.”
“Are you preaching to me?” she said angrily. “I had been given to understand that making sermons was not always so palatable to you.”
His head thumped mercilessly, and he felt perilously close to vomiting. “I would really rather you kept Darcy’s charges to yourself.”
“And so I shall, butmycharges are my own to make. You have lied to me from the very beginning of our acquaintance?—”
“Lower your voice, madam!”
“Unhand me!”
She tugged her arm away, pulling him off balance. His feet scuffed forward, his head span, and he held on all the tighter, for there were now black spots at the periphery of his vision. “Stand still!”
“You have whispered vengeful falsehoods in my ear,” she said more loudly, trying to pry his fingers from her arm. “You have defamed a good man for your own promotion.”
“Enough!”
“You have ingratiated yourself into this neighbo?—”
