Mrs. Bennet now stood, flustered. “But what shall people say? That the Bennet girls are shut away like nuns? That we do not receive?”
“They shall say,” Mr. Bennet replied with dry amusement, “that the Bennet household has rediscovered propriety. A most fashionable novelty, if I may say so.”
He left the room without another word—but not before offering Jane a brief, approving nod. The girls sat in uneasy silence for a moment, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the rustle of Mary’s pages as she resumed her reading.
Jane waited a moment after her father’s footsteps had faded down the hall. Then, in her calmest voice, she said, “Papa speaks only from concern, I am sure. He wishes what is best for us all. Mama, you know he would never act to distress you withoutcause. Surely we may all agree to be more cautious—for peace within the house, if nothing else.”
She reached across to place her hand over her mother’s, her smile as warm as ever. “No harm is done, and there is still the Netherfield ball to look forward to. Let us not quarrel when we might prepare for it with harmony.”
***
The road from Longbourn to Netherfield wound gently through the Hertfordshire countryside, and Mr. Bingley rode it in thoughtful silence. The pleasant visit behind him had left a warmer impression than usual, and yet his mind did not linger entirely on Jane Bennet’s gentle smile. Instead, it returned, with growing unease, to the name that Lady Lucas brought into discussion and Mrs. Bennet had so cheerfully reminded: Wickham.
There had been a letter once, from Darcy—cautious, even cryptic—but firm in tone.“If ever you should come across this man—George Wickham—do not trust his appearance. Write to me at once.”At the time, Bingley had not understood the urgency, but now the recollection took clearer shape. Wickham… Yes, his name had indeed been George, like Darcy’s father, and if Bingley recalled correctly, he had even been the man’s godson. Surely no trivial concern would have stirred Darcy to such gravity. It was not his friend’s way to pass judgments lightly.
By the time he reached Netherfield, Bingley had made two decisions. First, that Mr. Wickham would not receive an invitation to the ball at the end of the month——no explanation was necessary. Second, that he must write to Darcy without delay. But even as he finished the letter and folded it for dispatch, another thought emerged with equal clarity: he must speak to Mr. Bennet. Not to accuse—no, that would be improperand premature—but to caution. Whatever Darcy knew, it was enough for Bingley to act.
***
The following day, while on his way to St. Albans, Mr. Bingley requested that his driver make a brief stop at Longbourn. A servant informed him that Mr. Bennet was in his library, and within minutes he was admitted.
Mr. Bennet received him with mild surprise and amusement. “A second visit in as many days?” Mr. Bennet said, rising from his chair. “You spoil us, sir. Tell me—are you here to reclaim a forgotten cane, or to request the hand of a daughter?”
Bingley smiled faintly but did not return the jest. “Neither, I hope, though I do beg your pardon for the interruption. It is a brief matter, but… one I could not delay.”
Mr. Bennet gestured for him to sit. “You have my ear.”
As he took the offered chair, Bingley appeared more subdued than usual. He hesitated only a moment before beginning.
“It concerns one of the officers present at your Friday dinner—Mr. Wickham. When first I met him, I had no cause to think ill of him. But the more I reflect, the more uneasy I become.”
“Ah yes,” said Mr. Bennet, eyes twinkling. “The one our cat Sophocles favoured with a personal serving of soup—to remind him not to parade his soup-eriority over poor Mr. Denny.”
Mr. Bingley blinked, then gave a startled laugh.
Mr. Bennet’s expression did not waver. “Quite soup-tle, I thought. The cat’s sense of justice is as keen as his timing. Forgive me, Mr. Bingley. Go on, please.”
“On Friday,” Bingley continued, “I noticed him watching the young ladies—particularly your daughters—with a… boldness I could not quite excuse. There was something almost wolfish in the way his gaze lingered.” He paused, clearly uncomfortable.
Mr. Bennet’s expression sharpened, though he said nothing.
“I told myself I was mistaken. But last night, when Lady Lucas presented the Miss King episode, the memory returned—and so did something else. A letter Mr. Darcy once wrote to me.”
At this, Mr. Bennet’s brows lifted.
“Darcy spoke of a man named George Wickham. I now recall the name exactly—George, like his father’s. He advised caution, should I ever make that gentleman’s acquaintance. He did not say why, but I have known Darcy too long to dismiss his warnings lightly. He is not a man who traffics in idle dislikes.”
“No,” Mr. Bennet said slowly. “Mr. Darcy is not, I daresay.”
“As a result, I have not invited Mr. Wickham to the upcoming ball,” Bingley added, “nor do I intend to. I hope Mr. Darcy arrives beforehand—I wrote to him last night—but in the meantime, I thought it best to speak to you directly. I know nothing of Wickham's past, but if there is danger in trusting too soon, I could not remain silent.”
There was a pause, heavy but not strained.
Mr. Bennet’s reply, when it came, was firm. “I thank you, Mr. Bingley. It speaks well of you to speak so plainly—especially when it goes against your amiable nature. I shall take your warning seriously. I, too, have noted something behind the man’s charm that gives me pause.”
Bingley nodded with relief, rising from his seat. “I am glad, sir. It may be nothing, but I would rather err on the side of caution than regret silence.”
“And I am glad,” Mr. Bennet replied, standing as well, “that there are still gentlemen willing to name impropriety when they see it—however well-dressed it may be.”
