Thanking her, Elizabeth departed, walking the short distance to the joiner’s shop. There, Mr. Jens presented a plain wooden box with a lock for five shillings, complete with a shallow tray that concealed the contents beneath when in place. It was perfect. Elizabeth thanked him and made the purchase, wincing as she parted with so much of her pin money.
The box, wrapped in paper and tucked within the spacious basket she carried, was heavy but manageable. She had just stepped out of the shop when she collided with a figure in red.He caught her shoulders to steady her, keeping his hands there until he was certain she would not stumble.
“Miss Elizabeth! What a pleasant surprise. Why, it has been weeks since we were last in company.” Mr. Wickham smiled broadly, his dark hair neatly styled and his uniform pristine. “May I walk with you?”
She grinned. “Good day, sir. Yes, I would be glad of the escort. I am bound for Longbourn.”
His smile faltered. “I…that is, I cannot walk so far, for I am to call upon Miss King.” His smile turned apologetic. “You understand, do you not? I am in circumstances that require some attention to fortune when choosing a wife. Miss King is well-dowered…” He trailed off, his gaze roaming her features before fixing upon the satin peeking from beneath her bonnet. “Your ribbon is lovely,” he murmured, lifting a hand to where it touched her cheek. “It matches the color of your eyes.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. Could it be him? Was this some subtle farewell?Do not be foolish,reason chided.Why would he heap such attentions upon you while attempting to woo another?He had admitted as much—that Miss King’s dowry was his incentive. Upon further reflection, she noted an anxious sort of feeling in her chest rather than the familiar excitement reserved for her admirer.
Could Mr. Wickham have been my admirer if Mr. Darcy had not ruined his prospects?
The old resentment stirred, and Elizabeth felt anger brewing anew. How readily she had forgotten Mr. Darcy’s hauteur when first he came to Hertfordshire.
“I thank you,” she whispered. “I must be going.”
Stepping aside, she hurried away, eager to free herself from the tangle of her opposing sentiments. She no longer disliked Mr. Darcy, but Mr. Wickham’s sudden presence rekindled old doubts. Could the gentleman she had begun to respectheartlessly cast off a friend his father had loved as a godson? Such duplicity, if true, was not to be excused.
How is one to understand another’s true motives?she wondered as she strode away, leaving Mr. Wickham standing before the joiner’s, his polished smile fading with each step she took. The basket on her arm thumped lightly against her hip as she walked, though she scarcely felt its weight.
With frustration tightening in her gut, Elizabeth quickened her pace, turning her steps toward Oakham Mount. The little hill called to her, a place of solitude and open sky where her thoughts might unravel in quiet nature. The path she chose was the longer route to Longbourn, a full two miles, but the exertion would be welcome. By the time she returned home, she might better understand the unrest stirring within her.
As her boots crunched over frost-laced leaves, she allowed the steady rhythm of her walk to guide her thoughts. The contradictions between the two men loomed large.
Mr. Wickham had, in their earliest acquaintance, spoken of his nemesis without restraint. He had described him as proud, unfeeling, and unjust; yet the gentleman she had since begun to know did not align with that telling, leaving her in a state of confusion more acute than before.
By all appearances, Mr. Wickham was the epitome of warmth and affability. He conversed with ease, charmed effortlessly, and wore his likability as though it were a well-tailored coat. He had offered ready explanations, painted himself the injured party with an admirable command of sympathy, and delivered subtle criticisms of his former friend with just enough reluctance to give them an air of truth.
Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, had been quite the opposite at their first meeting. Reserved to the point of incivility and seemingly disdainful of the society in which he found himself,he had scarcely appeared to tolerate the company of others. His pride had struck her as bordering upon insolence.
Of late, however, his manner had become less severe. His attentions had grown more deliberate, more personal. Though still not a man inclined to easy banter, he now looked at her—trulylooked—and spoke with a thoughtful gentleness that gave her pause. What of his civility as they danced at Lucas Lodge, his careful praise of her wit and spirit? Surely, such a man could not be wholly bad.
Could both gentlemen be in the right? Or were both hiding truths to suit their ends?
Yet had she not, until now, accepted Mr. Wickham’s account without question? She had never heard Mr. Darcy’s version of events; all she possessed was the charming lieutenant’s tale, colored as it must be by his own resentments. And Mr. Darcy, when given the opportunity during their dance at the Netherfield ball, had chosen silence. Whether through pride or reserve, he had left her in ignorance, and that silence unsettled her much as Wickham’s words.
Was it not possible that even scoundrels could wear good manners when it served them? Or that the proud might extend courtesy when it aligned with their personal affections?
She paused at a bend in the path, tilting her face to the gray winter sky. The sun, weak and pale, offered little warmth, but the brisk wind cleared her mind somewhat. Still, there remained a storm within—a tumult of impressions and recollections vying for precedence.
Elizabeth had always prided herself on her discernment. She trusted her ability to read people, to see through pretense. And yet here she was, uncertain whom to believe, uncertain who had spoken falsehood and who had been wronged. One man she had liked at once; another she had dismissed with scorn. Nowshe began to doubt not only her first impressions, but her own judgment.
Her pride stung at the thought.
She pressed on, boots slick with half-melted frost. The hedgerows stood bare, the trees stark and brittle against the dimming sky. Nature, at least, was honest in its severity. It did not pretend to be what it was not.
As Oakham Mount came into view, Elizabeth allowed herself a sigh of relief. She would reach the summit, sit awhile, and attempt to sift truth from affection, logic from emotion. Mr. Wickham’s easy charm, Mr. Darcy’s awkward attentions—both were layered with complexities she had not anticipated.
She would not allow herself to be deceived—not by appearances, not by manners, not even by her own wounded pride.
Chapter Eleven
December 28, 1811
Oakham Mount
Darcy
