“We hope to see you again soon,” Jane said kindly.
Wickham glanced back with a quick, almost sheepish smile. “As do I.” Then he hurried off, weaving through the crowd with surprising speed.
Elizabeth watched him go, her brow furrowing. “That was odd,” she murmured, but before she could consider it further, the sound of horses’ hooves on the cobbles drew her attention.
She turned to see three riders approaching, the autumn sun glinting off their polished boots and the brass buttons of their coats. Two she recognised instantly—Mr Bingley’s cheerful countenance and Mr Darcy’s composed, solemn expression.
The third rider, however, was unfamiliar. He was dark-haired, with an easy smile and eyes that missed nothing as they swept over the busy street. As they dismounted, Mr Bingley caught sight of Jane and Elizabeth, and raised a hand in greeting.
“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, what a pleasure to see you both enjoying the morning,” Bingley said warmly, striding forwards. “May I introduce Mr Richard Fitzwilliam, cousin to Darcy?”
Mr Fitzwilliam’s bow was neat, and his smile was genuine. “A pleasure, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth. I have heard much of your delightful countryside already.”
Elizabeth curtsied, her eyes meeting his briefly, and for a moment, a strange feeling pricked at her memory. There was something familiar in his manner, the easy confidence, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. But she could not place it.
“We are pleased to meet you, Mr Fitzwilliam,” Jane replied graciously.
Mr Darcy stood a little apart, his eyes unreadable as they rested briefly on Elizabeth before moving away, as if he, too, was uncertain whether to speak.
Elizabeth’s mind lingered on the oddness of Mr Wickham’s sudden departure, but as she glanced between the two cousins, she pushed the thought aside, determined not to let her curiosity overshadow the moment.
After all, it was only a walk on a clear autumn morning. There was nothing to worry about.
Wickham stood in the shadowed corner near the inn’s doorway, arms crossed, watching the street with narrowed eyes. From here, he was close enough to see the newcomers clearly, though too far to catch their conversation over the din of carts and laughter in the square.
He recognised Darcy immediately, even at a distance. No one else sat a horse with such rigid precision, as if the beast itself were an extensionof the rider. Wickham’s jaw tightened, and he cursed under his breath, shifting his weight against the cold wall. Of all the miserable luck.
The militia had seemed the perfect solution to his financial inconveniences. Denny, ever eager for company, had found him in an inn outside London and sung the praises of Meryton’s easy living—plenty of society, free food from obliging locals, and payment for their services. The red coat, Denny had assured him with a wink, was enough to attract many a lady’s eye.
Wickham had liked the sound of that. Better than begging for scraps from patrons or dodging creditors across London’s alleys. The militia offered respectability without effort.
And yet here was Darcy. And if his eyes did not deceive him, Richard Fitzwilliam as well.
Wickham’s lips curled into a humourless smile. So, the illustrious family was gathered in Hertfordshire now. How convenient…and vexing.
No, he would not let Darcy—or Richard—chase him off. Wickham had learned the art of avoidance well enough, and if he played it carefully, he could remain unnoticed by Richard altogether. It seemed prudent after all, considering his last encounter with Darcy’s family.
His mind flashed, unbidden, to Georgiana Darcy and his attempts at securing her dowry over the summer. Darcy’s appearance had shattered everything. Wickham’s stomach twisted, and he pushed the memory aside. That had been a miscalculation, nothing more. And he had learned to avoid miscalculations.
His gaze drifted back to the little group in the street, and he studied the faces with idle curiosity. There was a gentleman he did not know, Darcy, Richard Fitzwilliam. A small cluster of young ladies with them, all chattering brightly. Wickham’s eyes caught on one, a dark-haired youngwoman whose laughter, even from a distance, seemed to warm the cold air around her.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he recalled. She had been introduced just before he left the square—her smile quick and genuine, her eyes bright with curiosity.
There was something about her that nagged at him, something beyond the pleasant impression she had made. His brows furrowed as he tried to place it, and then, like a lantern flaring in the dark, understanding struck.
Meryton. How had he not realised how close it was to that stretch of road five years ago? The overturned carriage, the late summer heat, the lifeless form of the woman beside him, and the child—squalling, inconvenient, useless.
He had left the whelp in the carriage, certain it would not last the hour. The mother had not moved, and Wickham had been in pain and too desperate to care.
But the girl. He remembered now through the fog of ale and fear. A girl had arrived from the trees, had pulled the basket containing the child from the wreckage with shaking hands.
Could it have been Elizabeth Bennet? The age would be about right. The colouring, perhaps. Wickham shivered despite himself, the memory of the rain-soaked road and the cold, accusing wails of the child echoing in his mind.
He scowled, pushing away the discomfort. Good riddance to the whelp. He had no need for the complications of a child—he had been rid of it, and that was all that mattered. Still, curiosity crept into his mind like a persistent draft.
What had happened to the child after the girl—Elizabeth Bennet?—had taken him away?
Wickham rubbed a hand across his mouth, considering. He could not be sure it was her; it had been so fast, and he had been panicked. Perhaps he was imagining it, letting the coincidence of the place and her face play tricks on him.
