Even so, a little investigation could not go amiss. If it was her, and if she remembered anything… No, no one had seen him—of that he felt certain.
Was Anne buried nearby?The thought came unbidden, and a rare feeling of guilt filled him. It was gone as quickly as it came.
His eyes drifted back to the bright red coats of the militia milling around the square, the eager smiles of the young ladies, the easy camaraderie of Denny and his companions. The militia offered more than payment and a warm uniform; it offered access. Access to drawing rooms, to gossip, to the secrets of households that would never open their doors to a man like him otherwise.
If Wickham remained in Meryton, he could keep watch. He could learn whether Elizabeth Bennet truly was that girl, and if she was, how much she knew—or remembered.
And if it grew uncomfortable, well, he was adept at disappearing.
His decision settled like a stone in his chest. Wickham pushed himself off the wall, casting one last glance at Darcy, Richard, and Miss Elizabeth standing together. His smile returned, sharp and practised, as he turned back towards the inn.
Something told him his fortunes were about to change. Let the game begin.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Mr Darcy!”
The voice was bright and effusive—too much so for Darcy’s taste. A familiar tone pierced the morning air, and he turned, resignation prickling at his spine, Mr Collins, round-faced and eager, greeted him. Darcy’s brows lifted, but he masked his irritation with a polite smile.Has he been standing here the whole time?Darcy concluded he had been so focused on Elizabeth that he had missed the clergyman.
“Mr Collins,” he said evenly, nodding in acknowledgment. “My aunt mentioned you would be visiting Hertfordshire. I had not realised your relations lived so near to Netherfield.”
“Indeed, sir!” Mr Collins beamed, already flushed with importance. “I knew you were in the county as well, but I never imagined we would meet so fortuitously. What a happy coincidence!”
Darcy inclined his head, unsure what was required in response to such exuberance. He hoped—futilely—that the encounter would end quickly. But before he could step back or redirect the conversation, a quiet female voice addressed Mr Collins.
“You know Mr Darcy, cousin?”
It was Miss Mary Bennet who spoke, her arm looped through the clergyman’s with a quiet claim of possession. Darcy had not taken much notice of her before—solemn, bookish—but now her eyes were shining with an intensity that caught him off guard.
Mr Collins turned to her with fondness. “Indeed, Miss Mary. Mr Darcy is the nephew of my patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. I had the distinct honour of dining with him on multiple occasions at Rosings Park recently.”
Darcy could not help the faint tightening of his mouth. He struggled with amusement. It seemed Mr Collins had already forgotten some of the lessons Mr Darcy had imparted.
Before Mr Collins could continue, Miss Elizabeth Bennet stepped forwards. “This is a coincidence, is it not? We were just about to show Mr Collins the shops. Would you care to join us?”
There was a flicker in her expression—a measured brightness, perhaps calculated to diffuse Mr Collins’s volume. Darcy’s eyes lingered on her face a moment too long before Bingley interjected with cheerful enthusiasm.
“Of course! I cannot imagine a better use of our time. What say you, Darcy? Fitzwilliam?”
Darcy turned to his cousin, who stood a step behind him, clearly amused by the unfolding scene. Fitzwilliam already charmed the ladies with his characteristic charm. “It is a pleasure to be here. I anticipate a very pleasant stay. My estate, Linden Grange, is only a few hours from here. I cannot be more pleased with Hertfordshire—it is so much more wholesome than London.”
He did not miss the way Richard’s eyes lingered a moment on Miss Elizabeth—curious, discerning. Darcy had not spoken of her, not directly, but he wondered now if his cousin had already guessed too much.
The group set off together along the bustling main street. Mr Collins attached himself firmly to Miss Mary, speaking with great gravity about religious publishers and the importance of moral instruction in youth. Miss Mary listened with rapt attention, hanging on every word, whilst hersisters followed behind, occasionally glancing at their cousin with varying degrees of amusement and disbelief.
Bingley naturally was at Miss Bennet's side. His face lit with unguarded admiration every time she spoke, and Darcy felt a twinge of discomfort at how easily his friend gave himself over to affection.
Darcy kept to the rear with Richard and Miss Elizabeth. Though she remained engaged in casual conversation with his cousin—smiling, teasing—he was keenly aware of her presence. Every turn of her head, every inflection of her voice, pulled at his attention like a current beneath still water.
He listened as Richard bought a small packet of candied orange peels and offered them around with a rakish grin. Miss Elizabeth laughed as she accepted one, and something in that sound lodged itself in Darcy’s chest.
He said little. He did not trust himself to speak, so uncertain was he of the state of his feelings. The morning was too fine, her smile too disarming, and his own thoughts too entangled.
Mr Collins settled some after the excitement of encountering his patroness's nephews faded. He was solicitous to Miss Mary, and Darcy wondered if the man's interest in the lady leaned towards matrimony.
Once the small purchases were complete—ribbons, sweets, a volume of Cowper for Mary—the gentlemen offered to see them home. The walk back was shorter, quieter. The afternoon sun dipped behind the hills, casting the road in golden light.
Outside Longbourn’s gate, they took their leave. Bingley promised to call soon; Richard tipped his hat with a theatrical flourish that made Mary and Miss Elizabeth smile. Darcy, as always, offered a restrained bow.
