This caught Lady Pembridge’s attention as much as it did my own. “Wickham, did you say?” she asked. “I had thought that rascal would be dead by now. Hung by the neck or rotted in gaol.”
“I shall see him there if I can ever catch him,” Sir Hugh said grimly to his wife, “if only to keep Arneson from murdering him.”
“What has Arneson against him?”
“What else? He swindled the poor man out of a large slice of his operating capital in one of his rascally schemes, and now that the mine has closed and his business is in decline, Arneson is determined to get back what was stolen. I shall never understand how Wickham’s father, that decent and practical man, could have had any hand in the making of such a son.”
Mr. Darcy stood stock-still for this exchange. He glanced at me before he replied in the measured and disinterested tone of someone who wishes to quit a subject, “I have lately heard George Wickham is an officer in the militia.”
“The militia! Good God! What—are the barracks of the home guards to become a refuge for gutter rats? Where is he posted?” he demanded to know.
Mr. Darcy, closely observing his sister, did not instantly reply, so I cleared my throat and said, “I do not know whether he is the same man you speak of, but I made the acquaintance of a Mr. Wickham under the command of a colonel by the name of Forster. They are stationed in the southern counties for the winter—in Meryton.”
“Where is Meryton?”
“Hertfordshire, sir,” I replied, striving not to glance at Mr. Darcy in confusion. Why had he left this explanation entirely to me?
“Well, well. I will be damned! Arneson will be glad to know since he is—oh, there is Fee,” he cried, crouching down to greet the approaching liver and white spaniel. Wood, the master of the kennel, stood politely at the doorway, holding a stout and curious pup, and nothing more was said of Mr. Wickham.
The arrival of the dogs allowed me the opportunity to covertly observe Miss Darcy. She sat calmly and with a pleasant expression, but there was a suspiciously frozen quality to that look that reminded me of a mask. Mr. Darcy, too, looked a touch grim and had seemed intent on turning Sir Hugh’s attention entirely away from the subject of Mr. Wickham. For my part, I was both shocked and gratified. I had recently begun to question that man’s character, but to hear in plain terms that he was a scoundrel and perhaps even fleeing an unsavory past astonished me!
Every memory of having encouraged his confidences, of hotly defending him against Mr. Darcy’s cold remarks, of taking his side—oh, I could not bear to think of it! I am sure I blushed for my stupidity!
In another ten minutes, the company left. Miss Darcy went upstairs to her room, and Mr. Darcy, his jaw hardened and a look of distraction in his eyes, bowed me out of the room. Mrs. Annesley and I went up to the little parlor, and while Mrs. Jennings dozed in her chair, the lady knitted a scarf as I, still reeling, pretended to read a book.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The following day was perhaps more subdued than usual. Miss Darcy excused herself, and courtesy of the chatty day maid, we learned she was in conference with her brother in the study. She returned, looking serene and pleased to sit with us, but there was about her that quality of flatness, of being spent, characteristic of any girl who has had a good cry. Unquestionably, the squire’s visit had cast a pall over her, and I could only suspect that news of Mr. Wickham was the source of her gloom, for she had visibly frozen in her chair the moment his name was spoken.
This affected me. Firstly, I did not understand the circumstance and was afraid to say anything for fear of making things worse. And secondly, I, in what seemed a settled condition of despondency in those days, could not raise my own spirits, much less hers. To make things worse, Auntie, who had the uncanny knack of a hothouse flower to sense the tiniest change in temperature, felt that something was not right. She became listless and fretful in response to our pensive silences, asking irritably whether I might find Mr. Jennings and bring him to her, for she had something particular to say to him. When I gently explained he was away, she slumped in her chair and refused to look at me.
Into this scene of constraint came Mr. Darcy. He tried, by speaking with gentle consideration to the lady, to bring her about a little. But then, seeing how things stood, he stepped away to retrieve something, he said, that he had been meaning to show us. When he returned, he had a small puppy in the crook of his elbow.
“The runt of the litter,” he said gently. “She is not as rough and tumble as the rest—”
“Oh!” My heart melted, and I took the thing from him, and dipping down on my knees in front of her chair, I presented her to Mrs. Jennings. She roused a little, unable to resist the temptation to run her finger along the pup’s silken muzzle, while I could not cease to stroke her tiny ears and pink belly and to palpate the miniature pads on her feet.
Georgiana took her turn, nuzzling it tenderly, and then Mrs. Annesley had the idea to introduce the kittens to our visitor. This entertained us because the poor pup was endearingly befuddled, and the kittens, in typical feline fashion, refused to notice it.
“Snubbed!” I said, scooping her up and kissing her tiny pink nose in apology. “Never mind. Cats will always be wicked, my darling, and that is part of their charm. But you—oh, I could love you if only my mother would not kill—”
I cut off this intimate commiseration, acutely aware that I had captured the notice of everyone in the room. Mr. Darcy looked—tenderly? Patiently? I did not know how he looked at me, but I relinquished the dog and thanked him kindly for bringing her to lift Auntie’s spirits.
The effect was short-lived, however. Mrs. Jennings fell into a somnolent state that was not quite sleep, and our company crept out of the room. When the maid came to see to our needs, I bade her to sit with the widow for a few minutes, and I retreated to the silence of the gallery.
I stared out at the lake, and after five minutes of indulging such low spirits as must sink a flagship, I shook myself into finding something useful to do. On instinct alone, I sought out Mrs. Reynolds and enquired after Penny and Doreen and, out of duty, Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
“They are well enough, miss,” she said with a touch of asperity. “Though—forgive me. I should not pass judgment.”
“Whatever your judgment might be, I could not agree with you more. Tell me, did you get shown Mrs. Smith’s back as she stood over the cookstove?”
“She did not dare,” she said crisply, and then relenting with a grim smile, she added, “But then I have had much practice depressing kitchen tyrants.”
“And what of our…” I floundered. I wanted to ask what they made of our going to Pemberley in such an odd haste and with so little preamble, as though we were escaping—which, I suppose we were.
Mrs. Reynolds seemed to understand me, and said, “They are pleased to have their consequence inflated by a mistress who is a guest at Pemberley. I asked Doreen to pack the rest of your things. I hope you do not mind, but I cannot see Miss Darcy relinquishing you any time soon.”
“Oh? And for Mrs. Jennings as well?”
