“Our dog is missing,” Elizabeth replied. “She seems to have strayed sometime in the night.”
“Ah,” said Wickham, adopting an expression of easy concern. “A runaway? What kind of dog is she?”
Elizabeth described her with affectionate precision. “A small spaniel, white and brown, with a lot of spirit and sense. We call to Pippin — but she seems to be deaf to her own name now.”
Wickham laughed. “She sounds a charming rebel. And you have seen no trace of her?”
“None yet,” Elizabeth said, glancing toward the distant hedgerows. “Though I suspect she may not be alone. Mr. Darcy’s greyhound, Apollo, is missing as well. The two of them have grown... rather fond of each other.”
For a moment, something unreadable flickered in Wickham’s expression — amusement, perhaps, or something darker.
“So,” Wickham said at last, his tone shifting in a way that made Elizabeth look at him more closely, “you are very well acquainted with Mr. Darcy, I think.”
Elizabeth blinked, surprised by the sudden change in direction. Only a moment ago he had been inquiring after her dog, yet at the mere mention of Apollo he turned at once to Mr. Darcy, as though such a shift were the most natural thing in the world. It was not. And the abruptness of it recalled to her mind Mr. Darcy’s own remark at Longbourn — that he had once known a Mr. Wickham, yet could not suppose it was the same gentleman Lydia so admired in the militia.
That memory alone was enough to make her cautious.
“We have seen him frequently of late,” she replied, choosing her words with deliberate care.
Wickham’s smile deepened, pleasant yet too intent for her liking. “I thought as much. He seldom gives such attention without design.”
Elizabeth kept her gaze on the hedgerow ahead, though every sense was alert. Something in his tone was too smooth, too ready. She felt again that inexplicable unease.
“I cannot speak to his designs, sir,” she said lightly. “Mr. Darcy has been civil to my family, and that is all.”
“Civil,” Wickham repeated, with a soft laugh that did not reach his eyes. “Yes. He can be so when it suits him. Though I have known him far too long to be persuaded by such behaviour.”
Elizabeth turned her eyes back to him then, her expression composed, her tone courteous, her mind quietly braced. “Indeed?” she said. “Then you and Mr. Darcy are acquainted?”
“Intimately,” Wickham said with a melancholy smile. “Our fathers were close as brothers. I was to have had a living under his patronage, but when his father died, Mr. Darcy took care to ensure I received none of it. Pride, jealousy—call it what you will. He never could bear to see anyone share his consequence.”
Lydia, who had doubled back, chimed in eagerly, “Mr. Darcy said he knew someone named Wickham too, but that he was a scandalous creature! I told him it couldn’t be you, of course.”
Wickham’s smile tightened. “Ah—so he is already poisoning my name, I see. How like him. He tells the tale to suit himself, I daresay. But no matter. I am accustomed to bearing his ill opinion. He was born to wealth, and I—to his shadow.”
Elizabeth slowed her pace. “You speak as one much wronged, sir.”
“Wronged indeed,” he said lightly, though the bitterness beneath the words was unmistakable. “Darcy’s life has ever been ruled by pride. It would wound him beyond bearing to be thought unjust, yet injustice has been his constant companion.”
Elizabeth glanced sidelong at him, her expression thoughtful. The frost glimmered on the road, and far off a dog barked—faint, then gone.
Could this be true? Mr. Darcy, so grave, so honourable, so self-controlled—capable of such meanness? The thought unsettled her, but not with belief. It was rather the sharp discomfort of hearing something false spoken of one she had begun to esteem.
She smiled faintly, though her tone was calm. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is safest to form our judgments slowly. I have found that people can surprise us.”
Wickham inclined his head, mistaking the remark for sympathy. “You are very generous, Miss Bennet. The world would be kinder if more shared your nature.”
She made no reply. Her eyes had lifted toward the horizon, where the fields of Netherfield began beyond the copse of elms. A prickle of intuition stirred in her—something between hope and certainty.
“Come,” she said suddenly. “Let us go this way. If Pippin has followed Apollo, she may have headed toward aunt Phillips’ house.”
Lydia groaned but followed, chattering about stress and cold as they went. Wickham’s pleasant voice murmured something beside her, but Elizabeth scarcely heard him now.
Her thoughts were full of another man—one whose words had never sounded like deceit. And as they walked on through the whitening fields, she resolved that whatever Mr. Wickham’s story might be, she would hear Mr. Darcy’s before she judged.
The mist closed softly behind them as they disappeared into the lane, Elizabeth’s clear voice still calling through the cold:
“Pippin! Pippin!”
