CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Meryton – December 1811
THE LANE GREW NARROWER as they turned toward outskirt Meryton, the frost crisping beneath their boots and a thin flurry of new snow drifting down in languid, silvery flakes. The fields stretched pale and quiet around them, the faint breath of winter mist rising from the hedgerows. Lydia, who had tired of calling, drew her shawl tighter.
“If we do not find her soon,” she said, “we ought to go home. She will turn up, Lizzy. You know how she is—she can’t stay out long in the cold.”
Elizabeth’s breath clouded as she answered, “And that is precisely why we must keep looking. This cold would bite her more cruelly than us.”
Wickham, walking slightly ahead, cast a gallant glance over his shoulder. “Miss Bennet need not worry. A clever spaniel will always find her way back home. You see, they remember kindness. Even when the world forgets them. You strike me as kind, your spaniel would find its way home.”
His words rang with easy sentiment, but Elizabeth heard the faint performance beneath them. She decided to test it.
After a few minutes, Elizabeth glanced toward him and said, in an easy, conversational tone, “Do you know Miss Darcy well?”
He faltered for a breath, then recovered his smile. “Georgiana? Oh, yes. When she was a child, I was near a brotherto her. I was the only person she trusted, the only one she turned to. I taught her to ride, to read the classics. Poor girl—she had such a tender heart before her brother’s influence made her proud. Now she is as haughty as he. Worse, perhaps, because she pretends gentleness.”
Elizabeth studied him, the snowflakes melting against her lashes.Proud?The girl Mr. Darcy had described—so timid, affectionate, devoted—did not fit this portrait. Darcy had spoken of her with quiet warmth, almost reverence. Either Darcy was a deceiver of extraordinary skill, or Wickham’s charm hid a lie.
Her answer was forming when Kitty’s shrill voice broke the silence. “Hush—did you hear that?”
A faint sound carried through the still air: a short, high bark, distant but distinct.
“Pippin!” Elizabeth cried, her heart leaping. “Did you hear it? That was Pippin!”
Wickham tilted his head, peering toward the open fields. “I can’t say I heard it clearly. There are no prints in the snow, you see. No animal has passed this way since dawn.”
Elizabeth turned to him, her voice cool but edged with impatience. “Surely your training has taught you better, sir. The snow began falling after midnight—any prints left before then would now be covered.”
He blinked, caught off guard by her logic, then gave a laugh that did not reach his eyes. “Ah, yes—so it would. I had not considered the hour.”
“There it is again!” cried Lydia, gripping Kitty’s arm. The bark came sharper now, followed by another, strained and plaintive.
Elizabeth’s heart seized. “That is her—she’s hurt.” Without waiting for the others, she started toward the sound, skirts brushing the frosted grass. The noise led them off the road andthrough a gate into a low farmstead bordered by bare hedges and stubbled fields of winter rye and turnip.
The bark came once more—weak but unmistakable.
“Pippin is here,” Elizabeth said, breathless with relief.
“See?” Wickham said, smiling. “She escaped alone. No other dog in sight—”
He stopped short.
From the fog beyond the barn came the sharp thud of running paws. The next instant, Apollo burst from the whiteness like a creature of storm and shadow, his coat silvered by frost, eyes fixed with furious intent. He charged straight at Wickham.
The man barely had time to cry out before the greyhound was upon him. Wickham stumbled backward, a startled oath escaping him as the dog’s teeth caught his coat, tearing through the fabric to his leg.
“Good heavens!” Kitty shrieked. Lydia clutched her arm and screamed in turn.
“Apollo! Stop! Apollo, no!” Elizabeth cried, rushing forward, but the greyhound held fast, his body taut as a drawn bow.
Wickham struggled, cursing under his breath. He snatched at the torn hem of his coat, twisting free just enough to snatch the fabric from the dog’s mouth. The cloth tore with a snarl, and Wickham—white-faced and breathless—turned and fled down the path, limping.
Apollo sprang after him, swift and silent, then stopped at the gate and watched until Wickham’s figure vanished into the mist. Only then did he turn back, his chest heaving, tail low but wagging faintly. He padded up to Elizabeth and lowered his head, pressing it gently against her skirt as if in apology.
Elizabeth, shaken but composed, knelt to stroke his neck. “Good boy,” she whispered, half dazed. “What on earth—? I have never seen you so fierce.”
Apollo whined softly, his amber eyes full of trust. It was as though he had punished some private enemy and was now content again.
