Elizabeth quickened her pace slightly to see what had occasioned the excitement.
One of the officers she recognised as Mr. Denny, a young man of pleasant enough manners who she had seen at balls once or twice with the usual militia party. The other she did not know. He was tall, fair-haired, and possessed of the kind of easy, open countenance that presented itself well at a first glance.
"Who is that with Mr. Denny?" Elizabeth asked as she reached Kitty's side.
"That," Kitty said, with evident satisfaction on her face, "is Mr. Wickham. He is one of the newest officers in Meryton and quite one of the most handsome in the regiment. Everyone says so."
The two men soon crossed the road to meet the group. Mr. Denny made the introductions. Mr. Wickham bowed with a grace that suggested he had done it many times and found it no effort at all. He smiled at the party generally and settled into easy conversation with the group. Lydia and Kitty immediately claimed Mr. Denny, informing him that they were on their wayto their Aunt Philips's after visiting the market. The two officers offered to accompany the ladies and their cousin.
The two youngest sisters walked ahead with Mr. Denny. Mr. Collins, who contributed little beyond observations on Lady Catherine de Bourgh's opinions regarding the militia and the ongoing war, remained beside Mary. Elizabeth soon found herself walking beside Mr. Wickham more by circumstance than design. He walked to her left.
Curious as to how she had never encountered him before, particularly when Kitty and Lydia appeared already well acquainted with him—in fairness, they contrived to become acquainted with every militia officer, whether in life or in print—Elizabeth initiated a conversation.
"You have not been in Hertfordshire long?" she asked.
"Less than a month," he said pleasantly. "We came the day after the Meryton assembly. Denny told me I missed a great deal."
"He was not wrong," Elizabeth smiled. "The neighbourhood considers a good assembly a considerable event."
"And do you?" Wickham asked.
"I find them useful," she replied. "One learns a great deal about people in a crowded room."
Wickham smiled and shook his head in agreement.
"That has been my experience also. Though I confess I had heard something of Hertfordshire before I came. I spent a summer at Luton not far from here as a boy and have always thought well of Hertfordshire."
"Then you are already half acquainted with us," Elizabeth said. "That puts you at a considerable advantage over most new arrivals."
"I am not sure about that," he confessed. "Meryton appears to have formed very decided opinions about its new arrivals already."
Hearing this, Elizabeth's thoughts drifted to the Meryton assembly. The crowded room, the musicians, and the various new arrivals. Then came the memory of Darcy himself, particularly the moment she had repeated his words to Mr. Bingley and watched his expression shift from indifference to shock across a candlelit room.
The recollection brought with it a warmth she had not quite expected. Elizabeth did not realise she was smiling until she heard Wickham gasp softly.
At once she composed her features, hoping he would not suppose she was laughing at something he had said, and turned towards him.
He was not looking at her.
She followed his gaze.
In the distance, Darcy was riding through the high street at a steady pace. Forgetting entirely why she had turned in the first place, Elizabeth stepped forward instinctively and raised a hand to catch his attention.
He saw her. She was certain of it. His eyes found her face.
His expression was harder than anything Elizabeth had ever seen upon it. Not displeasure. Not reserve. Something colder. Something sharper.
Anger.
His gaze moved from her to Wickham and lingered there.
He did not stop. He did not slow. His eyes remained fixed upon Wickham for a moment longer before he looked away entirely and rode on. He neither bowed nor acknowledged her greeting.
Elizabeth lowered her hand slowly.
What on earth had just happened?
What had she done to Mr. Darcy to earn such rudeness?
