She turned back to Wickham. His colour had gone. He was watching Darcy's retreating figure with undisguised alarm, asthough the encounter had overturned some expectation of his own.
"Mr. Wickham?" she called gently.
He turned back, recovering himself.
"Forgive me." He managed a weak smile before turning to Denny. "I have just remembered something of great importance. I cannot escort the ladies any further, I need to attend to a matter rather urgently."
He smiled at Elizabeth with every appearance of ease.
"Miss Bennet, it has been a pleasure. Denny, I shall find you later."
He turned in the direction from which they had met the gentlemen and hurried away before Denny had time to reply.
Elizabeth watched him go. Then she looked back down the high street in the direction Darcy had ridden.
She stood with it for a moment.
Then it struck her.
Whatever had just happened had nothing to do with her.
The two men knew one another. That much was plain. Whatever else it was, it was not a friendly acquaintance.
She filed the observation away and hurried to rejoin her sisters, who were already demanding to know why Mr. Darcy had not stopped to speak to them.
Elizabeth had no answer to offer.
˜ ˜ ˜
Netherfield
Darcy
He had ridden out that morning for no particular reason beyond the need for open air after days of confinement indoors. The grounds of Netherfield had sufficed for a time, but he had wanted distance and had taken the Meryton road without giving the matter much thought.
He was thinking a great deal now.
The sight Darcy had just witnessed would not leave him.
Elizabeth, smiling. That particular smile, the genuine one, the one she did not bestow upon general company. Standing beside George Wickham in the middle of Meryton High Street as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
He urged his horse into a faster pace.
So Colonel Forster's George Wickham was indeed the same George Wickham he knew.
How long had he been in Meryton? How long had he and Elizabeth been acquainted? Had Wickham sought her out deliberately, or had the meeting been accidental?
Darcy did not know.
The questions arrived more quickly than he could answer them, and each was more unwelcome than the last.
He thought of Mrs. Younge. Of how thoroughly she had deceived him. Of how completely he had trusted her with Georgiana, how carefully he had selected her, how certain he had been of her respectability. He had been mistaken in every particular, and by the time he understood the truth, Wickham had vanished and the damage had already been done.
And now here was Elizabeth Bennet, smiling at George Wickham in a Hertfordshire Street.
He had trusted her.
He had trusted her easy confidence, her warmth, and that particular quality of attention which seemed to make every person she spoke to feel heard. He had placed Georgiana in her company and assured himself it was solely for his sister's benefit. He had walked with her just four days earlier and told her he admired her, and had meant every word.
