Mr. Wickham was silent for several moments. “No, I must suppose you are correct on that score. Any man would balk at having such a woman for a wife.”
Having no intention of speaking ill of Miss de Bourgh, Elizabeth changed the subject. “I cannot say that Mr. Darcy isan amiable man, for he remained reticent in Kent. However, as I spent three weeks in his company with only a lane separating our residences, I understand him better than I did before.”
“That suggests approval, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Not at all,” said Elizabeth. “I said nothing of the sort, only that I gained some insight into his disposition.”
Mr. Wickham had learned enough about Mr. Darcy—to press further was to invite her to confirm that she had heard something about him. It was a curious device to be certain, but it seemed Mr. Wickham subscribed to the theory that if he did not confirm it, then it did not exist.
“Well, I am happy you are back, for I missed our conversations.”
The switch in his behavior was obvious, such that even Lydia, blind and enamored with the officers, would have seen it. Mr. Wickham grew flirty, his words flattering, his advances syrupy sweet, as if he thought she had no more sense than Lydia. Elizabeth watched him for a time, allowing him to see nothing of a response, wondering if he meantherto be his next conquest or if he was trying to induce her to forget what she had learned from Mr. Darcy. Not that he would know the extent of that, of course.
Elizabeth allowed him to continue for a time, not returning his familiar and affectionate manner, responding in monosyllables as often as not. Mr. Wickham seemed to take no notice of his lack of success, his seductive tones never ceasing, his confidence as high as ever. Far from being amused by his behavior, Elizabeth felt cross at his presumption. In time, she pushed a little more.
“How excellent it is to again be in your company!” said he soon after, leaning in as if to impart a secret. “Why, I declare I have not missed conversation with another as much as I have missed you.”
“That is curious, Mr. Wickham,” said Elizabeth, showing him calculated uncertainty.
“I hope you have never doubted my esteem for you.”
“Esteem for me?” Elizabeth peered at him. “By my account, we have rarely been in company since January. Tell me, Mr. Wickham, how is Mary King? I understand you were to become betrothed.”
The officer’s smile faltered, Elizabeth feeling a measure of satisfaction. “It was . . . Well . . .”
He seemed to gather himself, then said: “Miss King and I discovered we did not suit so well as we hoped.”
Mr. Wickham offered a jovial smile that was not reflected in his eyes. “Love is not always enough; do you not agree?”
“Oh, without a doubt,” replied Elizabeth. “One must take great care, for love may be mistaken for infatuation, or it may be imprudent.”
“Yes, that is a consideration. Though I was desperately in love with Miss King, we could do nothing other than go our separate ways. It behooves one to know oneself well enough to understand such things, or the future may be filled with unhappiness.”
“With that, I cannot disagree.” Elizabeth fixed him with a frank expression that made him uneasy. “So, your sudden epiphany had nothing to do with Miss King’s uncles taking her to Liverpool?”
The color drained from his face as he realized belatedly that she may have heard something of the matter from others. Though he peered at her, he had no notion how to respond, how to rescue his mistake. Elizabeth was not about to allow him to try, for another notion had occurred to her.
“Oh!” said she. “I have remembered something else. When I was lately in Kent, Mr. Darcy, Lady Catherine, and Miss de Bourgh were not the only members of the family present. Mr.Darcy’s cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, also journeyed to Rosings in his company.”
Whatever she had expected, it was not an even greater pallor than even when she revealed her knowledge of the Mary King affair. As he seemed no more capable of responding now, Elizabeth continued, hoping his discomfort would reveal something more.
“The colonel is quite a different man from Mr. Darcy, for he is open and engaging, a genuine delight to know. Tell me, Mr. Wickham—are you at all acquainted with him?”
“I am, in some respects,” replied Mr. Wickham, finding his voice at last.
“Then perhaps I ought to have mentioned the acquaintance,” said Elizabeth, giving every impression of sincerity.
“My acquaintance with him is not profound,” Mr. Wickham hastened to say.
“Ah, then there was no point.”
Mr. Wickham appeared to reclaim some of his composure. “None at all. After all, Colonel Fitzwilliam is the son of an earl. You could not have expected him to pay attention to the son of a steward.”
“Really, Mr. Wickham!” laughed Elizabeth. “By your account, Colonel Fitzwilliam is insufferably proud when he struck me as a fine man unaffected by pretension.”
“No, I would not say that,” replied Mr. Wickham. “But heisof a high and privileged class, whereas I am not.”
“I suppose,” replied Elizabeth, unconcerned.
