Page 108 of A Most Unwelcome Acquaintance

They found her in the room she shared with Lydia. She had not wept as much as Elizabeth expected, but sat on the bed with Wickham’s note beside her and her bonnet in her lap, as if she might still go to Meryton by force of will.

Jane approached first. “Papa says you must not answer the note.”

“I did not mean to.”

Lydia, who had followed them, leaned against the bedpost. “Yes, you did.”

Kitty glared at her. “No one asked you.”

“No one ever does, but I know more than you think.” Lydia glanced at Elizabeth, then looked away. “He asked me at the assembly whether Papa kept Sarah outside at night.”

Elizabeth became still. “What did you say?”

“That Sarah goes where she pleases and barks when anyone deserves it. I thought he was making conversation.”

Kitty’s anger faltered. “He asked you about Sarah?”

“He asked everyone something. That is how gentlemen talk.”

“No,” Elizabeth said. “That is how some gentlemen learn what they have no right to ask.”

Kitty looked from Lydia to the note, and the anger left her face. What she had treasured as distinction began to look like inquiry.

“He said he liked me because I was not proud,” she whispered.

Jane sat beside her. “That may have pleased him. It does not mean he was kind.”

Kitty pressed the bonnet out of shape. “You will tell Mr. Darcy.”

“No,” Elizabeth said, and continued before Jane could object. “We will tell Papa what must be told. Mr. Darcy does not need Kitty’s mortification handed to him.”

Kitty stared at her, uncertain whether to be grateful. “You believe Mr. Wickham is wicked.”

The question held less defiance than fear, and Elizabeth would not let her anger answer for her. “I believe he is careless with other people’s trust.” She paused, then corrected herself. “No. That is too mild. I believe he uses it.”

The admission did not prove Darcy right or Wickham guilty of everything alleged against him, but it ended the comfortable belief that Darcy’s pride explained every injury and Wickham’s openness every contradiction.

Lydia shifted. “Are we not going to Meryton, then?”

Three faces turned toward her.

“What?” she said. “It is a fair question.”

Despite herself, Elizabeth laughed. Jane covered her mouth, and even Kitty gave a reluctant sound that was not quite a sob.

“No,” Elizabeth said. “We are not.”

The morning passed under a restraint Mrs. Bennet could neither understand nor tolerate. Kitty remained upstairs, Jane stayed near her, and Elizabeth walked in the garden until her thoughts began to repeat.

Bennet’s messenger returned from Meryton by noon. Elizabeth saw him from the shrubbery and went inside before anyone sent for her. Her father received the report in the hall, dismissed the man, and called Elizabeth into the library.

“The trifling matter of business,” he said, “appears to concern Mr. Pritchard, Mr. Goulding’s groom, and a chestnut mare hired without payment.”

Elizabeth closed the door. “A mare?”

“Hired with a promise of payment, kept longer than agreed, and returned with a strained leg and an apology so charming that Mr. Goulding’s groom was almost grateful for it.”

“He cannot blame that on Mr. Darcy.”