Page 38 of A Most Unwelcome Acquaintance

Kitty felt the scrutiny, and did not like it. “He wanted to understand Meryton society, so he would not offend anyone. He is new here, after all.”

Elizabeth’s look was thoughtful, not accusing, but Kitty saw only criticism. “He did not ask you to say anything unkind about Mr. Darcy, did he?”

“Only what Mr. Darcy deserves.” Kitty’s voice broke a little, and she hated it. “He was only curious.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Curiosity can be a dangerous thing, Kitty.”

Kitty stared at her plate, and Jane tried to rescue her. “I am sure Mr. Wickham meant nothing but kindness. If he admires our family, it is because he sees good in us.”

Kitty flashed a grateful look at Jane, but Elizabeth’s silence pressed on her.

Lydia took another bite of her scone and spoke with her mouth half full. “Mr. Wickham told me he once beat Mr. Darcy at cards, and Mr. Darcy paid him without a word. I do not see why everyone here thinks him so wonderful.”

Mary, who had not looked up once, said, “It is sometimes easier to judge a man by his debts than by his manners.”

Mrs. Bennet scolded Lydia for speaking with her mouth full, then began planning what she ought to wear to the next assembly.

Kitty pushed back her chair. “I have letters to write.”

She left before anyone could ask to whom.

Once in the hall, she resolved that the next time she met Mr. Wickham, she would give them no cause to ridicule her.

Chapter 14

ELIZABETH AND MARY walked through Meryton, the crush of afternoon trade hemming them between two lines of shopfronts. The sound of boots on pavement, the clipped exchange of shopkeepers and their boys, and the calls of hawkers and errand girls made for lively confusion. The militia, in full uniform, provided a show of color outside the inn and near the windows of the coffeehouse. Every few yards, the sisters were obliged to sidestep a cluster of officers or weave past housemaids balancing baskets on their arms.

Mary, intent on observing the best methods of parcel-wrapping and change-counting, let Elizabeth set the pace. Elizabeth watched everything at once: the peacock display of officers as they preened and admired themselves in the glass, the harried dignity of tradesmen minding both shop and street, the constant relay of news and invention as it ran up and down the road. They moved with enough leisure to see who talked to whom, who avoided whom, and how each person managed the business of being seen in Meryton on a bright market day.

Across the street, Darcy stood with Bingley outside a bookseller’s window. The two men were too well turned out for anyone to mistake them for residents, though Bingley looked as though he belonged there and Darcy as though he was there to inspect the place. The elderly shopkeeper bent toward them as he spoke, and Bingley’s laugh carried above the noise. Darcy nodded but otherwise remained still.

Elizabeth nudged Mary and nodded toward the pair. “I wonder what they are discussing.”

“Not books, I think,” Mary said. “Neither of them has entered the shop.”

Elizabeth smiled. “It may be a matter of binding or price.”

“Or gossip,” Mary said. “That is the true currency of Meryton.”

Elizabeth had no chance to reply, as two officers debating the merits of a local cheese as though the question were of national importance blocked their path. One stepped aside and bowed, his red jacket catching the sun. Mary ignored him, but Elizabeth returned a nod, observing the set of his mouth and the careful arrangement of his hair.

As they reached the milliner’s, Elizabeth paused at the window, more for cover than from any interest in the hats displayed. When she looked across the street again, Darcy stood as before, though he now addressed Bingley with an intensity that suggested real purpose. Bingley had his hands in his coat pockets and his gaze on the ground, listening with unusual seriousness. “Now that is unexpected.”

Mary studied them. “Mr. Bingley looks as if he has received news, and Mr. Darcy is delivering a sermon.”

The reason appeared at once, as the shopkeeper emerged from the doorway, leaving the two men behind. He bustled toward the next shop, brushing past Elizabeth and Mary with a mumbled apology, and walked as though he had just secured an advantage.

Bingley’s mood lightened as soon as the shopkeeper was out of hearing. Darcy spoke a final sentence, then turned away from the window, his eyes sweeping the street. For an instant, Elizabeth thought he had seen her, but he showed no reaction and addressed Bingley instead.

“They look as if they are expecting someone,” Mary said.

Elizabeth stepped away from the milliner’s. “Perhaps they are bored and seeking an acquaintance. Or perhaps they are deciding whether to risk a second hour in town.”

Mary stopped, forcing Elizabeth to stop with her. “Mr. Darcy is angry, not bored.”

Elizabeth regarded the pair again, but Bingley was smiling and gesturing at something across the street, while Darcy’s face was unreadable at this distance. Before she could answer, a familiar figure entered the street.

Wickham, in full regimentals, advanced along the walk, a pair of junior officers trailing behind. He was the picture of confidence, waving to a shopkeeper, bowing to a lady and her daughter, and exchanging a word with a shop boy outside the stores. Wherever he went, he left a small wake of attention; the officers behind him laughed at his jokes, and a cluster of girls at the steps of the bakery whispered his name before he was halfway there.