Page 39 of A Most Unwelcome Acquaintance

Elizabeth and Mary stood silent. Every face seemed turned toward him, and every shopkeeper ready to step out with a greeting.

He reached a fruit seller, exchanged a loud jest with her, and paused to toss a penny into the lap of a child perched on a step. The crowd parted for him, and in another minute he stood across from Darcy and Bingley. Wickham saw them, hesitated not at all, and crossed the street in three easy strides.

Darcy, whose body had tensed at Wickham’s approach, stepped forward to meet him with the manner of a host forced to greet an unwelcome guest. The two men bowed for the benefit of those watching.

Elizabeth watched with attention sharpened by her memory of Wickham’s remarks the night before, and of Darcy’s earlier insult. She expected coldness, and Darcy provided it: he said nothing, let Wickham open the conversation, and kept his hands at his sides.

Wickham’s tone, however, was all warmth and old friendship. He spoke as one who has not seen a friend in years and wishes to believe the best of him. Several people nearby slowed to watch the exchange, drawn by the sight of two such striking men in one place, or a sense that drama was imminent.

The first remarks were civil and audible, and Elizabeth could make out only the words “Mr. Darcy,” “fortunate,” and “never expected.” Darcy’s reply was brief, his voice lower. Bingley excused himself to speak to a passing acquaintance, leaving the two alone.

Wickham lowered his voice, but his face was expressive enough for the nearest onlookers. He laughed with easy good humor, and said something that caused Darcy’s lips to press tighter.

Mary, who had shifted position to keep both men in sight, leaned toward Elizabeth. “Mr. Wickham wants witnesses,” she said. “He could have passed by, but he chose the moment when the street is most crowded.”

Elizabeth thought this unlikely, but Wickham’s smile caught her interest. It never altered, not even when Darcy said something that would have stopped a less confident man.

A shop boy with a basket called out to Wickham, who replied with “Good morning, James,” and a wink, then returned to his conversation without missing a beat. His manner did not change, even as Darcy’s grew more rigid.

Wickham, in a voice clear enough for half the street, said, “I hope we can find our way to comfort here, Mr. Darcy, despite our history. Hertfordshire is a generous county, where one can always count on the kindness of strangers.” The words were a compliment, but something in the tone or timing gave them an edge.

Darcy answered, “I advise you not to mistake easy credit for friendship.” His voice was even, but the words carried.

Wickham nodded, his smile a bit wider. “I have always found friendship easier among those with less pride.” He said it for the benefit of those nearest, and a passing woman gave a little gasp of delight at the subtlety of the insult.

Elizabeth sided with Wickham. Darcy’s behavior was as she expected: stiff and self-important. Wickham was the soul of composure, unflappable, almost magnanimous.

Mary, who continued to watch the two men as if observing a natural experiment, noticed that Wickham’s smile never left his face, but his eyes searched the crowd after each sentence, as if counting his witnesses.

The conversation continued in a low voice for another minute, then ended with a curt bow from Darcy, who turned and crossed the street without looking back. To Elizabeth, it looked like a retreat.

Wickham lingered a moment, then greeted the tradesman who had spoken with Darcy. They exchanged words that made the man laugh, and in a moment, Wickham had gathered a small following of admirers, both male and female. Whatever his story, his audience received it well.

Mary and Elizabeth walked on, silent until the next turning. Elizabeth glanced back once, catching the last sight of Darcy as he turned down a side street.

“Some men do not need to speak much to make their character plain,” Elizabeth said.

Mary replied, “Some men say only what everyone wishes to hear, and make themselves more agreeable.”

Elizabeth gave her a look that was half amused and half dismissive.

Wickham watched Darcy’s retreat until he turned the corner, then turned back to the street as if nothing serious had transpired. In less than a minute, he greeted two women outside a stationer’s and resumed the pleasant manner of a man at home in his neighborhood. If anyone noticed the tension of the previous exchange, they blamed it on Darcy, whose reserve had become a local joke.

Elizabeth followed Mary past a cluster of market stalls, their progress slowed by an argument between a delivery boy and a housemaid over the fate of a crushed pastry. Mary waited with the patience of a judge while Wickham moved from one acquaintance to another. He accepted a compliment on his uniform from a milliner’s assistant, bowed to the tradesman’s wife whose basket he filled with oranges, and joined a pair of elderly gentlemen whose high-voiced laughter carried across the street.

“He is quick to recover,” Mary said.

Elizabeth’s attention returned to Darcy, whom she glimpsed again through a break in the crowd. He moved with speed but not disorder, as if determined to put a mile between himself and the town before anyone drew him into further company. She wondered how a man sustained such constant displeasure.

She said as much to Mary, who replied, “Perhaps he wishes to avoid a scene.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Then he should not provoke one.”

Wickham finished his conversation with the old gentlemen and made his way toward the sisters, pausing once to offer his arm to a child who had tripped over a loose paving stone. The little girl righted herself, accepted the rescue as her due, and ran off without thanks.

“Do you think he means to join us?” Mary asked, though the answer was clear.

Elizabeth said, “He is too good-natured to let a cold greeting ruin his day.”