Page 40 of A Most Unwelcome Acquaintance

Wickham caught up to them at the crossing and bowed. “I hope my unfortunate meeting with Mr. Darcy did not spoil your walk. I regret that the memory of old acquaintance sometimes makes even the most charming place less agreeable.”

Elizabeth assured him it had not disturbed her. “I have seen few meetings that were less gracious.”

Wickham smiled at the defense, as if he took no pride in it. “Mr. Darcy was always the superior. He bears it without effort, which is a talent in itself.”

“You were once friends?”

Wickham hesitated, then said, “We were boys together, and his father was very kind to me. I owe more to the memory of that kindness than I can repay, and so I say nothing that would reflect on Mr. Darcy’s character, except what is clear to all.”

Elizabeth, her judgment confirmed, replied, “He does not make it easy to admire him. It is a wonder he makes friends at all.”

“Mr. Darcy is particular in his affections,” Wickham said. “He is constant to his friends, and his dislikes as well.”

“If you are uncomfortable meeting him, why did you cross the street to speak to him?” Mary asked.

Wickham’s expression did not change, but the delay in his answer was noticeable. “Old regard sometimes overcomes better judgment. I cannot pass without acknowledging my past, for better or worse. It is a failing, I suppose.”

“Not always,” Mary said.

Wickham turned to Elizabeth. “Has the militia improved Meryton, or just made it louder?”

“My youngest sisters think of nothing else, and even my mother finds the red jackets an improvement on the usual company.”

Wickham smiled. “Then we have made ourselves useful after all. I feared Meryton might tire of us before the month was out.”

Elizabeth laughed. “We have survived worse. If Lydia keeps out of mischief, we may survive the militia as well.”

Wickham laughed. “Miss Lydia does not strike me as a woman easy to govern.”

“She is not.”

“And you?”

“I have never needed any.”

“I suspected as much.”

Elizabeth felt the compliment before she understood it.

Wickham turned the conversation to the regiment.

“One of our lieutenants dined with General Harcourt last week,” he said. “He arrived late, saw a handsome young woman standing near the fire, and concluded she must be the general’s daughter. He spent half the evening praising military life, his prospects, and, I believe, his horse.”

“And she was not the daughter?” Elizabeth asked.

“The curate’s wife. He discovered his mistake when the curate came to collect her. By then he had offered to show her the regiment’s new colors and hinted that a lieutenant’s pay was not his only expectation.”

Elizabeth smiled. “How did she answer him?”

“She said she hoped his expectations included learning the names of married women before attempting to impress them.”

Mary studied him. “You must be careful whom you trust. It is easy to mistake one character for another.”

Wickham regarded her with a respect that seemed genuine. “I take your meaning, Miss Bennet. I have lived long enough to know that no one is always what he appears, least of all myself.”

They reached the square’s edge, where the market thinned and the road turned toward Longbourn.

Wickham bowed, preparing to take his leave. “It was a pleasure to walk with you. I hope my company was not an imposition.”