Chapter Seven

Elizabeth

“H ow is Mr Wickham this morning?” Jane asked as Elizabeth stepped into the drawing room. Mary looked up from her spot by the pianoforte as Elizabeth shrugged.

“I have not seen him yet. Mr Wexler is with him again, and Father and Mother,” Elizabeth replied.

Three days had passed since Mr Wickham arrived at Longbourn, and during this time, Elizabeth had been attending to him. Her father had deemed her mother too prone to interrogation to trust her with the stranger, and Elizabeth had volunteered herself rather than create more work for Hill, their already overworked housekeeper. She wasn’t sure why, but she had a keen desire to help the poor man remember. The fear and panic he had clearly felt upon waking and realising he did not know who he was, had struck her deeply. Besides, she had been the one to find him along with her father, so she assumed that played into her protectiveness.

He had recovered his strength over the last two days, and the previous day she had found him sitting by the window, reading one of the books her father had brought up. Mr Wexler recommended that he read when and if his aching head allowed, for it might jog his memory. So far, all efforts to help him remember had failed. They had deduced that he was a northerner based on his accent. His clothing had been fine once it was washed and pressed, the material one might usually see on a gentleman, but his greatcoat had been worn and torn in parts.

“Lizzy?” Jane said and poked her with her elbow.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, gathering her thoughts. “I was just thinking about Mr Wickham. It is all so peculiar, don’t you think?”

“I certainly do. I wish we had any idea who he was—or is,” Jane replied.

“Mother thinks he’s an impostor,” Mary said, standing up from the instrument.

“An impostor of whom?” Elizabeth asked, a little peeved by her mother’s insistence to think the worst of everyone, lest they came from money.

“She did not say. Or rather, she did not settle on one point. At first, she thought he was pretending to be a rich man, trying to worm himself into a favourable position. Then she said, perhaps he was a rich man escaping an unfavourable marriage. Then she thought perhaps he was a member of the militia on the run.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “Oh, Mama. I would say she reads too many novels. Her imagination runs wild, but I think it runs wild without even the use of a single book.”

“It is peculiar, however, you are correct,” Mary continued. “He can’t remember anything and there is no indication of where he might have come from. I thought he might have been a homeless man, wandering the streets…”

“No, for if you look at his face it was clean-shaven, without hint of a stubble. And his hands? He does not look as though he has operated a plough or served in the military,” Elizabeth replied, for she’d given this matter a great deal of thought.

Jane let out a suppressed chuckle and glanced up from her embroidery.

“What is it?” Elizabeth asked, but Jane shook her head and turned her attention back to the work in her lap.

“Nothing. It is only that you have paid a lot of mind to his hands, his face, and his accent,” she said in a teasing tone.

“I have not,” Elizabeth said. “That is what Mr Foxworthy said.”

The constable, Mr Foxworthy, had come to pay them a visit the previous day, speaking to each and every one of them, even though most of the family hadn’t known Mr Wickham was even there, until after he had woken up in bed. He spent two hours with Mr Wickham and emerged confused. Nonetheless, he had posters drawn up and distributed in the surrounding areas in the hope that somebody might recognise him, but thus far, nobody had.

“It is quite alright to think him handsome, Lizzy,” Jane said in a soothing tone usually reserved for stray animals.

“Kitty and Lydia will talk of nothing but how handsome Mr Wickham is. I can hear them through the wall in my chamber. ‘Mr Wickham’s beautiful brown eyes, Mr Wickham’s broad shoulders,’” Mary said, rolling her eyes.

“They have hardly even seen him,” Lizzy commented. “But of course, that never stops them. They have inherited their wild imaginations from Mama, I declare.”

The three sisters chuckled when their father entered.

“Our guest is feeling better,” he said to Elizabeth. “And Mr Wexler is gone. He thinks it would be beneficial for him to get outside and draw in the fresh air. I haven’t had the time to tend to him, I must go into town. And your mother is due to visit her sister. Would you mind?”

Lizzy got up at once. “Of course not. I will take him for a walk in the garden. Has there been any news? Has Dr Wexler had any other thoughts regarding his recovery?”

Her father sighed and shook his head. “Nothing as yet, but it is early days and we cannot give up hope.”

Knowing there was nothing else that could be done for the time being, Elizabeth went upstairs and knocked lightly on Mr Wickham’s door—or rather, her own door—before entering. She found him already dressed, just about to button up a waistcoat when he caught her eye and smiled.

“I recognise that waistcoat,” she remarked with a smile.

“Your father was generous enough to lend it to me,” he replied, still working on the buttons. “I was told to dress and take the air. Mr Wexler was quite insistent.”

“That is why I am here. I am to accompany you. And the waistcoat suits you. It’s his church-going waistcoat,” Elizabeth said.

Mr Wickham looked puzzled. “Perhaps I should not wear it, then.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. My father avoids church at all costs, so such a fine waistcoat ought to see the light of day sometime.”

He returned her smile, the initial concern melting away. “Thank you, Miss Bennet. Your family has been exceedingly kind to me.”

Elizabeth nodded, her expression softening. “We are happy to help. Now, are you ready for a walk? The fresh air might do you some good.”

He agreed, and together they headed out into the garden.

Mr Wickham looked around, taking in the scenery with a sense of appreciation. It was still too early in the year for the crocuses and daffodils to make an appearance, but in a few weeks the garden would be a riot of early spring colour. Elizabeth began to give him a little information regarding the area as they walked.

“So, as you might have gathered, my family live in Longbourn which is a very small village,” she began, then gestured to the house behind them. “Longbourn House is my family’s ancestral home, Bennets have lived here for generations. Over there, beyond the fields, is the town of Meryton. If you stand on the wall you can just see Lucas Lodge, where our friends, the Lucases, reside. Sir William is the highest-ranking man in Meryton, given he is a knight. His wife, Lady Lucas, is lovely. I shall introduce you one day.”

“I think I heard your mother speak of her,” he said a little wearily.

“Ah, yes. The two have a long running rivalry, though it is mostly my mother who keeps it up,” she said and he chuckled.

Mr Wickham followed her gaze. “So, Meryton is the main town?”

“Yes, depending on the state of the roads we are but four hours from London,” Elizabeth confirmed. “Meryton is where we do most of our shopping and socialising, Longbourn village only has a church. You can find Mr Phillips’ office there—he’s my uncle and the town’s only solicitor. Also, Meryton is where the militia are currently stationed, which has been quite an excitement for my younger sisters.”

Mr Wickham smiled at that. “I imagine it has been.” She looked at him intently, hoping something she said might trigger a memory but nothing had thus far. She turned around and pointed towards the fields at the back of the house, “Further along, if you go through the fields, you’ll come to Netherfield Park, which is currently vacant.” She felt the dismay creep into her voice and did her best to suppress it, not wanting to alert Mr Wickham of the events that had so shaken her family.

“Netherfield Park,” Mr Wickham repeated thoughtfully. “Netherfield.” He said the words slowly as though he were trying them out for size.

“Is the name familiar to you?” Elizabeth asked. “By foot one can reach it through the fields, but my father and I found you on the road that leads there.”

“I cannot be certain,” he said. “I want to say yes, but then I fear it is more wishing it to be true than it being so, if you understand what I mean.”

“I do. Do not force yourself to remember. Mr Wexler said your memories would come back to you naturally with time.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded, then pointed his chin in the direction of a hill up ahead. “What is that spot called?”

“Oakham Mount, it offers the most splendid views of the countryside. Once you feel better, we can climb it if you like. I often do with my sister, Jane.”

“It all sounds quite charming,” Mr Wickham said, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. “And I am grateful to be here, Miss Bennet. Your hospitality has been most generous.”

“We are happy to have you, Mr Wickham,” Elizabeth replied warmly. “Now, let us enjoy this walk. Perhaps the fresh air will jog some of your memories. If you wish, we can walk beyond the garden and stroll on the road.”

“I would like that. It feels good to stretch my legs after so long.”

With that, they continued their stroll, Elizabeth pointing out various landmarks and sharing stories, hoping that something, anything, might help Mr Wickham remember who he was or why he had come to this part of the world.