3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

" H ow was Charlotte today?" Jane asked.

Elizabeth fluffed the bedcovers and thrust her chilled legs under them, shivering as she tugged the blankets up to her chin. "The same. Jane, I truly am concerned for her. She hardly eats, she has no interest in anything—even painting screens. You recall how she used to love that?"

Jane nodded as she tucked herself into the other side of the bed they shared. "She took so much pleasure in it. Why, I recall her sitting in the garden for hours, trying to duplicate the look of the spring bulbs or the bumblebees. Has she truly lost interest in even that?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "She says it makes her sad to try because she can never get her paintings to turn out just as she wishes, and she is weary of the attempt."

"Oh, dear. Surely, there must be something to pique her interest. What about the piano?"

Elizabeth blew out the lantern beside the bed and lay back on her pillow, her hand absently picking at a stray thread on the covers. "Maria has been playing it more frequently, I understand. Lady Lucas has been commanding it, you see, as Maria is out in society now with Lydia, so there is an expectation that she ought to be able to perform."

Jane sighed. "And Charlotte claims Maria is better than she is, does she not?"

"You know our friend too well. Yes, she was lamenting that very thing to me." Elizabeth's voice shifted into a tone that mimicked her friend's most petulant tone. "Why should I practice when no matter how hard I may try, Maria will always be accounted prettier, livelier, and more pleasing?"

Elizabeth gave up playing with the loose thread and scooted further under the covers, casting her head back on the pillow. "She's right, you know."

Jane lifted her head in the darkness. "Lizzy, what a horrid thing to say!"

"I do not mean that I agree with it. But you must acknowledge that Charlotte speaks rightly. There really is nothing she can do to please Lady Lucas with her accomplishments or the beaux she might attract. I do not say that Lady Lucas slights poor Charlotte, but you know as well as I that our mother has never let her hear the end of your beauty compared to Charlotte's, or my liveliness compared to hers, or Mary's playing…"

"Oh, Lizzy, stop. I hate it when Mama compares us like that."

"So does Charlotte, though she will not say it. And who can blame Lady Lucas for doting on the daughter, who is more likely to bring her maternal pride? Certainly, none of her friends." Elizabeth growled at the darkness and twisted her fists in the blankets.

Jane was silent for a moment. "Do you think that is the root of Charlotte's unhappiness?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I do not know. It seemed to worsen when the weather changed, but that could be my imagination. I think…" She chewed her lip. "No, I am sure of it. It is much more than feeling overlooked by her family. There is something else. I wish I knew what it was."

Jane rolled over, tucking her feet up and accidentally pulling at the covers like always. Elizabeth fought to keep her share as Jane yawned, unaware that she was a blanket thief. "You did not ask her? Why would she keep that from you?"

"Because she does not know herself."

"That makes no sense at all, but I do not understand half what you say, anyway." Jane's voice drifted into drowsiness. "You never did explain how you came back all covered in mud with a sore ankle. Did you really walk all the way from Netherfield?"

Elizabeth drummed her fingers on the covers. "Yes, well… I had some help. From the horse," she amended hastily.

"You hate that horse," Jane replied groggily.

"‘Hate' is such a strong word," Elizabeth mumbled, but Jane's deepening breaths yielded no sense of any reply forthcoming.

Just as well. It would not do at all to tell anyone that she had, through her own foolishness, soiled the inside of some strange gentleman's carriage. And it certainly would not do to think about that other strange gentleman's dark brown eyes and strong arm.

Not at all.

L ondon

"No, Bingley, I do not think we should return to Hertfordshire. What are you hoping to accomplish by it? The property is already leased to another, there are no other eligible houses in the area, and there is nothing to be gained by tormenting yourself."

Charles Bingley stretched his boots before the fire grate, swirling a glass of Darcy's brandy before his unfocused eyes. "Oh, right you are, of course, of course," he slurred. "I only thought… well, you are quite right, Darcy. Nothing remains to be done. ‘Tis only…"

"What?"

Bingley shifted upon his elbows to sit a little straighter in his chair. "This is an excellent brandy."

Darcy raised an eyebrow. "I should hope so. I certainly paid an excellent price for it."

"And this chair," Bingley continued, his words garbling somewhat. "Fine leather. Truly the finest."

"Poor leather is uncomfortable and does not last," Darcy returned mildly. "Your point?"

Bingley shifted again, a frown turning his ruddy features. "Why, it is only that since we first met, you have been playing host to me. Never once have I been able to offer you a comfortable chair by the fire and a warm brandy."

Darcy had been in the act of tugging his pocket watch from his waistcoat, but his hand stilled on the fob. "That is not true. You paid for our meals and travel expenses today, for example. And when we are at the club together, we take turns buying rounds."

Bingley scoffed and waved a hand. "Bother that. I mean in my own home! When was the last time you called at my flat?"

Darcy's brow crunched in thought. "A fortnight ago. You asked me to look over a new rug you had purchased."

"And did you stay for tea? Drinks? No, no, for we both know your drawing room is vastly more comfortable. Even Hurst's townhouse would be something, do you know?" Bingley squirmed a little and downed another slosh of brandy. "We both know he bought that with Louisa's dowry."

"Come, come, now." Darcy replaced the watch in his pocket after glancing at the time. Well after eleven—little wonder Bingley was in his cups. They had been at it for three hours. "You enjoy an evening with Hurst as well as I do—that is to say, not at all. ‘Tis one thing to offer fine spirits. ‘Tis quite another for the host to imbibe them so freely that he slithers under the table before his guests have taken their leave."

"Indeed." Bingley sighed and pinched his eyes. "Oh, you little know how I was looking forward to an evening in the drawing room, for once master of my own house and able to offer you the same courtesies you have always extended to me!"

Darcy smiled and eased forward in his chair to stand, replacing his empty glass on the sideboard. "It is a commendable sentiment. Never fear, for I have no doubt that honour will be yours soon enough. Perhaps in the spring, something will present itself."

"Spring! One minor setback, and you speak of waiting for months?"

Darcy strode to the fire and drew the poker from its rack to tease the embers. "You say you have surveyed nearly every suitable property through half of England, yes? It is nearly Michaelmas already. How many gentry find themselves in a mood to retrench and offer their properties to let in November or December? Do you truly think any new opportunities will present themselves before the seasons change more favourably once more?"

"Some old fellow might die. I do not think death is seasonal."

Darcy made a wry face. "And you think the odds are high that his heir will immediately let the property to another, do you?

"Oh, perhaps not." Bingley swiped a hand down his face with a sigh of resignation and kicked to his feet. "Then I shall hie me home and wait for another opportunity, shall I?"

Darcy fingered the wrought handle of the fire poker. "Your carriage will have been sent back to the mews hours ago. No doubt by now, your coachman is in little better state than you are. Come, Bingley, take your usual room and sleep off the nightcap. You will be thinking more clearly in the morning."

Bingley paused and, with a lazy, reluctant smile, tossed a jaunty salute. "Very good, sir. Yes, sir, I quite like that. No, sir, I do not require any assistance. I shall…" Bingley's careless chatter broke off as he tripped over the edge of the rug, sending his arms pinwheeling. He righted himself before Darcy could react to assist him, then turned around with an insouciant grin. "I thank you again for your hospitality, Darcy. "

Darcy regarded him cautiously. "Are you quite certain you need nothing? Shall I call a footman for you?"

"No, no, keep your footman. Do you know, I believe I shall rise early on the morrow, Darcy. I might even drive back to Hertfordshire without you if I must. There was something rather canny about that whole affair."

"I think you mean ‘uncanny.'"

Bingley squinted. "No, I am quite certain I meant ‘canny.' Or was it ‘cagey'?" He frowned. "Whatever it was, it bears insti… investi… looking into."

Darcy smiled thinly. He would much rather do without another head-jarring ride in Bingley's carriage. He was still paying for that journey today and was not eager to repeat it. "You are welcome to return on your own if you feel compelled. I believe I must call on my sister tomorrow."

"Oh. Cheerio, then." Bingley nodded tiredly, then turned around and wandered out of the study. Darcy watched him go, then resumed poking absently at the fire.

Perhaps he ought to go with Bingley tomorrow. Why the man was so possessed by this Netherfield estate was beyond him, but if he went, he might be able to prevent Bingley from making some impassioned mistake, like tracking down the new lessor and offering more money to buy him out of the lease. Or finding some other nearby house that was not nearly suitable for his station, merely so he could look upon the one that got away.

But keeping Bingley from making a foolish mistake could not be his first concern. Guarding his sister… and keeping himself far away from muddy damsels with eyes like the sunrise and a laugh like a bubbling brook… yes, that was much wiser.

E lizabeth entered her aunt Philips' drawing room, seeking out Charlotte's familiar figure amongst the smattering of early arrivals. She spotted her friend hovering near the window, back turned, tension evident in the line of her shoulders .

"Charlotte." Elizabeth approached, laying a hand on her arm. "I worried you might not come."

Charlotte mustered a half-hearted smile. "Mother insisted I could not miss the party."

Elizabeth scrutinised Charlotte's drawn features, the lacklustre eyes that belied her brave front. "Forgive me, but you seem out of spirits. Are you quite well?"

"The same as usual, Lizzy. Mother is so determined that socialising will lift my melancholy, but..." She trailed off, gaze distant.

"But you are not convinced?" Elizabeth finished gently, guiding Charlotte to a sofa in the corner.

As they sat, Charlotte sighed. "In truth, I often feel ill-suited to society's expectations. The pressure to be ever charming and secure an advantageous match—it can be so wearying."

Elizabeth nodded slowly, but a playful notion struck her—something that might make Charlotte smile a little more and pity herself a little less. "But if you think it bothersome for us, just imagine how dreary it must be for the gentlemen. They have not the luxury of retiring to a corner to watch the room go round. They must make themselves agreeable to simply everyone , regardless of their feelings. Now, how many of them do you think must find themselves obliged to put on some sort of false face in company?"

Charlotte shifted in her chair. "Quite several, I suppose."

"Just so! And I daresay they are far more hunted for their ‘assets' than we ladies are and only think of the poor man whose fortune is just short of what everyone is seeking after?"

Charlotte looped a hand over her knee and twisted to level a significant glance across the room at Mary King. "Is it any less fair than those who are barely agreeable at all being pursued relentlessly for the one ‘asset' they do have?"

"Oh, I quite agree. Why, only yesterday, Mama was singing praises of a dreadfully dull and pompous gentleman purely because he is rumoured to have two thousand a year. As if that alone were sufficient inducement to make one of us fall in love with him!"

That coaxed a chuckle from Charlotte. "Ah, Lizzy. Only a man of true wit and depth could hold your interest, regardless of fortune."

Elizabeth affected a playful pout. "Indeed, my standards may be too exacting. If I cannot find one to match my imagination, I may end up a spinster with only my books for company."

"What a pair we shall be—two confirmed old maids together." The smile reached Charlotte's eyes this time .

Elizabeth patted her hand. "Never that, my dear. Not when any sensible man should be falling over himself to win your hand."

"Sensible men seem in short supply, I fear." But Charlotte's tone had lightened perceptibly.

Sounds at the door heralded new arrivals. Elizabeth glanced over, then turned back to Charlotte with an impish grin. "More guests—your mother will want to see you circulating. But if the inanity grows too tiresome, I shall concoct a scheme to rescue you."

Elizabeth and Charlotte moved to stand near the edge of the room, where the air was fairly crackling with anticipation. The new tenant of Netherfield, Mr Wickham, was expected to make an appearance at the Philipses' party, and everyone was eagerly awaiting their first glimpse of the mysterious gentleman.

"I heard he is quite handsome," Mrs Long was saying to anyone who would listen. "And so charming, too! Mr Philips said he was absolutely delightful, and of course, he must know Mr Wickham rather well after managing the lease for him."

Mrs Bennet nodded eagerly, her handkerchief clutched in her fingers. "Oh, I do hope he takes a liking to one of our girls! Wouldn't that be something to have a daughter married to the master of Netherfield?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, turning to Charlotte with a wry smile. "Mama is already planning weddings, and she has not even met the man yet."

Charlotte chuckled softly. "At least your mother thinks you have a hope and a prayer of catching the man's interest."

Elizabeth turned sharply to admonish Charlotte for such a petulant speech, but she cut herself short when a sudden hush fell over the room. She strained up to her toes to watch Mr Wickham making his entrance, and even she had to admit that the reports of his good looks had not been exaggerated.

And it seemed that her appraisal was not unique among the female occupants of the room. All eyes were drawn to his striking figure. He was tall and well-built, with dark, curling hair that fell in a becoming manner across his brow. His eyes, a piercing blue, seemed to take in the room with a keen intelligence and a touch of mirth.

He approached Mr and Mrs Philips with a smile that was at once easy and confident, his manner polished and genteel. "Mr Philips, Mrs Philips," he greeted them warmly, bowing over Mrs Philips' hand. "Thank you so much for your kind invitation. I have been looking forward to this evening immensely. "

Mrs Philips flushed with pleasure, her eyes bright. "Oh, Mr Wickham, the pleasure is all ours! We are so delighted to welcome you to our little community."

"Indeed," Mr Philips chimed in, shaking Wickham's hand heartily. "It is not every day we have the honour of welcoming such a distinguished gentleman to Meryton."

The gentleman laughed, the sound rich and warm. "You are too kind, Mr Philips. I assure you, the honour is mine. I have heard such wonderful things about the warmth and hospitality of Meryton's residents."

As he moved further into the room, Elizabeth found herself observing him more closely, fascinated by the way he interacted with the other guests. He seemed to have a knack for putting people at ease, his charm and wit soaking into every conversation.

To Mrs Long, who was notorious for her long-winded tales, he listened with every appearance of rapt attention, his eyes never straying, his smile never faltering. When she finally paused for breath, he interjected smoothly, "What a remarkable story, Mrs Long. You have a gift for narrative, truly."

Mrs Long preened under his praise, her cheeks pink with pleasure. "Oh, Mr Wickham, you are too kind. I do love a good story, it's true, but I do have a dreadful habit of running on so, and Mr Long claims I tell the same tales over again."

"Then your tales have fallen on the right ears, for they are all fresh to me, and I covet every word you have to say about this dear little town."

To Sir William Lucas, who was known for his somewhat pompous manner, Wickham was all respectful attentiveness, listening gravely to his pronouncements on the state of the nation. "I quite agree, Sir William," he said seriously. "The responsibility of the landed gentry is a weighty one indeed. I can only hope to discharge my duties at Netherfield with half the diligence and wisdom you display."

Sir William puffed up visibly, his chest swelling with importance. "Well said, Mr Wickham, well said, indeed. If you ever find yourself in need of advice, you need only call upon me. Why, when I was presented at St. James's Court, I found the advice of…" he paused for a wink and a theatrical whisper, " certain gentlemen… noblemen, to be sure, of course… to be valuable beyond compare."

"As do I, sir! My mentor, a fine gentleman in his own right, would applaud such a speech. I shall not hesitate to call on you for the minutest question."

And so it went; with each interaction, Mr Wickham seemed to know just the right thing to say, the right tone to strike, to make each person feel appreciated, respected, and heard. It was a fascinating skill, Elizabeth reflected, watching him work the room. A social grace that went beyond mere charm or good looks. There was a warmth to him, a genuine interest in others that shone through in every exchange. He asked questions, listened attentively to the answers, and always seemed to find some point of connection, some shared interest or experience.

Even the most reserved guests seemed to blossom under his attention. Mr Harrison, the rector, who was known for his shyness, found himself drawn into an animated discussion of his favourite theological texts, for apparently, there was once a time when Mr Wickham had been destined for the church.

Mrs Goulding, who rarely spoke above a whisper, was soon laughing merrily at some witticism, for the man "dearly loved to laugh."

Midway through the evening, Mrs Philips' voice cut through the general hubbub. "Mr Wickham! We are so delighted to have you here in Meryton. Such a surprise, Netherfield being let so suddenly!"

Mr Philips tried to hush his wife, but she barreled on, oblivious, as she waved about her glass. "Poor Mr Bingley was quite disappointed, I hear, but his loss is our gain!"

At the mention of Mr Bingley, Elizabeth's ears perked up, a flicker of recognition sparking in her mind. What could Mr Bingley's disappointment have to do with Meryton's good fortune?

But that was all there was to be heard from her aunt Philips, for her uncle had drawn her away, obviously trying to prevent her from making a scene at their party. It would not be the first time… Elizabeth dabbed her mouth with her handkerchief to hide the irreverent smirk that overtook her features when she recalled one particularly memorable episode at Longbourn involving Aunt Philips, a bit too much of her Papa's brandy and Mama's new hat…

Yes, perhaps it was better that Mrs Philips took a moment to compose herself. What would Mr Wickham think of his new neighbours if they all slurred when in their cups? But it truly did set her curiosity awhirl.

Had Mr Bingley been inquiring about the same property just after Mr Wickham took the lease? The timing would have been about right, as well as the place she had encountered the gentlemen. Why, it made perfect sense. A pity, that.

A pity because there were not houses enough for both gentlemen, for both would have made for… interesting neighbours. But it was strange because Netherfield had sat vacant for over a year, and now two handsome, single men wanted it at almost the same moment? Uncanny.