Page 73 of A Question of Character

Yes. Elizabeth did see.

“So, Mr. Wickham,” Mrs. Gardiner said when introductions had concluded, “you have joined my brother Philips’s office.”

“I have been fortunate in the opportunity.” Mr. Wickham accepted his tea from Lydia with a word of thanks that made her beam. “Mr. Philips has been very generous in taking me on. I mean to prove worth the trouble.”

“Trouble?” Mr. Philips objected. “No trouble at all. A young man with a good hand, a quick mind, and some knowledge of the law already? I should be a fool not to value him.”

“A great fool,” Mrs. Philips added, nodding with consequence. “And I told him so.”

“You tell me so whenever possible, my dear,” Mr. Philips replied.

Mrs. Bennet leaned toward Mrs. Gardiner. “Mr. Philips says Mr. Wickham may be made partner one day, if all continues well. Is that not a very respectable prospect? And he is so attentive to Lydia.”

“Mama,” Lydia said, though she did not sound displeased.

Elizabeth’s first impulse was amusement. Her second was caution. Lydia was not yet sixteen. Mr. Wickham, if she judged rightly, must be six-and-twenty or near it. Ten or more years was not outrageous, especially where a gentleman brought steadiness and a profession, but Lydia was young, careless, and nearly without fortune. A man who attached himself to her could hardly be accused of mercenary pursuit.

That thought recommended him more strongly than his appearance.

“You have been in Meryton long?” Elizabeth asked.

“Since June,” Wickham replied. “Long enough to know which roads are tolerable, which assemblies are worth attending, and which of Miss Bennet’s sisters is most likely to defeat me at spillikins.”

“Lydia?” Elizabeth guessed.

“Kitty,” he said, with a respectful glance toward that young lady. “Miss Kitty Bennet is merciless.”

Kitty, who had not expected distinction, brightened. “I am very good.”

“You are ruthless.”

“That is even better.”

Mr. Wickham laughed, and Elizabeth found no artifice in it. He gave attention easily but not indiscriminately, and his manners, though polished, did not possess the excessive sweetness that often made her suspicious. He spoke with gratitude of Mr. Philips, treated Mrs. Bennet’s indiscretions with admirable composure, and addressed Lydia with a mixture of indulgence and restraint that Elizabeth had not supposed any man could manage without either encouraging her folly or crushing her spirits.

By the time tea ended, Elizabeth had formed the beginning of an opinion.

It was favorable.

That, perhaps, ought to have made her wary, given what she had once confessed to Mr. Darcy about her vanity of judgment. Instead, the thought of Darcy entered to make her smile inwardly. He would like Mr. Wickham, she thought. Or perhaps he would find him too amiable on first acquaintance and reserve judgment for precisely that reason.

She would tell him, when he came.

If he came.

Lydia came to sit beside her after the others had drifted into separate conversations. She bounced once upon the cushion, then caught herself and arranged her hands in her lap with such exaggerated propriety that Elizabeth nearly laughed.

“Well?” Lydia demanded.

“Well what?”

“What do you think of him?” She nodded at their guest.

“Of Mr. Wickham?”

“No, of Uncle Philips’s cane. Of course, of Mr. Wickham.”

Elizabeth lowered her cup. “I think him very agreeable.”