Page 75 of A Question of Character

Elizabeth reached for her sister’s hand. “You may always complain to me if you are unhappy.”

“I am not unhappy.”

“No. I begin to see that.”

Lydia leaned closer. “You like him?”

“I think I shall.”

“You must. He is to be my husband, and I should hate to quarrel with you over him.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “That would indeed be tragic.”

“It would. I am very fond of you when you are not scolding me.”

“Then I shall endeavor to deserve your affection.”

Lydia squeezed her hand hard, then sprang up because Mr. Wickham had crossed the room to ask whether she still intended to walk into Meryton before supper. Mrs. Bennet declared walking unnecessary, Mrs. Philips declared it healthful, Mary observed that exercise was a useful guard against dissipation, and Mr. Bennet suggested Lydia bring back a new supply of sense if any were available in the shops.

Elizabeth sighed. Her family was as nonsensical as ever… most of them.

Lydia laughed. She did not pout. Mr. Wickham offered Kitty his other arm for the walk, and Kitty, after one startled second, accepted with pleasure.

Elizabeth watched them depart with Jane beside her.

“Well?” Jane asked.

“I have been asked that question already.”

“And your answer?”

Elizabeth looked toward the window, where Lydia’s bright bonnet bobbed into view beyond the shrubbery, Mr. Wickham walking between the two younger girls with an air of such easy responsibility that even Kitty appeared less inclined to chatter over him.

“I think,” Elizabeth said, “that I have returned to an altered Longbourn.”

Jane smiled. “Not altered beyond recognition, I hope.”

“No, just enough to make me wonder what else I have missed.”

The next week supplied Elizabeth with abundant opportunity to test her first impressions of Mr. Wickham.

He was at Longbourn often enough that Mrs. Bennet began speaking of him as though he had been a family connection for years. Sometimes he came with Mr. Philips on business that required, by some mysterious process, an hour in Mr. Bennet’s library and another in the drawing room. Sometimes he walked with Lydia and Kitty from Meryton, his coat lightly dusted from the road and his spirits equal to whatever absurdity greeted him at the door. Once he brought Mrs. Bennet a packet of court plasters from Mrs. Philips, and Mrs. Bennet declared it the very thing she had been wanting, though Elizabeth privately doubted her mother had thought of court plaster in a month.

Mr. Wickham bore all this with good humor. More than that, he appeared to enjoy it.

That was what began to persuade Elizabeth.

A fortune hunter might flatter Mrs. Bennet. A vain man might enjoy Lydia’s admiration. A careless man might be amused by the novelty of the Bennet household until inconvenience drove him elsewhere. Mr. Wickham did none of those things quite as expected. He listened to Mr. Bennet’s dry remarks without resenting them, praised Mary’s playing without overpraising it, admired Kitty’s new ribbon with enough attention to satisfy her, and prevented Lydia from saying three things she would have regretted without making her feel corrected before everyone.

This last accomplishment Elizabeth considered nearly miraculous.

One afternoon, when rain had interrupted a projected walk and sent the younger girls into a fit of complaints, Mr. Wickham proposed a game of lottery tickets. Lydia grumbled that cards were a poor substitute for fresh air, then sat beside him with such alacrity that her objection lost much of its force.

“You must not cheat,” she told him.

“I never cheat.”

“You say that very solemnly for a man who won twice last Tuesday.”