Page 86 of A Question of Character

Mr. Wickham’s stride checked, then resumed. “Did she?”

“Yes. I told her I might prefer pink.”

“A serious objection.”

“Very serious. Blue is Jane’s color.”

“I should never presume to oppose such authority.”

Lydia looked up at him, half laughing and half uncertain. “You are teasing me.”

“A little.”

“You do mean to marry me?”

He stopped walking then, and Elizabeth, though several paces behind, could not help hearing. Kitty had bent to examine the wildflower and was happily occupied, leaving Elizabeth the unwilling but attentive guardian of propriety.

Mr. Wickham took Lydia’s hand, no more than was proper, and tucked it back through his arm.

“I mean,” he said, “to deserve the right to ask you.”

Lydia’s usual brightness faltered into something more vulnerable. “That is not the same.”

“No.”

“Do you doubt me?” Lydia’s lip quivered.

“I doubt my position—I am only beginning in Mr. Philips’s office. I have prospects, but prospects are not income. Your father has a right to know I can support you before I ask him to trust me with you.”

“Uncle Philips pays you very well,” she insisted.

“He pays me generously for what I am. I must become worth more.”

“You are worth a great deal now.”

His face transformed, and Elizabeth saw in it a gratitude so profound that her opinion of him rose again.

“To you, perhaps,” he said. “But affection is not a household account, and I will not have you suffer because I was impatient.”

Lydia kicked a small stone from the path. “I hate waiting.”

“I have observed it.”

“That is not fair. I have improved.”

He was quick to reassure her. “You have.”

She turned to him with delight. “Have I?”

“Yes. Though you still interrupt Kitty.”

“Kitty takes too long to speak her piece.” Lydia’s expression morphed into a pout.

“Let her take too long.”

Lydia sighed, but there was no resentment in it. “Very well. I shall try.”

They resumed walking, and Elizabeth took care to examine the hedge as if it contained matters of great botanical importance.