Page 91 of A Question of Character

Until then, there was Meryton, and Jane, and Lydia’s surprising attempts at self-command, and Mr. Wickham’s frequent visits, and all the small concerns that made home both comforting and impossible to predict.

The next morning, Elizabeth saw Mr. Wickham again from the window of her uncle’s book room. He crossed the lane with Mr. Philips, a bundle of papers beneath one arm. Outside the apothecary, old Mrs. Harker dropped her basket. Apples tumbled into the dust. Mr. Philips paused, but Mr. Wickham was already bending to gather them, laughing at something the old woman said and brushing each apple upon his sleeve before replacing it.

Lydia, beside Elizabeth at the window, sighed in triumph. “You see?”

“I see a man rescuing apples.”

“I see a man of excellent character.”

“That is a great deal to draw from apples,” Elizabeth teased.

“No, it is not. Apples are very revealing.”

Elizabeth gave her a look. “Are they?”

“Certainly. A selfish man would let them roll away.”

“Perhaps he dislikes apples.”

“Then he is wicked already.”

Elizabeth gave way to laughter, and Lydia leaned against her shoulder for one careless second before dashing away because Kitty had called from the stairs.

Mr. Wickham passed out of sight.

She expected him to continue directly toward Mr. Philips’s office. Instead, he paused outside the cooper’s yard where a young apprentice struggled to lift a barrel onto a cart. Mr. Wickham glanced once toward the road, evidently believing himself unobserved, set down his own bundle of papers, and lent the boy his shoulder until the barrel rested safely in place. Only then did he retrieve his papers and continue on his way without waiting for thanks.

Elizabeth smiled to herself.

That, she thought, was the sort of kindness least likely to be counterfeit.

Elizabeth remained at the window a little longer.

Yes, she liked him. More than liked him. She respected the labor of his reform, the humility beneath his charm, and the effect he had upon her sister. A man could be judged by grand gestures, perhaps, but Elizabeth had always trusted smaller evidence more.

Apples in the road. A declined game of cards. A foolish girl becoming less foolish because someone expected better of her. Those were not proofs a court would accept, but they were proofs enough for Elizabeth Bennet.

twelve

The Consequences of Ramsgate

The month following their return from Ramsgate passed with exasperating slowness.

Darcy had imagined that once Mrs. Younge was dismissed and Georgiana safely established in London, the worst of the business would be over. Instead, each day revealed some new difficulty that admitted no simple remedy.

Mrs. Annesley had accepted the position of companion and proved every bit as sensible as her references suggested. She possessed neither Mrs. Younge’s excessive indulgence nor her talent for manipulation. Georgiana liked her instantly.

Unfortunately, respect did not restore happiness.

His sister rarely wept now. Darcy practically wished she did. Tears might have relieved what silence merely concealed. She attended breakfast, practiced the pianoforte when Mrs. Annesley persuaded her, accompanied them on brief drives through Hyde Park, and retired early each evening with a headache she insisted was improving.

She never mentioned Ramsgate. Nor Wickham. Nor Mrs. Younge. If Darcy attempted to approach the subject, Georgiana’s hands folded tightly together in her lap, her eyes fixed upon the carpet until he abandoned the effort.

Richard maintained she was ashamed. Darcy feared she was merely heartbroken. The distinction mattered—Darcy needed to understand so he could take the right path toward healing.

One afternoon, returning from another disappointing interview with the mother of a suitable young lady recommended as a possible companion, Darcy found Georgiana seated in the music room before the pianoforte.

The instrument stood open. No music sounded. Her fingers rested upon the keys without depressing them.