Page 7 of Wickham Likes 'Em Young
Suddenly, from behind, they heard a shrill cry, “Come back here!” The cacophony of giggles and shouts and insults and thudding steps down the trail caused Elizabeth to drop Mr Darcy’s arm so she could spin around and glare at Lydia and Kitty. With her feet positioned in a wide stance, her arms akimbo, and steel in her voice, she called out in a low pitch, “Lydia and Kitty! Please cease this objectionable behaviour immediately!”
She heard Mr Darcy gasp, and she supposed he was horrified by her youngest sisters’ noisy and careless deportment. Because she was firmly planted in the middle of the trail, Lydia and Kitty did slow down and then stop. Elizabeth immediately realised what had caused this latest quarrel, and she hissed at Lydia, “Give your sister her bonnet.”
Then, blushing with the utmost mortification, she turned back to Mr Darcy. “I apologise to your eardrums and your sensibilities, sir.”
She watched Lydia return the hat and walk, rather than run, back to the house, Kitty trailing behind her while inspecting her bonnet for damage. Elizabeth sighed and then turned towards Mr Darcy to see how horrified he might be.
But he did not look horrified. Indeed, he was grinning. Elizabeth wanted to swoon, and she pleaded with her nerves, telling her body that it was impossible for him to becomeevenmore gorgeous than before; her body was not, apparently, inclined to listen.
She was not certain what to say. Between the humiliation of having such noisome and ill-behaved sisters and the discomfiture of having her knees respond to his smile by threatening to utterly give way, she felt incapable of forming words of inquiry or further apology.
But her silence was not a problem, because Mr Darcy spoke: “I remember you!”
“You remember me? From when I was eleven?”
“I do. You saw Wickham leering at your sister and staggering towards her, and you planted your feet and put your hands on your hips, as you did just now, and you glared at him. You were so protective of your older sister—and she was much taller than you then, instead of only an inch or two taller, as she is now. You were fierce. And admirable.”
Elizabeth continued to blush. She said, “Thank you for the pretty speech. I am positive I little deserve such kind words, and I am surprised that you remember me. I fear that the reality is that you saw my supposed fierceness as humorous and pitiable—after all, how could I have protected my sister from Mr Wickham, at age eleven, if you and your cousin had not been there?”
“No. You were not pitiable. And not laughable. You would not have been strong enough to stop Wickham physically, but I feel certain that you could have frightened him off with your words and your glare, and if not, you certainly could have rallied some protection from others, even if we had not been there.”
Elizabeth could only feel embarrassed for so long, and she burst into laughter over the picture of her standing up to Mr Wickham with just her words and her frown. “I am ever so certain that you are right, Mr Darcy. Since you say I was strong enough and fierce enough, I must have been so. I can picture it, a little girl, age eleven, hurling words like cannonballs and felling grown men.”
He laughed along with her, but he stopped laughing and even smiling once they reached the clamorous house. Elizabeth turned to look at him before entering and asked, “Should I go in by myself, fish Mr Bingley out for you, and allow you to escape the pandemonium within unscathed?”
“I am not afraid,” he said. “‘Once more unto the breach,’ madam.”
Even though he seemed to have sworn off laughing, Elizabeth chuckled at their bookish humour and, once she reached Longbourn’s parlour, she sought to soothe her mother and calm her sisters. She eagerly drank her lemonade and rang for more refreshments, and she fostered polite conversations about pleasant topics, as well as she could.
And…she attempted to shrug off the sadness she felt, knowing that her family would likely manage to sink any marriage prospects she might ever have, because of their vulgar words and boisterous conduct. Who would ever wish to connect with her family?
CHAPTER 3
20 October 1811
Several days of steady rain had kept Elizabeth indoors more than she liked. Jane, who had ever been her best friend and a steadying force in the household, continued to act out of character at random intervals. Elizabeth became increasingly reluctant to speak to her about either Mr Darcy or Mr Bingley, skittering away from the unending negativity towards one and the too-fervent positivity towards the other. When Elizabeth realised that she had never clearly explained to her sister why Darcy’s memory of Mr Wickham had upset him, she felt certain that trying to explain that would result in more negativity, in Jane’s mind, for Mr Darcy. So she obviously could not speak of Mr Wickham, either.
Not wishing to speak about three different men to her dearest sister resulted in Elizabeth not speaking about any man to anyone. It seemed wisest to avoid conversation— especiallyspeculation—about romance or marriage or, really, anything in the future.
But living at Longbourn, it was impossible not to hear endless musing and dreaming about marriage. It was all that her mother spoke of.
After days of endlessly grey skies and soft rain, Elizabeth awoke on Sunday to a pale sunrise. Seeing only a few fluffy clouds in the sky, she gladly threw on her oldest clothes—for surely there would be mud—and some warm layers, and she silently slipped outside to take a walk.
Some of the paths she walked were low-lying and would be especially mired in mud, so she chose to take the path to Oakham Mount. Not only was the slope of the trail conducive to the rain water pouring away, rather than pooling, much of the trail was covered with gravel and outcroppings of larger stones. She had to do a bit of scampering—like a goat, she thought with a chuckle—to avoid stepping in a few gloppy spots, but she managed to ascend to the top of the mount without getting too much mud on either half-boots or skirts.
To her surprised pleasure, Mr Darcy was there.
He looked quite a bit worse for the wear. His Hessian boots had been, at some point, six inches deep in mud, and there were smaller spatters higher, even on his trousers.
“Mr Darcy!” Elizabeth cried.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said with one of his little smiles. “I was hoping I might see you this morning.”
She took her usual full-circle turn to enjoy the fresh-washed green, gold, and reddish orange fields and forests and meadows. Then she closed her eyes and lifted her face up to the sun, feeling its autumn-enfeebled warmth.
Opening her eyes, she saw Mr Darcy staring at her with an intensity that had become characteristic. She caught her breath but did not speak. Instead, she listened for the quiet natural sounds she so enjoyed.
At first, the whispers of the breeze moving through leaves and pine needles were the only sounds she heard, but then she heard a trilling robin song. She lifted a finger, and she watched as Mr Darcy lifted his head but stilled his body, apparentlylistening. A few moments after the robin’s singing had stopped, they both heard a thrush with its repetitive dawn song; this time it was Mr Darcy who lifted a finger, pointing in the direction from which the tweets and chirrups came.
