Preview of The Measure of Trust
“Blast this infernal mud!” Elizabeth Bennet muttered under her breath. She tried to wipe a slimy splatter of it off her riding gloves as her horse trudged through the soggy autumn fields, its hooves heavy with the weight of the mire.
Hertfordshire had not even been experiencing any extraordinary measures of rain this autumn. But the fields had become irredeemable marshes—a complaint Elizabeth had largely ignored, when she heard anyone speak of it, until she became the one to accidentally try wading through the quagmire.
“You should have stayed home, Lizzy,” she grumbled to herself. Jane had warned her, but no, she simply had to call on Charlotte, even though her ankle was still tender from the day before, when she had slipped most ingloriously on the path back from Oakham Mount. So, what was her solution?
A horse. A bloody horse.
And as the carriage horses were wanted on the farm that day, the only alternative had been her father’s riding horse—a temperamental beast with a penchant for putting his head between his front legs and pitching his tail in the air, whenever the fancy suited him.
Which it had earlier… Thus, the muddy gloves.
But for Charlotte, Elizabeth had been willing to put up with a little discomfort, perhaps even a little danger. Charlotte had been suffering from what Elizabeth could only describe as low spirits this autumn. Indeed, that was a generous term for the way poor Charlotte had been feeling, and she found little comfort in her mother’s admonishments or her younger siblings’ carelessness. And so, Elizabeth had been making the trek nearly every day of late, with the hope of lifting her friend’s spirits even a little.
The horse’s hooves squished into another soft bit of earth, and being as displeased by the notion of slogging through another swamp as his rider was, he lodged his feet in the ground and refused to move forward. Elizabeth uttered one or two indelicate phrases about the horse’s parentage, but rather than fight with him again, perhaps it was best if she turned back and found firmer ground. Just… Where was that? She leaned slightly forward, inspecting the earth below for a promising path.
That, however, proved to be an ill-judged notion. The moment her weight shifted, the horse tossed his head and snorted, then his front feet popped a few inches off the ground in a menacing threat to rear, if she tried to make him go where he did not wish to go.
“Easy now,” she coaxed. She would get nowhere by telling the horse exactly what she thought of him, so perhaps gentle manners might prevail. “Just a little further, and we’ll be back on solid ground.”
Another rabid-sounding snort, and the horse subsided long enough for Elizabeth to pull him away towards firmer footing. There, now they were getting somewhere. Just a little farther on, and they would be on the road. And she would be hanged before she tried to cross these marshy fields again before next summer. Shortcut or not, her petticoats were already several inches deep in mud, and she was starting to shiver. Just a few seconds more…
But fate, it seemed, had other plans. As they approached a particularly waterlogged section of the field, the horse’s feet seemed to just… stop. He splashed up to his knees, and then his head went down, his body wrung to the side in a slithering hop… and Elizabeth felt, just for an instant, what it would feel like to fly like a bird.
A pity she could not land like one. Elizabeth hissed when she splashed into the wet grass and rolled to her side, then surveyed herself with a groan. Good heavens, she was a slimy wreck! There was another gown ruined.
But that was not the worst of it. Pain shot through her already injured ankle as she struggled to sit up, her hands sinking into the cold, wet mud. The horse, its eyes wide with panic—or malice, she could not decide which—thrashed against the sucking earth and splattered her with more of the infernal stuff. Not that it made any difference now, though.
“No, no, no!” Elizabeth gasped. “Don’t you dare try to run off. You got me here. Now, you shall… Ooh!” She grabbed whatever leather was within her reach and pulled herself to her feet, wincing as she put weight on her throbbing ankle and trying to reach for the dangling rein.
Where was she? Elizabeth steadied herself by resting a hand on the pommel of the saddle and sought her bearings. She should never have taken the shortcut.
“Let me see… There is that stand of oaks, and the lane wrapping around, and oh, drat. Had I not got farther than that?” She shaded her eyes and turned about one more time. There was the marker for Netherfield, just around the bend. And that meant that she was still three miles from home.
There was nothing else for it. She would have to climb back on that pompous, twitchy beast somehow. She certainly could not walk home in this condition, but just now, hobbling three miles back to Longbourn on one good ankle seemed a great deal more appealing than getting back on that recalcitrant brute. He had done nothing today to earn her regard.
With a heavy sigh, Elizabeth gathered her skirts and braced one arm over the saddle to keep herself from falling as she tried to walk. And thus began the long, painful trek back to Longbourn.
Darcy obliged by glancing out the other window and nodding agreeably, whenever Bingley seemed particularly enamoured of something or other. “That there is the bookseller’s,” Bingley informed him—as if the sign in the window was insufficient to the task. “You recall that fine first edition I showed you the other day? Well, that is where I found it. Odd thing, too, for I should never have thought to… oh, and there is the haberdasher. I was a little concerned there would be few options outside of going to London—you know, small village like this. It is a very respectable shop for all that. And there is the milliner. They had a very fine beaver that I admired immensely, and I think I shall look in on it again after we have concluded our business.”
“We are not here to purchase a hat,” Darcy sighed. “In fact, we are very nearly late for your appointment with Mr Philips. We shall not have time to make ourselves presentable at the inn before we are expected.”
“I suppose we ought to have left when you recommended,” Bingley confessed. “But I thought surely it was not so very critical, as I thought the roads would be quite good. A real shame about that downed tree we had to go around. Fancy, a two-mile detour just to go around a tree!”
“Would you rather drive off the road and get the carriage wheels stuck in the mud?”
“No, no. It is only that it seems like it should not have been such a bother. But Mr Philips seems an easy chap. I doubt he shall mind so very much.”
“I always mind when people waste my time,“ Darcy grumbled. But the complaint was lost on Bingley.
Some minutes later, the carriage pulled to a halt directly outside the legal office of one Mr Walter Philips, solicitor. Darcy gave his jacket a cursory dusting, wishing he did not feel so badly on account of their tardiness that he refused to stop at the inn first, as planned. Well, Mr Philips was a solicitor from a small village. Surely, he had seen gentlemen arrive with creases in their trousers before.
They entered the office and were asked to wait a moment, but before they had even taken seats, Mr Philips himself came to greet them. “Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy,” he began, his tone heavy with regret, “I am afraid I have some unfortunate news. The lease for Netherfield has been taken by another party. I sent a letter to inform you, but it appears it did not arrive in time. I do apologise, sirs.”
Bingley’s face fell, his enthusiasm draining away like the colour from his cheeks. “But... How is that possible? We were in negotiations, were we not? I had hoped to establish myself in a house before winter.”
“I am very sorry, Mr Bingley, but another presented himself only two days ago and was willing to offer far more generous terms if the owner would agree to consider leasing to another.”
“We had a contract, man!” Bingley’s ears were starting to turn red, and Darcy drew himself up in some surprise. Bingley was not the man to lose his temper, but his looks now bordered on very vexed, indeed.
“In fact, Mr Bingley, we did not have a contract. That was the purpose of our meeting today. Thus far, we had only discussed details, and you have performed your due diligence, but there was nothing legally binding on either party. I truly am sorry, sir, but I am merely the one managing the contract. The decision was Mr Northam’s, as Netherfield property belongs to him. And once the other contract was signed, he departed for Bath, as he means to make his residence there. I am afraid there is no possibility at this point in asking him to reconsider.”
“But… Well, this is dashed indecent. Shoddy business, I should say! Who is this other party? Was he made aware that the property was under consideration?”
“I am afraid it is not within my purview to disclose any private matters, but indeed, he was made aware of your interest. Thus the reason for his… exceeding generosity toward Mr Northam.”
“I should have been at least given the opportunity to match his offer!” Bingley protested. “I daresay, most indecent. I shall make a formal complaint, I shall, and—“
“Mr Philips,” Darcy interjected firmly, “we thank you for your time.” Darcy held an arm before Bingley, inviting him to extricate himself.
Philips nearly sagged, such was his evident relief, but Bingley was not quite prepared to surrender. “Well, I… I shall write to Mr Northam myself, I suppose. This should not have been carried on in such a way.”
He continued posing similar remarks, more to himself than anyone else, as Darcy ushered him out. His expression bordered on broken, and in the short span of time it required to descend the stairs, he had gone from blaming Philips and Northam to questioning himself.
As they stepped into the carriage, Bingley turned to him, his brow furrowed with confusion. “Darcy, what more could I have done? I was prompt to answer all correspondence. My man in London looked over everything and said nothing looked out of the ordinary. Is it not irregular for a property to be let out from under one’s nose in such a manner?”
Darcy nodded. “Indeed, it is. These transactions usually take weeks, if not months, to complete. The last letter you showed me, a mere four days ago, gave no indication of any other interested parties.”
Bingley sighed. “That was what I thought, too. It is a shame, Darcy. Netherfield had everything I’d hoped for. I dearly wish I had been able to show it to you.”
“A pity,” Darcy agreed. “You will show me the next one.”
“Of course, but…” On impulse, Bingley leaned out the window, and called out to the coachman, “Take us along the North Road before we turn back, would you? I would like to catch a glimpse of Netherfield, even if it is no longer to be mine.”
Darcy studied Bingley’s profile, noting the sharp disappointment etched in his features. Bingley was a chap whose every emotion played loudly across his face, but Darcy had never seen such extreme peevishness over a simple missed opportunity. He was not without sympathy, but surely, the matter did not warrant this level of disappointment. “I do not think it advisable to drive by the property. You only torture yourself needlessly.”
Bingley lifted his shoulder. “It is a lovely prospect, Darcy. I did want you to see it if for no other reason than that, once you do, you will not doubt my taste.”
As the carriage rolled along the country lane, Netherfield came into view, its stately façade rising majestically against the backdrop of the Hertfordshire countryside. Indeed, it was a property worthy of admiration, and he could understand Bingley’s attraction to it. They did not drive directly up to the house, rather, taking a road that ran parallel to the property from which they could see most of the manor.
“It is a fine estate, Bingley,” Darcy remarked, his tone measured. “But there will be others.”
Bingley sighed, his gaze fixed on the retreating image of Netherfield as the carriage rolled on. “I know, Darcy. It is just... I had such high hopes for this place. The promise of a new beginning, a chance to establish myself.”
Darcy nodded, his mind already turning to the practicalities of their situation. So, it was not the loss of this particular house that had Bingley so crushed, but the delay in all the things he had looked forward to. To become more like Darcy—that had always been Bingley’s unstated desire, and though flattered, Darcy often wondered if he was the proper standard by which Bingley ought to be measuring himself.
Well, there was nothing else for it now. They would need to redouble their efforts, to seek out new opportunities for Bingley to secure a suitable property. Just as he was about to voice these thoughts, a flicker of movement in the distance caught his eye.
“Bingley, look there,” Darcy said, pointing towards a figure on the side of the road. “Is that a young lady? And... is her horse lame?”
Bingley squinted, following Darcy’s gaze. “By Jove, I think you’re right, Darcy. She appears to be in some distress.”
Darcy rapped on the roof of the carriage, signalling for the driver to stop. As the carriage rolled to a halt, he alighted, his long strides carrying him towards the lady in question. The young woman was covered in mud from head to toe, her skirts caked with the stuff. She stood beside a horse that looked equally worse for wear, its chest and legs mired in bog that was beginning to dry.
“Miss, are you in need of assistance?” Darcy inquired.
The lady had continued walking with her head bowed, as if meaning to pass him by, but when he spoke, her eyes lifted to his, flashing with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. “Unless you have a magic wand to turn back time and prevent me from ever getting on this wretched beast, I am afraid there’s little to be done, sir.”
“Well, I have no wand and I never met one who could work such arts, but it looks to me as though an injured ankle and a rather awkward state of discomportment are your chief troubles at the moment. Please, is there anything that may be done for your assistance?”
“Oh, I should think not, for that in itself would create further complications. Think what would be said of me if I accepted a ride from a stranger?”
Darcy turned about, scanning the road in each direction. “Do you happen to see anyone about with whom you are acquainted?”
One of her eyes narrowed faintly, and a corner of her mouth turned up. “Someone will be along eventually. Or I will simply hobble home as I am. As you see, I am not entirely lame, and I have already managed half a mile in this… state.”
“Miss, I have no intention of arguing with you, but it is clear that you cannot continue much further. Look here, permit me to introduce myself, and we shall not be strangers.”
Her mouth turned up even more. “That silly line only works in children’s books.”
“Naturally, but as there is no one to overhear me, I had dearly hoped you would not call me out on my lazy reasoning. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, and my friend—” he gestured over his shoulder and saw Bingley walking toward them after having a word with the coachman— “back there at the carriage is Charles Bingley. We would be happy to offer you a ride back to your home, Miss...?”
“Bennet,” she supplied, her voice clipped. “Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. And while I appreciate the offer, Mr. Darcy, I couldn’t possibly impose. I am not fit to be seen, let alone to soil the upholstery of your fine carriage.”
Bingley, who had joined them during the exchange, chimed in. “Nonsense, Miss Bennet! We insist. It would be our pleasure to see you safely home.”
Miss Bennet hesitated, her gaze flickering between Darcy, Bingley, the carriage, and the muddy road ahead. “I suppose I am not quite so well off here as I would like to appear. But the upholstery in your carriage….”
“No bother at all,” Bingley interjected. “For, you see, I had a picnic blanket in the boot, as the weather is fair, and I had already intended on an afternoon of celebration on the lawn of… well, that is not to be now, but I had my coachman cover the seat for you.”
She wetted her lips and looked down at herself, surveying her gloves, her gown, the boots that were so thick in mud it was a wonder she even kept her footing… and swallowed. “I suppose the usual fears of a lady who finds herself suddenly dependent upon the aid of two gentlemen whose characters are unknown to her are abysmally lacking in this case.”
Dacy stepped marginally closer. “I do not follow, Miss Bennet.”
She held up one hand, spreading the fingers of it to display the crusting mud over her gloves. “You would have to be desperate, indeed, to try to take advantage of me. It would ruin your expensive coat.”
Darcy nearly choked on a laugh. Had she meant to be impertinent? Or was she simply so out of sorts that the words and thoughts jumbled together in her mouth until they came out sounding gloriously amusing? “I assure you, Miss Bennet, you will be as safe with us as in your own father’s carriage.”
She frowned, a crease appearing under the cracks of mud over her brow as she deliberated. “Well, what about my horse? Frankly, I do not mind leaving the brute here to rot, but my father seems unaccountably to like the rogue. I think he just likes being contrary.”
“The matter of the horse is quite simple,” Bingley replied. “We can fasten the reins to the back of the carriage and lead him. What say you, Miss Bennet?”
She swallowed, her eyes flicking to Bingley, then back to Darcy. “It does sound better than walking, but you do not know what you are offering. Are either of you gentlemen single?”
“Single?” Bingley chuckled a little. “Whatever does that have to do with…”
Darcy put a hand up. “We both are. I can guess at your concern, Miss Bennet. We shall be discreet, but I cannot, in good conscience, drive away without seeing a lady safe on the road. I could never look my own sister in the eye afterwards.”
She shot one more caustic look back at the horse, then nodded wearily. “Oh, what is the use? I am a tragic enough sight as it is. Perhaps no one will recognise me.”
Darcy doubted that very much. Miss Bennet was already fixed in his mind as one of the most unique creatures he had ever encountered, and those who knew her well could not help but spot her at fifty paces, even if she was covered in mud. But he kept this thought to himself as Bingley tugged the horse’s reins from her hand, and Darcy offered his arm to help her hobble to the carriage.
“Oh, I do not think…” She drew back, eyeing his coat. “Sir, I cannot possibly…”
“Your concern is touching, Miss Bennet, but what you ‘cannot possibly’ do is walk unaided. Without leaning on your horse for support, how do you mean to make the carriage?”
“With a great deal of stumbling and more mud on my knees, I should imagine.” She made a wry face. “Very well, but I will touch only your glove, sir.”
Darcy, fighting back a smile at her frank words, offered his hand to assist her to the carriage. “I assure you, Miss Bennet, a little mud is of no consequence.”
Miss Bennet’s lips twisting into a droll smile, accepted his hand and limped away, leaning on him even more than he had anticipated. After some torturous distance, she climbed into the carriage, taking great care to keep her skirts from brushing against the plush velvet. Bingley and the coachman had secured her horse to the back of the carriage, and a moment later, they were underway.
“You will have to give some direction to the coachman. Which way is your home?”
Miss Bennet sat ramrod straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed resolutely out the window. “Two more miles to the southeast, I am afraid.”
“Two miles?“ Darcy repeated. “However did you mean to walk that distance?”
“One step at a time, sir,” she retorted, but not without a sweet little smirk that took the bite out of her words. “I imagine that is the way most people walk.”
“You must have been enjoying quite a long outing. I take it your ride did not go as planned, Miss Bennet?” Darcy ventured.
“What gave it away, Mr Darcy? The mud, or the fact that I was trudging along the road like a vagrant?”
Darcy, feeling a flush creep up the back of his neck, stammered an apology. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet. I did not mean to pry.”
Miss Bennet’s expression softened slightly. “No, forgive me, Mr Darcy. It has been a trying day, and I am afraid my temper has gotten the better of me—not least in the matter of the horse. I might have still been mounted, had I made some little effort at getting along with that ill-mannered cad.”
Darcy permitted another small smile, but hid it away immediately, lest Bingley should see it. “I was not aware that it is ever incumbent upon any lady to make herself agreeable to a… a cad, did you say? Some creatures are better left alone, lest you injure yourself in trying to redeem them.”
The mud on her cheeks somehow faded, when compared to the brilliance of a genuine smile from her. Egad, the lady did have fine eyes, that sparkled just so in the light from the carriage window. “Well said, Mr Darcy. And now, you and I may be friends. There, I have not done such a wretched thing in accepting a ride from you, after all.”
That might be the first time a lady had ever evoked such an easy laugh from him. Darcy forced himself to look away, for it would not do to wonder what she looked like, properly cleaned up and turned out for… oh, say, a ball. No, it would not do to imagine that at all.
“I say,” Bingley asked, “how did you come to be so…” He cleared his throat and gestured to her person. “... besmirched?”
“I tried to take a shortcut,” she sighed. “And I did not realise that nearly every field around here is doing its best to join the ocean.”
“Yes, that is a deal of mud. Has Hertfordshire suffered more rain than London this autumn?”
“No, that is just the shock of it. No one can discover why it is so, but the irrigation channels have all flooded over and broken down any earthen dikes set up to divert the water.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “Interesting. I wonder where the water has come from, if it is not raining overmuch yet this season.”
“The lake, I suppose, but it does not bode well for winter…” Miss Bennet’s brow furrowed again. “Or next spring, when the farmers must harvest winter wheat and plant new crops.”
Darcy had begun to let his eyes wander over those very fields out the window, but at her words, they snapped back to her. What a… singular thing for a young lady to mention, or even think about.
They rode in relative silence for a little while, until Miss Bennet straightened, her eyes on something out the window. She bit her lips together and tried to restrain a sigh. “Mr Bingley, I beg your pardon, but did you say this was your carriage? Pray, ask your coachman to let me out just over the ridge there, behind the stand of trees shielding the road from the house beyond.”
Darcy leaned to look out the window. There was a cluster of young ladies walking on the path ahead, with much giggling and tomfoolery between them. One of them pointed at Bingley’s carriage and squealed in some delight, and Darcy was certain he caught the phrase “rich men from London.”
Miss Bennet groaned and sank back into the corner, looking away.
“Friends of yours?” Darcy asked.
“My sisters,” she hissed as a hand covered her cheek from the window’s light. “I only hope Jane does not look up and recognise Papa’s horse. Lydia never would pick up that sort of thing, but Jane… oh, please beg the driver to slow down and let them pass before we reach the turning of the road! I would rather not make a scene.”
Bingley gave a short command, and they heard the feminine chatter dying away as the girls passed on. Miss Bennet gave a great roll of her eyes and released a shaking breath. “Well! There’s a relief. If Lydia had spotted me in your carriage, I am sorry to say that Mama would have shackled me to one of you unfortunate creatures before sundown.”
Bingley laughed. “Oh, surely, you jest, Miss Bennet. Nonsense, for it was only a matter of helping a lady in distress. No one could fault you for accepting, what with an injured ankle and all. I should like to present myself to your father and assure him that your safety and reputation were properly seen to.”
Miss Bennet cast a weather eye over him, then her gaze shifted to Darcy, and she raised a brow. “You understand, sir. I can see that much.”
Darcy dipped his head. “Unfortunately, I do, Miss Bennet.”
“Then you will understand that I mean what I say when I beg you to let me out before we are quite in sight of the house.”
Darcy nodded. “Indeed, Miss Bennet. Bingley, have the carriage stop just there.” He pointed to the place she had indicated.
“Oh, very well. It seems rather ungallant, though.” Bingley rapped on the roof and said something to the driver.
Miss Bennet shifted on the cloth Bingley’s coachman had laid down as she gathered her skirts and prepared to disembark. “Thank you again, gentlemen. With any luck, I shall not have to endure the embarrassment of meeting you again.”
“Why would that be an embarrassment?” Darcy asked as he disembarked and reached to hand her down.
“Because I shall never have any credit in your eyes, after such a miserable first impression! It would take me months to redeem your opinion of me, and I daresay there would be little reward in it for either of us. No, sir, far too much effort. I shall bid you a good day, and you shall return to London or wherever you are bound, thinking that all Hertfordshire ladies are accident-prone and barely civilised.”
His mouth turned up a little more—dash it all, he could not help it. “And what will you think of gentlemen from London?”
She turned her face up to him with a thoughtful expression, puckering her mouth. Darcy almost chuckled aloud at how the drying mud on her cheek stretched and caked and cracked as her features moved. “I think they are not all cads, sir. Some of them, but not all.”
“Well, that is a relief. I would hate to have such a remarkable lady alive in the world and thinking ill of me.”
She looked away long enough to take the reins Bingley passed to her, then shot him one final, impish look. “I believe you are assured of my good opinion, sir. Little as that matters, I can at least grant you that. Good day, and thank you again for your kindness.” With that, she turned and made her way toward the house, disappearing around the bend without a backward glance.
Bingley sighed. “It truly is a pity about Netherfield, Darcy. With neighbours such as Miss Bennet, I am certain I would have been quite happy there.”
Darcy shook his head. “With neighbours such as her, Bingley, you would have found yourself wed before Christmas.”
If Mama ever heard of this, Elizabeth would find herself bundled in a fast coach for London with her mother and a clergyman trying to chase those poor gentlemen down.
But they truly had been kind. Certainly, there were worse ruffians a lady could find herself compromised by. She glanced back over her shoulder, ensuring that the gentlemen were well out of sight before letting out a long, painful sigh. The horse, drat him, was all friendliness now, and he nuzzled her hand. She patted his shoulder absently.
“We dodged a bullet, you miscreant. It seems no one saw our little misadventure.”
Limping towards the house, Elizabeth braced herself for the inevitable confrontation with her family. Mr Hill saw her in the drive and immediately came to take the horse. “Shall I help you inside, Miss Elizabeth?” he offered. “I shall call Mrs Hill to attend you.”
“No, no, that will not be necessary.” She sucked a breath between her teeth and hopped a little on her good foot to make it up the steps to the house. No sense in exciting Mama more. Let her believe it was no more than the same sore ankle from yesterday.
“Lizzy!” Jane, her eldest sister, exclaimed as she caught sight of Elizabeth’s at the door. “What on earth happened to you? Why, you are covered head to toe!”
Elizabeth grimaced, holding up a hand to halt her sister’s concern. “I know, Jane. It’s a long story. Could you help me get cleaned up before Mama sees me? I’d rather not have to explain myself just yet. Or ever, really.”
Jane nodded and quickly ushered Elizabeth upstairs. Together, they worked to remove the mud-caked clothing and tidy Elizabeth’s appearance. It would take a full bath to get some of the slime out from under her nails and the roots of her hair, but hopefully, Mama would not have cause to look too closely. That walking dress, though… she would have to sneak it out to the stream behind the house before Hill had a look at it.
Once presentable, Elizabeth descended the stairs, her breath caught in her throat as she noticed the muddy footprints she had tracked into the hall. Oh, dear… perhaps Mama would be too preoccupied with asking her sisters what they had done in town to notice before Elizabeth could get it cleaned up.
But Mama was not in the sitting room to notice. Nor was she upstairs, or even in the kitchen talking to Hill. Guilty conscience, perhaps, but Elizabeth could not be easy until she knew precisely where her mother was, and if there was any chance the details of her little afternoon outing might have been discovered.
She did not have to look long, however. Elizabeth was just returning to the hall when her mother burst through the door, both hands framed in the air.
“Girls!” she cried, her voice echoing through the house. “Netherfield is let at last!”
Well… This was… fortuitous timing. There was no better way to distract her mother from the fact that she had just ridden home alone in a carriage with two wealthy, single gentlemen than for her mother to have something better to gossip about.
Elizabeth knotted her shaking fingers behind her back, willing the nervousness to remain at bay while she smiled serenely for her mother. “Is that so, Mama? How thrilling.”
“Aye, and do you not want to know who has taken it, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth sighed. Mama would not rest until she had divulged every last detail of the new tenant. She nodded, resigning herself to the inevitable gossip that would follow. “I am all anticipation.”
“The man has come from the north, with a large fortune,” Mrs. Bennet proclaimed, her voice filled with barely contained glee. “And his name, girls, is Wickham.”
