Her subsequent encounters had been much of the same. He had not overtly insulted her, but he had been proud, arrogant, and dismissive. When Mr. Wickham told her of his mistreatment at the hands of the horrid Mr. Darcy, she readily believed him, for had she not been witness to his disdain herself, and in quite a personal matter? No, Mr. Darcy was not a good man—that, she was sure of. He was pompous and difficult and thought he was above everyone else. She disliked him heartily.

Mr. Wickham’s constant attentions were a balm to her wounded pride and went some way to rebuilding her image of herself in her own mind. She was not undesirable; Mr. Wickham was clearly quite tempted by her beauty.

Alas, Mr. Wickham was poor and Elizabeth was not much better, having only a small dowry and not even receiving that until her mother passed on. There was no future for the two of them and she found that she did not really mind. He was charming, to be sure, and she was greatly flattered and appreciated his attention, but she knew her heart was not touched. Mr. Wickham was, well, she did not like to admit it because it made her sound terribly mean, but he was, quite simply, not enough. She was not sure what it was that he was lacking, or who would be enough, but she thought she would know it when she encountered it.

She discussed all of this in great detail with her Aunt Gardiner, a kind and understanding woman, and her aunt helped her to make sense of her convoluted feelings and congratulated her on not feeling anything very deep for Mr. Wickham, for he could not afford to marry her, and his prospects were severely lacking. In any case, by the next month he had moved on to another lady, a Miss Mary King who had recently inherited ten thousand pounds. She had not felt his defection keenly at all, confirming the untouched state of her heart, but Elizabeth did not like the words and looks of her neighbors who teased her for it. She reminded them that a man must have something to live on and that she and Wickham were only friends, no more.

One evening, after they had attended a party at Lucas Lodge, Jane and Elizabeth sat on Jane’s bed, brushing out their hair and discussing the evening.

“What do you think will become of us, Jane?” Elizabeth asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you think we will ever marry? Or will we live with uncle after father passes? Or worse, will we have to take employment?”

“Oh, surely not! We will not be as poor as that. And Papa is young still. He might live many more years. Surely we do not need to worry about that now,” Jane soothed.