Then Maria described in minute detail every moment of the assembly where she had danced every dance and several of them with officers, including Mr. Wickham. He had been engaged briefly to Miss Mary King, an orphan living with an uncle. Miss King had come into an inheritance of ten thousand pounds, become engaged to Mr. Wickham, and then whisked away to Liverpool by yet another uncle, the engagement broken. Wickham had seemingly moved on without any signs of heartbreak or disappointment. No one was terribly surprised; Mary King was a freckled little thing and while Elizabeth and Jane had often said they thought her face fresh and youthful, they knew such was not the fashion.

Maria’s letter told of her dance with Mr. Wickham and how gentlemanly he had been. How he had smiled and complimented and charmed her thoroughly and how everyone would miss him now that the militia had gone to Brighton.

Elizabeth felt decidedly unsettled. Mr. Wickham had been her friend. They were not family and she had not seen him overmuch since his engagement to Miss King, but still, he had been a friend. She knew her father’s points had merit and that was why she had listened to him. She had been willing to give her betrothed the benefit of the doubt, but now, realizing how neatly she had put Mr. Wickham out of her mind while being courted by the man who had taken away his living, she felt slightly disgusted with herself. It was one thing to give Mr. Darcy the benefit of the doubt, it was another to turn her back on a friend.

When Mr. Darcy arrived a half hour later, she was just finishing up a song. She relinquished the instrument to her sister and joined Mr. Darcy and her family outside. They sat in the shade, Mr. Bennet reading a book while his wife and eldest daughter embroidered handkerchiefs. Darcy and Elizabeth sat some distance from them. Far enough for private conversation, but close enough to be properly chaperoned.

“How are you today, my dear?” he asked.

“I am well. And you?”

“Very well.”

He looked at her in that dark way he had looked at her in Hunsford, only now she knew finding fault was the last thing on his mind. She did not know how to respond and looked away. He took her hand where it lay on the bench between them and stroked his thumb over her bare knuckles.

He seemed content to sit and watch the flowers bloom while Elizabeth was growing more anxious by the minute. She was dreading the questions she had to ask but knew it must be done. They had been getting along so well the last two days and she was fairly certain what she wished to ask would make him angry. Why was he not speaking! This is Mr. Darcy. Of course he will not begin the conversation.