Darcy felt the weight of the insult and opened his mouth to issue a stinging retort. But Bingley was there first.
“And your education, of course,” Bingley added cheerfully.
“Of course,” Mr. Wickham agreed, though a fleeting expression of annoyance flitted across his face. “Not being able to prove that this letter is indeed genuine does not mean I am prevaricating, however. It means only that a wealthy man has more resources with which to deny one who is not.”
“Are you already ordained?” Bingley inquired immediately. “If so, I have a friend with a living in his gift who is in search of just such a man. Perhaps we shall be able to resolve this difficulty to everyone’s satisfaction.” He glanced around at each of the men, who seemed cheered by the offer. “I do so dislike confrontation.”
“The fact of the matter is that I have not completed ordination.” Mr. Wickham ought to have been put to the blush, but his cheeks did not redden, nor did he exhibit any symptom of embarrassment. “I had rather hoped to discuss this in private, but”—he glanced around—“as I am among friends, I suppose I might make the request now.”
Darcy did not encourage him, and the other men seemed a little less sure of their friend’s case.
“Go on, then,” Bingley said, nodding.
Wickham tried to appear humble, but it was too easy, too practiced. “I had hoped to discuss relinquishing the living for a sum in hand,” he said. “I should prefer to study the law.”
The better to circumvent it, Darcy mused.
“Do I have this right?” Fitzwilliam asked pointedly. “Mr. Wickham wishes to be remunerated for a living Darcy’s great-uncle did not bequeath him and that he is not qualified to take up even if he had?”
In the face of such an inquiry, none of the militia officers who had gathered to support Mr. Wickham spoke to defend him.
Fitzwilliam glared at them all. When he spoke again, he was incredulous. “What kind of balderdash is this? Did not his public approach cause any of you to begin to doubt his honesty?”
Mr. Wickham shrugged, his handsome countenance marred by sorrow and regret. “I was loath to approach you, Mr. Darcy, but my good friends here did insist. Now that I have tried you and found you so unyielding, I shall withdraw. Good health to you all, gentlemen.”
“Good evening, Mr. Wickham,” Darcy replied coolly. “Better luck with your next gull.”
Elizabeth stared out at the rain.
“I believe Miss Bennet will remain at Netherfield Park overnight,” Mrs. Quimby said soothingly. “Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst would not send a guest out into a rain like this, and it would be dangerous to send a servant out when it is also so dark. We will hear from her in the morning, I am certain.”
Mary put down her sewing. “Do you think so?” she asked Mrs. Quimby.
“I am quite sure of it,” Mrs. Quimby said. “No hostess would put her guest at risk in such a way.”
“And perhaps she will see Mr. Bingley in the morning before she returns home,” Mary added.
Elizabeth did not move from the window. Mrs. Quimby was attempting to keep Mary calm, but it would not work with her. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst lived in London, where the paved streets allowed for travel in conditions worse than this. After only a month in the country, there was every chance they would send Jane home after their meal without understanding the dangers, and Jane was too polite to ask to remain. She almost wished that Papa had taken the carriage himself and that Jane had ridden to Netherfield—she was an excellent horsewoman. Not only would she have greater control over a mount, but she would almost certainly have been invited to remain overnight.
Mary touched her hand. “I know what you are thinking,” she murmured. “But Jane would not want you to worry. I am sure she remained at Netherfield.”
“You are right, of course.”
“I intend to retire. Will you not come upstairs with me?”
“Not just yet, Mary, but you go. I will await Papa’s return and inform him that Jane will be home in the morning. You should retire as well, Mrs. Quimby.”
The older woman shook her head. “I will remain with you, my dear.”
“No, truly, I am well. There is no need for us all to be exhausted tomorrow. Please, take your rest.”
Mrs. Quimby stood and gave Elizabeth a searching look. “Very well, if you insist.”
“I do. Thank you. I will see you both in the . . .” The sound of horses cut off Elizabeth’s words. “At last.” She moved towards the front door, where Brooks, a footman, now approached with an umbrella.
She froze at the same time he did. The whinnying pierced through the storm like human screams, and though the pounding of the hooves was muffled, it was not the sound of horses pulling a carriage. They were beating against the earth too fast, too wildly.
“Miss Elizabeth!” cried Mrs. Quimby, but Elizabeth was already in the hall, digging out her oilcloth coat and hat and pulling on her stoutest boots. Mary was just behind her.