“Good day, ladies,” Mr. Wickham said. “Are these your sisters, Miss Elizabeth? Would you do me the honour of an introduction?”
Elizabeth took in the picture of Lydia and Kitty, arm in arm, Jane just behind them. Her youngest sisters were wearing simple, modest dresses and red cloaks with the hoods pushed back. Their faces were open and artless. Their hair was the same—one thick braid wound up on their heads and tucked beneath their bonnets. No curls, no lace or trim, no decolletage, nothing that would signal them as available for introductions to unrelated men.
Mr. Denny cleared his throat. “Clearly these young ladies are not yet out, Wickham.”
“That cannot be true,” Wickham said gallantly. He removed his hat and bowed gracefully.
Lydia stopped to smile at him, but Jane whispered something in her ear that transformed it into a frown. Kitty glanced at Elizabeth and must have found an answer to the question she was forming, for she did not reply to Mr. Wickham.
Charlotte, bless her, had opened the door and was ushering them all inside. Jane’s expression was curious, but she did not ask questions, merely herded her youngest sisters into Clarke’s.
“I am afraid we must leave you now,” Elizabeth said calmly. “Good day to you all.”
“Oh, do not depart just yet,” Mr. Wickham wheedled.
Elizabeth stopped to stare at him. He was a puzzle. “Why would you wish to importune me to stay when I have said we must leave?”
“Eliza,” Charlotte said warningly.
Elizabeth’s gaze took in the remaining men and caught the glint of coins in the hands of a few. She pressed on. “Is there some wager among you?” It made sense now. “If you are able to flatter us, do you win a prize?”
To her delight, Mr. Denny’s cheeks reddened. She had discerned the reason, and she congratulated herself. “Well, Mr. Wickham,” she said, “I am afraid you have lost the bet. Better luck next time—though I would recommend that you not involve us in your games.”
Darcy was dismayed when Fitzwilliam stopped in front of a run-down shack at the far end of the high street. Bennet had spoken highly of Mr. Jensen, but the whitewash on his workshop was fading, and one shutter hung precariously from a top hinge. The other shutters were open, revealing that there was no glass, only two square holes cut into the wall.
There was a newish sign with a carriage wheel painted on it planted in the yard, however, and he presumed they had indeed found Mr. Jensen’s place of business.
“Bennet’s custom will increase his income substantially,” Fitzwilliam muttered.
Darcy stepped up to the door and knocked sharply.
They were both surprised when a young man stepped out. Perhaps Bingley’s age or a little older, with midnight black hair that stuck out straight from the sides of his head.
“G’day, gents,” he said cheerfully. “I’m Jensen. You Mr. Bennet’s men?”
Fitzwilliam grinned. “I suppose we are, or were, at least. We are his guests.”
The younger man shrugged. “Dinna think you were the footmen,” he said, his dark eyes as bright as his disposition. “Although,” he said, rubbing his chin, “those toffs in town do like ’em tall.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. “They also try to match the footmen by height.” He hooked a thumb in Darcy’s direction. “Can you imagine trying to find five more of them his size?”
Jensen laughed aloud at that. “Come in, gents.”
The inside of the workshop was nothing like the exterior. Here, the square holes in the wall let in light, and several tables were lined with neatly organised parts. Tools hung on the wall and the floor had been recently swept.
“The carriage is out in the back,” Jensen said, getting down to business, “but I think Mr. Bennet may have a problem, and I’d ask you to get word to ’im. You was some of his officers, no?”
“Yes,” Darcy said. “What kind of problem?”
Jensen tipped his head to one side, then the other. “Best I show you.” He walked out the back door, waving a hand that indicated he wished them to follow.
There was quite a large yard behind the workshop. In the middle of it sat the carcass of Bennet’s carriage, covered by canvas. The broken wheel was not covered. It was leaning up against the box.
“Do you see this ’ere?” Jensen asked, pulling the wheel upright. “See this crack?”
The wood beneath the iron tyre had split—the crack was about a foot in length. Darcy looked back up at Jensen. “Yes?”
Fitzwilliam’s expression was dour. “Are you suggesting that is not a natural break, Jensen?”