Pride and Premeditation (Jane Austen Murder Mystery #1)(25)
“I don’t believe you,” Mary said, still cross. “I’ll just ask Lydia.”
“Are they awake?” Lizzie asked, wary of Lydia and her knowledge of Wickham. Mary scowled, but she nodded, always hopeful to win her older sisters’ favor.
Lizzie swallowed the last of her tea. “I must go.” Heaven help her if she was cornered by Kitty or Lydia begging to know details about Wickham—she’d never leave the house!
“Where?” Mary asked, but Lizzie ignored her.
“Lizzie, what shall I say if Mama asks where you are?” Jane asked.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something!” Lizzie called over her shoulder.
“Wait!”
Lizzie turned, fearful her sister would protest her slipping away yet again. But Jane just said, “Remember—drawing room gossip only gets you so far.”
It had rained before dawn, turning Gracechurch Street slick with mud. Cheapside always seemed to smell the worst after a rain, but Lizzie didn’t mind—outdoor air and the weak sunlight through the clouds rejuvenated her better than the strongest cup of tea could. She gave a wave to their next-door neighbors, the Longs, who were just stepping out.
Lizzie knew that to the Caroline Bingleys and Darcys of the world, living in Cheapside probably seemed humiliating. But Lizzie loved the liveliness of the shopkeepers and merchants who could often be found lining the streets and the cheerful society of bankers and shoppers strolling between storefronts.
Lizzie lingered at the end of her street, scanning the pedestrians for a familiar gray cap atop tightly curled black hair. Fred could usually be found lingering nearby, hopeful for an assignment or waiting with a helpful tip. She didn’t spot him this morning, but a little girl with stringy blond flyaways falling out of haphazard plaits caught her gaze and scurried up to Lizzie.
“Anything today, miss?”
Lizzie would prefer to send her message to the Bingleys through Fred, but she couldn’t say no to the girl. “Will you tell Fred to find me at the firm?” Lizzie asked. The little girl didn’t respond until Lizzie slipped her a halfpenny, and then she nodded once before scampering away. Lizzie saw her grab hold of a passing carriage, hitching a ride before disappearing from sight.
She’d always had a soft spot for the street children. The few times she’d managed to escape from under her mother’s thumb as a child, she’d always gone looking for them. They’d been naturally suspicious of her, of course, being well-fed and well-dressed and full of manners, but Lizzie was jealous of the way they ran free through the streets, with no one to scold them about splattering their clothing with mud or shouting too loudly.
They never accepted her, even when she was a child herself, but she learned early on that she had currency with them—food, castoffs from the Bennet household, and, more recently, small bits of money. As she grew older, she began to understand how difficult their lives were, and she wished that she could afford to feed, clothe, and house them all. She didn’t understand why they grew more skittish the older she got, until not long after she met Fred he told her no street kid would take a handout. “How d’we know you don’t want something in return?” he challenged her, and it slowly dawned on Lizzie that there were other people, not so charitable, who offered the orphans things—and not out of kindness, but to trap them. After that, Lizzie was careful to attach her offerings with a small errand or odd job. At least today that little girl would be able to buy food. It might be her only meal.
When Lizzie arrived at Longbourn & Sons, she pushed the door open, waved at the clerk who sat sentry at the desk near the front, and went straight to Charlotte’s desk. She intended to catch her friend up on the events of the past few days but skidded to a stop when she saw that Charlotte was speaking to someone.
No, not just someone. Collins.
Lizzie suppressed a shudder. She went to interrupt—Charlotte would appreciate the distraction—except the sound of Charlotte’s soft laugh made Lizzie stop and fully take in the scene.
Collins leaned against Charlotte’s desk, an insufferable smile stretched across his face. He laughed, abrasive and full of humor at his own words, and Charlotte’s warm chuckle followed. Lizzie’s brow furrowed. She’d had a conversation with her just last week about how her father did not pay Charlotte to laugh at Collins’s jokes and she was therefore not obliged to humor the humorless. And yet Charlotte was not only laughing with Collins, she was smiling warmly up at him as he leaned forward to whisper something appallingly close to Charlotte’s ear. . . .
Lizzie could take no more. She stepped forward and cleared her throat in an exaggerated manner. Collins looked up but relaxed when he saw it was Lizzie. Charlotte merely looked surprised, not at all guilty to be flirting with the enemy.
“Sorry,” Lizzie said. “I hate to interrupt what I am sure is a stimulating conversation. But don’t you have work to see to, Mr. Collins?”
“I do, Miss Elizabeth,” he said almost irritably. “Miss Lucas and I are discussing work. You might not recognize that, given that you’re not employed here.”
Charlotte cringed at Collins’s slight. “Hello, Lizzie. The post has just come, and Mr. Collins was seeing if he had any mail.”
“A letter from Mr. Davis!” Collins crowed, waving about a letter, seal unbroken. “Thanking me for my keen senses in uncovering his wife’s deception.”