Chapter Text
It struck her then, that Mr. Wickham was always talking about Darcy this and Darcy that, delightfully poking fun at all his deficiencies— without ever once saying anything good about himself. It was almost as if he was a mirror, reflecting its surroundings but barring all view into what lay beneath. She tried to ask him, to get him to talk more about himself and his own life, but invariably he would go off into a story of another acquaintance. It was an excellent diversion tactic, for Wickham’s anecdotes were always very funny and often painting such a picture of human folly to have her gasping in fits of delight. But by the end of it, she would have learned nothing of Wickham himself.
The way he was definitely dodging her inquiries made the whole thing rather like a mystery. What was Mr. Wickham’s life? He had to be in his late 20s. Why was he only entering the militia now? Did he not take orders? Why did he not pick up a curacy or find another living? He certainly had the manner, the skills, the address to win himself a position wherever he went. The more Elizabeth thought, the more she was disturbed by all the unexplained gaps in the story. She was grateful that he entered militia at this time, for it led to their acquaintance, but could not but question the circumstances.
There was nothing for it, she decided, than to ask him directly.