Chapter 2
Caroline Bingley’s gut roiled with anxiety as her maid fussed about, arranging her hair. “Not like that,” she hissed at the girl. “With the curl coming down my shoulder.”
As she watched her maid begin again, Caroline gritted her teeth, well aware that nothing, nothing at all, had gone as planned. Not her hair, not this wretched house, and not her plans with Mr Darcy.
Before they came to Hertfordshire, it had all been falling into place—all her schemes, all her arrangements—and he had been the one to ask Charles whether he might accompany them to Netherfield.
He had been the one to murmur under his breath, with occasional glances in her direction, at Hurst’s house that day—that blessed day—after which Charles announced Darcy would come with them.
And had not her brother given her a significant look directly after?
He had, and she did not misunderstand it.
She had set off shopping immediately, arriving in Netherfield with her head held high and her trunks nearly bursting.
The first days had been promising. They had walked alone together at least three times, he sat beside her at dinner, and he had even read to her from his book.
And then the wretched assembly, the assembly he had not even wished to attend but had been coerced into by her brother. Stupid Charles! If not for that, if he had never seen that dreadful chit, Eliza…ugh! She simply could not think of it without becoming enraged.
Tonight was it. Her last opportunity with him, her last chance to dispel this nonsense in his head about marriage to some ridiculous nobody from this dreadful, unimportant little place.
Elizabeth entered Netherfield Park with her sister beside her and her nerves doing a merry jig in her stomach.
The happy anticipation of the evening had been nearly too much to bear these last days, particularly as a succession of rain had kept them all indoors.
To make matters worse, she had been wholly unable to see Mr Darcy.
What was this strange madness that seemed to have afflicted them both? She was most certainly not the sort of lady to be carried away by fancy, and by all accounts, he was not prone to excess sentimentality himself. Yet here they were, in the grip of mad love, sense and reason discarded.
The times they had spent together in the last weeks had been utterly rapturous.
He was a sober-minded man, almost haughty in general demeanour—but that side of him was only for those around them.
For her, he was quite different. Serious, yes, but with a sly humour that sometimes doubled her over with laughter.
They spoke of everything and anything; she told him her life story—as dull as that was—and he told her his.
Nothing was hidden between them. She felt wholly herself, wholly loved, and wholly accepted for the first time in her life.
“Oh! I beg your pardon!” She had nearly run into one of the soldiers, a tall man who had come to an abrupt halt while entering the ballroom.
The gentleman, a handsome, tall man, turned around. “Steady on! I hope I did not hurt you?”
“No, no. The fault was mine.”
“Not at all,” he said warmly.
“Lizzy!” Kitty was immediately at her sister’s side. “What are you about, nearly knocking poor Mr Wickham to the ground?”
At that moment, the musicians began to rehearse their instruments, and Elizabeth missed some of what was said. Kitty spoke over them, performing some sort of introduction. “Whitman, did you say?” Elizabeth asked loudly.
Kitty repeated it, still to no avail, and Elizabeth gave up, mentally assigning him the name ‘Whitman.’
Mr Whitman said something then, his words lost in a loud wailing from the musicians who were nearly ready to begin.
“Forgive me,” said Elizabeth with another quick look around her. “I cannot hear you.”
Mr Whitman leant into her. “I asked whether I might persuade you to do me the honour of dancing with me.”
Disappointment cascaded through her. She had wanted to open the ball with Darcy, but he was nowhere to be found. With a sigh, she smiled at Mr Whitman. “Of course. The honour is mine.”
Mr Whitman leant in again. “Excellent.” With a few words to Kitty—no doubt securing a dance with her later—he led Elizabeth to the floor where other couples had begun to form a set.
She was pleased to see Jane standing up with Mr Bingley. Jane caught her eye and made an expressive look down the line—their younger sister Mary was standing up with Mr Collins, their cousin. Elizabeth smothered a smile.
As the dance began, she again took a look around. Mr Darcy remained absent, and she could not imagine what might have detained him. She would ask Mr Bingley. Surely he would know the whereabouts of his missing guest.
“Miss Bennet, I hope I am not so much a bore that you already seek your avenue of escape?”
Mortified, Elizabeth comprehended her rudeness. “How thoughtless of me, sir, I do apologise. Um…I had arranged to dance with someone who appears not to be in attendance this evening, and I was wondering what became of him.”
“What is his name? Perhaps I saw him earlier.”
“Mr Darcy. Are you acquainted with the gentleman?”
They were turning just then so Elizabeth had only a fraction of a moment to see Mr Whitman’s brows shoot upwards. When he faced her again, his countenance showed only pleasure.
“I am very well acquainted with him, in fact. I grew up on his family’s estate, Pemberley.”
“Oh! Then you must know him very well indeed. He has not mentioned to me that so good a friend is quartered here in Meryton.”
Mr Whitman’s head lowered, and he looked momentarily abashed. “No, I should imagine he might not.”
Elizabeth did not press his confidence, but after a brief moment, Mr Whitman offered it. “Darcy and I have had a bit of a falling out in our later days. A tale far too common I fear—our lives as adults become so complicated.”
Uneasily, Elizabeth offered, “Perhaps Mr Darcy is simply unaware that you are here. After all, he likely has a large acquaintance that he has not yet mentioned to me.”
With a gallant nod, Mr Whitman said, “Let us hope that is true.”
With that, the awkward moment was left. Elizabeth went on to have an enjoyable and informative conversation with Whitman about Derbyshire and Pemberley. Mr Whitman had endless amusing stories of Darcy’s boyhood, as well as enchanting recollections about his home.
It was a surprise when the dance ended. It was a further surprise to see Mr Darcy at the edge of the floor, glaring at both of them fiercely. Elizabeth felt a momentary pang beholding his darkened countenance and feared she had erred in being taken in by Mr Whitman’s charm.
She exited the set on the soldier’s arm.
Mr Darcy’s glare grew more fierce and more wholly centred on Mr Whitman with each step they took towards him.
Mr Whitman appeared unconcerned, smiling genially.
As soon as they were in earshot, he said, “Darcy, I have been getting acquainted with your friend—”
Darcy yanked her away from the man. “Elizabeth is not my friend,” Darcy spat, and she startled at the use of her Christian name. “We are engaged, and as such, she is mine to defend. And defend her I shall. Should she come to even the least harm—”
“Harm?” Mr Whitman spread his hands wide. “How might I have harmed her? It was a dance, Darcy, and in case you had not noticed, this is a ball.”
“See that it comes to no more. In fact, stay away from her and any of her sisters, else you will answer for it. Am I clear?”
People had begun to look at them curiously, and Elizabeth placed a gentle hand on Darcy’s arm. “Mr Darcy, I assure you, I am well. Mr Whitman and I—”
“Whitman? The name is Wickham, my dear,” Darcy said, turning to give her a tight-lipped smile. “George Wickham.”
“My apologies then, Mr Wickham,” said Elizabeth with a smile in his direction. “I could not hear very well when my sister introduced us and have been calling you the wrong name.”
Mr Wickham bowed and murmured something while Elizabeth turned back to Darcy. “Mr Darcy, I find myself in great need of refreshment. Will you accompany me?”
Darcy agreed, and they nodded goodbye to Mr Wickham, Elizabeth mouthing her thanks to him as they went.
They retrieved glasses of punch, and Elizabeth was quiet, seeing that Darcy’s carefully controlled anger had not abated. She wondered at his announcement of their engagement—it was not true, not formally, not yet—but was unsure how to begin the conversation of all that had transpired.
“Will you come with me to some place where we might speak privately?” Darcy asked, having quickly drained his punch. He set the glass down on a nearby tray.
“Well…I…” Elizabeth looked around her, seeing her mother and the surrounding gaggle of gossips were well occupied. “Very well.” She nodded, and together, they exited the ballroom.
Caroline Bingley watched Mr Darcy lead Miss Elizabeth from the room, unsure whether to claim victory.
Her plan to detain him, to keep him from dancing the first with Eliza, had been a success.
All it took was a few tears with a bout of feigned anxiety, and his sense of honour had done the rest. She could not have arranged it better, to then find Miss Elizabeth dancing with Mr Wickham, who had treated Darcy so ill during the Season.
Darcy’s rage had been unmistakable. But was it enough? Would he, at last, forswear his fascination with Miss Elizabeth Bennet and see that she was exactly like every other low-born chit whose head had nothing but red coats in it?
They found a small, unoccupied sitting room on the second floor. Darcy opened the door for her and, once they had entered, closed it behind them.