Chapter Thirty #2
“Mr Wickham? He just left,” Elizabeth replied, surprised. “Why? Do you know him?”
Darcy hesitated. “Yes. But that…is not a conversation we can have here.”
Her brows lifted. “You did not tell me. I had no idea you were acquainted.”
“I thought myself imagining things. Usually, he makes our connection obvious to those he meets,” Darcy said slowly, scanning the crowd as if expecting Wickham to reappear. “He did not…speak ill of me? Or tell you a story of my cruelty or betrayal?”
Elizabeth blinked in surprise, then laughed lightly. “A begrudged friend? Surely I know you well enough now to discount any nonsense. You are the most proper man I know.”
Some of the tension left Darcy’s shoulders. “That is…relieving. Still, I wonder what Wickham is doing if not his usual tricks. How long has he been in the area?”
Elizabeth glanced towards the double doors, now closed.
“Mr Wickham joined the regiment here and has only been in Meryton for a short while. He left rather quickly, I admit. But whatever his intentions, I do not want to let him cast a shadow over tonight.” She smiled.
“Come, Mr Darcy. Let us enjoy this ball. If you truly wish to discuss Mr Wickham, we may speak tomorrow—on Oakham Mount, perhaps?”
He inclined his head, something warm sparking in his eyes. “Very well. Oakham Mount, then.”
As he bowed and took his leave, Elizabeth turned back to the ballroom, her mind spinning. Wickham and Darcy knew one another—and it was not an amicable relationship, if Darcy’s expression was any indication. Still, she would not let it spoil her evening.
Not when everything else—Jane’s smile, Bingley’s growing attachment, her own foolish heart—felt so astonishingly full.
The supper set had arrived, and Elizabeth found herself once more on the dance floor, her hand tucked into Mr Darcy’s. The music swelled around them as they moved in perfect time. It was slower than earlier dances, the notes more lyrical, drawing out every moment. Darcy’s eyes never left hers.
“You are unusually quiet, Miss Elizabeth,” he said softly, his tone intimate.
“I am merely savouring the moment,” she replied, then blushed slightly at her own honesty. “It is not every evening I am asked to dance by such a worthy gentleman.”
His smile deepened, gentle and full of warmth. “I am happy you are pleased. It is not every evening I enjoy my dance partner so well.”
Her breath caught, but the figure of the dance whisked them apart for a moment. When they came together again, her voice was light. “That would certainly set the gossips aflame.”
“Let them,” he murmured, eyes flickering with something more than amusement—something deeper.
As the set concluded, they walked arm in arm towards the supper room, where footmen held open the gilded doors.
The long table glittered with silver and crystal.
A display of roast pheasant and buttered carrots occupied one end, whilst delicate tarts, fluted pastries, and gleaming tureens of white soup graced the centre.
Platters of sliced ham, jellied tongue, and sweetmeats adorned the sideboards.
The room smelled of spices and roasted meats, undercut by hints of fresh bread and sugared almonds.
Their conversation during the meal took on a different tone—gentler, slower. He spoke of his sister, of Pemberley’s rolling green hills, of his favourite dog as a boy, a lumbering, deaf hound named Orson. Elizabeth listened, her expression soft, touched by this more personal side of him.
She shared little stories of Longbourn, of her father’s sardonic wit and her mother’s theatrics, of Jane’s gentle wisdom, and Lydia’s chaos. Darcy laughed—truly laughed—at her description of Lydia’s failed attempt to teach a piglet to sit for scraps.
“I daresay I never imagined such a household,” he said, amusement still in his eyes.
“Oh, it is never dull,” Elizabeth replied with a twinkle.
She sipped delicately from her glass of watered wine, the white soup still warm in her bowl. A gentle contentment settled over her. He was not the man she had once misjudged. He was so much more.
Eventually, the guests retired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port and conversation.
The room was bathed in golden candlelight. Elizabeth took a seat beside Jane as Miss Bingley, after a moment’s preening, rose from her place.
“Miss Mary,” she said with an insincere smile, “would you be so good as to favour us with a song?”
Mary, looking pleased and composed, took to the pianoforte. Her choice was a familiar one—a quiet, pleasing melody that warmed the room without demanding attention. Her playing had improved of late, and Elizabeth watched her with newfound appreciation.
Miss Bingley soon followed with a display of her own, choosing a technically difficult piece.
Her fingers danced with practised elegance, but the music had no soul.
It felt cold, like the glass on the chandeliers—gleaming, but distant.
When she rose, she beckoned to Elizabeth next, who agreed without hesitation.
She sat, and her hands found the keys with ease.
She chose something gentle, a tune her governess had taught her as a girl.
It was a song about longing and discovery, and as she played, her thoughts drifted—not to the notes, but to the man who stood near the doorway, watching her with unwavering attention.
Darcy. Her Mr Darcy.
She could feel his gaze like sunlight on her skin.
As she finished, silence settled for half a breath before soft applause stirred the air.
Miss Bingley clapped delicately, her expression stiff.
Elizabeth stood, heart fluttering, and returned to her seat just as the gentlemen rejoined them.
Darcy passed close to her, murmuring just loud enough for her alone to hear:
“If it were appropriate, I would claim every set.”
She turned her head, meeting his eyes, and her heart swelled with something both wild and settled—like the first time one sees spring after a long winter.
The dancing resumed, and though Elizabeth danced with others, her mind remained tethered to Mr Darcy.
Then, just before the final set, Mr Bingley approached Jane, smiling with uncontainable joy. He took her hand.
“My friends, if I may—Miss Bennet has done me the greatest honour. She has accepted my proposal. We are to be married.”
A hush fell, followed by a flurry of movement. Everyone rushed to offer congratulations. Mr Bennet clapped his future son-in-law on the back, and even Mr Collins seemed momentarily speechless.
Jane was glowing. Her eyes found Elizabeth’s, and the sisters embraced.
“She said yes!” Bingley beamed, embracing Jane’s hand with such reverence Elizabeth thought she might cry.
Elizabeth’s heart burst with happiness for her sister. “Mama would be so pleased,” she whispered aloud, almost without thinking.
Beside her, Darcy took her hand and raised it gently to his lips, brushing her knuckles with a kiss. “Though I never knew her, I believe she would.”
The last set was danced with a sweet melancholy, as if no one wished the evening to end.
Mr Fitzwilliam partnered with Charlotte Lucas, much to the latter's pleasure.
The Bennet ladies all stood up as well. Alas, the evening must come to an end, and as the candles dimmed, guests began to make their goodbyes.
Outside, the sky had turned violet with the early touch of dawn. The air was damp and chilled, and Elizabeth shivered as she approached the Bennet carriage.
Darcy stepped forwards, hand outstretched to help her in. “Ten o’clock,” he whispered as he steadied her.
She nodded, warmth blooming in her chest. Oakham Mount. Tomorrow.