Chapter 21
Darcy had never found card parties agreeable.
The room was warm—overly so—with too many candles and too many voices. The tables had been drawn close together to accommodate the number of guests, and the constant shuffle of cards, scrape of chairs, and bursts of laughter struck his nerves in a manner he would not have admitted aloud.
Still, he did his best.
Mrs. Philips presided over one table with determined animation.
Lydia and Kitty flitted from chair to chair in fits of restless excitement.
Jane, though still pale from her recent illness, bore the evening with quiet composure.
Elizabeth, seated across from him at the small fish table, seemed amused rather than overwhelmed.
Mr. Bennet had declined the invitation altogether. Mary, Elizabeth informed him, had also remained behind—along with Mr. Collins.
“She declared,” Elizabeth said dryly as she laid down her cards, “that an evening devoted to reflection and spiritual growth was more proper behavior than gaming, even when the stakes amount to nothing more dangerous than fish.”
Darcy’s mouth curved. “Mr. Collins agreed?”
“With enthusiasm. I suspect they are presently engaged in competing sermons.”
He nearly laughed aloud.
The door opened to admit a draft of cooler air and, with it, George Wickham, along with a handful of other militia officers. The younger man’s expression was bright, easy, and entirely at home in the noise. He greeted several acquaintances before approaching their table.
“Darcy,” Wickham said lightly, “you bear it bravely.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I endeavor.”
Elizabeth coughed softly and shifted in her seat. “It is rather warm.”
Darcy was on his feet at once. “You must allow me—”
“There is no need—”
“There is every need,” he replied, already moving toward the sideboard for a glass of water.
He did not return as quickly as he intended.
Mr. Goulding detained him with a question about Derbyshire rents. Sir William insisted upon recounting an anecdote. A matron he did not know well demanded to know whether Pemberley’s drawing room truly boasted Italian marble.
By the time he extracted himself, several minutes had passed.
When he reached the table again, he found Elizabeth in conversation with Wickham.
“…very surprised, I confess,” Wickham was saying, his tone pleasant. “I had always thought my cousin destined for a most strategic alliance.”
Elizabeth’s expression was polite, but Darcy detected a subtle reserve in her posture. “Strategic?”
“A society marriage,” Wickham clarified. “He is not known for… spontaneity.”
Darcy paused just beyond their line of sight.
Elizabeth tilted her head. “You have known him long?”
“Since infancy,” Wickham said with a faint, nostalgic smile. “We were practically inseparable as boys. Pemberley was as much my home as it was his. Your future husband once fell into the stream attempting to prove he could leap farther than I. I pushed him.”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “And he forgave you?”
“Eventually.” The smile faded slightly. “Things altered when we went to university. It is one thing to be companion to an heir at home; it is another to be reminded of the distinction in public.”
Elizabeth’s gaze softened, though she remained careful. “That must have been difficult.”
“It was my own failing,” Wickham said, with what appeared to be candor. “I allowed envy to sour what had been a simple affection. Darcy was uncomfortable with the attention he received. I was uncomfortable with the lack of it. We drifted. I do not blame him.”
Darcy felt an unexpected tightening in his chest.
“When Darcy’s father died,” Wickham continued, “the will was most generous. Uncle George left me a small fortune and the promise of a living. I had no wish to take orders, however. Your fiancé was exceedingly fair. He reimbursed me handsomely for relinquishing the living and agreed to fund my studies in law.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly. “That was… generous indeed.”
“It was,” Wickham said quietly. “More than I deserved, perhaps. I have not always made the most prudent choices since. I thought it best not to press myself too closely upon the family, particularly upon Lady Anne and Miss Darcy. My habits would not have been the most… acceptable to ladies such as themselves.”
There was no bitterness in his tone—only a rueful acceptance.
“But I am truly pleased,” he added, glancing at Elizabeth with what seemed genuine warmth. “Darcy has chosen wisely. I am glad he is opting for happiness over status for his future.”
Elizabeth studied him for a long moment. “And you are content with the distance between you now?”
Wickham gave a small shrug. “Content enough. Perhaps one day we shall recover some of what was lost.”
Darcy stepped forward then, unwilling to linger in the shadows like a spy.
“I trust I have not missed anything of consequence,” he said evenly, setting the glass before Elizabeth.
Wickham turned with easy composure. “Only my confession of youthful folly.”
“Ah, so then it will take another several hours to finish the tale.”
Letting out a surprised bark of laughter, Wickham saluted Elizabeth. “You seem to have influenced my cousin with a sense of humor. Well done, Miss Elizabeth.”
Darcy met his cousin’s gaze. There was no mockery there. No open resentment. Only something quieter.
Elizabeth accepted the glass. Her fingers brushed Darcy’s hand. “Thank you,” she said softly.
He felt the warmth of her gratitude far more keenly than the heat of the crowded room.
He seated himself once more, acutely aware of Elizabeth beside him and of the curious balance between past and present that seemed to hang in the air. Whatever boyhood jealousies had once divided him from his cousin, they did not belong to this moment.
Elizabeth lifted her cards with renewed attention, and the conversation at the table shifted to safer topics. The candles burned lower; the laughter rose and fell again.
And yet, even amid the noise and motion, Darcy felt a quiet certainty settle within him. I could spend the rest of my life content with her at my side.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth had hoped for a quiet morning.
Hope, she reflected as she watched Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy cross the lawn toward Longbourn, was often an overconfident thing.
Jane received them with her usual sweetness, and Bingley, who had entered with evident eagerness, colored faintly when she inquired after his sisters.
“They are—ah—indisposed this morning,” he said, adjusting his cuffs with unnecessary care. “I believe they are under the impression that we are riding about the estate rather than paying calls.”
Elizabeth caught the faint tightening at the corners of his eyes and understood perfectly well the misunderstanding was maintained on purpose.
Introductions were made all around. Mr. Collins, summoned from the breakfast parlor, bowed so low before Darcy that Elizabeth feared for the safety of his spine.
“Mr. Darcy!” he cried, nearly vibrating with reverence. “What an honor—what an elevation—for our humble circle!”
“Are we acquainted, sir?” Darcy asked, looking at Elizabeth with confusion.
“Your venerable aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, is a friend to my patron, Sir Godfrey. He recently granted me the living in his possession,” Mr. Collins exclaimed, practically quivering with delight.
“I am in the happy position of being able to inform you that her ladyship was in the best of health seven days ago, when Sir Godfrey returned from paying a call on her.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Darcy inclined his head with polite restraint. “You are most obliging, sir.”
Elizabeth watched with a mixture of amusement, exasperation, and embarrassment as Darcy bore her cousin’s effusions with tolerable composure.
Mary, who had been quiet until now, regarded him with growing attention. She folded her hands in her lap. “I now remember where I have heard your name before, sir,” she said after a moment, her tone a bit sharp. “It was mentioned in the London papers this summer.”
Darcy looked at her with a touch of surprise. “The papers are fond of attaching my name to many things, Miss Mary.”
Mary did not smile. “This was regarding the fête at Carlton House.”
Elizabeth felt a faint tightening in her chest at her younger sister’s expression.
“Yes,” Mary continued thoughtfully, “there was discussion of certain gentlemen declining the invitation. It was said that one such gentleman did so out of principle.”
Darcy’s expression altered very slightly. “There were a variety of reasons for my absence.”
Mary’s eyes sharpened. “Principle is often religious in nature.”
The room grew a shade quieter.
Elizabeth shifted in her seat. “Mary—”
But Mary pressed on, not loudly, not yet indignantly, merely with the inexorable tone she adopted when she believed she was approaching moral ground. “It was suggested,” she said carefully, “that the refusal had some connection to Mrs. Fitzherbert, and her… persuasion.”
Jane looked distressed. Bingley glanced uneasily at Darcy.
Darcy’s voice remained even. “Miss Bennet, I do not make a practice of discussing private matters in drawing rooms.”
Mary’s fingers tightened. “Then I will ask plainly, sir. Are you a Catholic?”
There it was.
The word did not ring like an accusation—but it hovered dangerously close to one.
Mrs. Bennet gasped. “Mary!”
Elizabeth’s heart began to pound. “That is an impertinent question, Mary,” she said forcefully.
Mary flushed, but she did not retreat. “Religion is not impertinent. It is foundational.”
Darcy met her gaze steadily. “My faith is not a spectacle for public debate.”
“That is not an answer,” Mary returned, the fervor beginning to kindle at last. “If you adhere to doctrines contrary to our Church, then it is material—particularly when my sister—”
“Kitty,” Elizabeth cut in swiftly, “pray fetch Papa.”
Kitty darted out, eager for the drama.