Chapter 6
Elizabeth’s words of caution were entirely unnecessary, Darcy told himself, refusing to acknowledge the dizzying lightness pulsing at his temples.
He had accepted another glass of the devilish drink and had drunk it in full view of Elizabeth, as though to prove how baseless her fears were.
He gave her a defiant smile, which she duly disregarded and insisted that he eat more.
His stomach churned. “Any more of these lamb sweetbreads and I shall be unwell.”
“If you cast up your accounts, it will not be the fault of the food,” Elizabeth retorted.
Before he could reply, Mrs Bennet called him away from his plate, urging that he should judge which of her matronly friends could perform the best impression of Queen Charlotte. Heart sinking, he had no choice but to obey.
After food came more games, and Darcy was in front and centre of them all, much to his chagrin.
Some he had not played since he was a boy; others were new to him.
When he was at last able to take a moment’s rest, he took a seat next to Mr Halifax.
The elderly curate was profoundly deaf, and Darcy had to speak loudly to make himself heard.
The conversation was dull and awkward, but Darcy ploughed on nevertheless, Mrs Bennet’s punch loosening his tongue far more than he expected.
Two young men on a cluster of chairs opposite were deep in discussion; the urgency of their tone caught Darcy’s notice. “Quick, that awful chit is coming this way.”
“There is no time to escape,” his companion replied. “What are we to do?”
Distracted, Darcy broke away from his conversation with Mr Halifax and glanced over to see whom they were discussing.
They were talking of Mrs Wickham. He watched as she approached them.
Her elaborate ringlets framed her face in an overdone way and gave the simultaneous impression of her being older than her years whilst also emphasising her immaturity.
In her hand was a sprig of mistletoe, which she waggled coquettishly at the two men.
“Mr Gates and Mr Kingsnorth.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “You may have known me once as Miss Lydia Bennet, but tonight I am Mistress Mistletoe. Tell me whom you wish to kiss, and I shall make true all your desires.”
Mr Kingsnorth shook his curly head. “Nothing would induce me to share that with you, Mrs Wickham.”
She pouted. “Why not?”
The other man, Mr Gates, gave a bark of laughter.
“You think Kingsnorth here would allow a decent, virtuous girl to be approached by you, demanding a kiss at his behest? Any maiden’s mother would draw their charge to their bosoms, fearful of what mischief you might bring.
It would not be worth the damage to one’s suit.
No, you may save your schemes for someone else, Mrs Wickham. ”
Darcy thought he detected a pink stain on Mrs Wickham’s cheeks, but she simply threw her shoulders back and replied, “Why, how about a kiss with me, then, if you are worried what a maiden might think?”
Mr Kingsnorth snorted. “It is not like you to beg for kisses with mistletoe. I heard you used to give them quite freely before.”
Mrs Wickham laughed, but even from a distance Darcy could hear the forced lightness in her voice. “A fine joke! Well, if you do not need my help, you will be exceedingly sorry later when I have made matches for everyone else and you are without.”
She looked away from the men and suddenly her eyes met Darcy’s. He coloured at being caught eavesdropping. She scowled, then said, in meaningful tones, “I hope you are enjoying your drinks, sir,” before bidding the young men a saucy farewell and disappearing to seek out her next victims.
A tap at Darcy’s arm reminded him of Mr Halifax, and he expressed his regrets for his inattention. The older man did not seem to hear his excuses, for he simply pointed to an apologetic-looking servant bearing another glass. “Mrs Bennet—I mean the queen—has said you are to have this.”
Whatever was in Mrs Bennet’s punch was delightful; it was possibly the best drink Darcy had ever encountered.
He no longer felt inhibited; everyone at this party was like an old friend, and even though he could not always follow every word that was being said, he was certain that a more interesting set of conversationists could not be found.
Standing on the far side of the room, near the window, was Elizabeth.
She had been noticeably quiet for some time now, and Darcy could not fathom why—against all odds, he was having the time of his life.
A servant called her away for a private conference, and when she returned, her expression was even more perturbed.
Occasionally she would look at him, her brow pinched, and he would give a broad smile and an enthusiastic wave, which caused her to frown even more.
Part of him knew he should be concerned at her unusual reticence, but another much more pressing part was so excessively diverted by the Twelfth Night festivities that his worries did not remain with him for long.
One of the Bennets’ acquaintances—a Mr Thomas, or Mr Thompson, Darcy could not recall—asked Darcy about his student days, and he found himself recounting one of his more reckless exploits regarding a keg of gunpowder and a statue of Sir Francis Bacon.
Soon all the men around Darcy were howling with laughter and sharing tales of their misspent youth.
There was a loud ring and suddenly Mrs Bennet appeared, holding a large bell. “The final task is upon us!” She grabbed Darcy’s arm and dragged him towards a table where a large mound of flour had been set out on a plate.
His brow contracted. “I thought all the games were finished?”
Mrs Bennet waved her hand impatiently. “Do not be so vexing, Mr Darcy. Everyone knows that the Twelfth Night party at Longbourn always ends with a round of bullet pudding.”
On the tip of his tongue came the answer that he had never attended a Twelfth Night party, least of all one organised by his mother-in-law, but he had the good sense to remain silent.
“Finish your drink, sir,” cried Mrs Bennet, and amidst all the cheers, he had no choice but to drain his cup.
The alcohol rushed to his head. There is a chance I am a touch more inebriated than I realised.
That thought echoed through his mind only to be replaced by the concerning revelation that he could not feel his feet.
He risked a glance at Elizabeth, whose lips were pulled tight, an angry light glittering in her eyes.
The last time Darcy had seen her look so disturbed was when he insulted her all those months ago, stating that her family was far from suitable.
Have I upset her again? His stomach cramped, and he longed for some air.
He attempted to walk decisively, painfully aware of how little control he had over his body.
“I must beg to sit out,” he tried to say, but all that tumbled forth from his mouth was an indistinct mumble.
Mrs Bennet either could not understand him or took absolutely no notice. “You must take your place, Mr Darcy. The others will go first to show you how it is done.”
On his right were Miss Mary and Miss Kitty, and on his left was Mrs Bennet.
They were soon joined by Mr Gates, Mr Kingsnorth, and several younger members of the Lucas family.
All the remaining guests had crowded around to watch.
The room felt too loud and too hot. A bubble of nausea rose in his throat.
He put a clenched hand to his chest to quell the sensation and mumbled, “I do not think I can—”
A servant balanced a bullet on the surface of the flour pudding. Mrs Bennet thrust a butter knife towards each of the players. “A steady hand is all that is required.”
His vision blurred, Darcy picked up the knife.
It took a tremendous effort to hold it still.
How am I ever to survive this trial with any kind of dignity?
With resounding clarity, the answer came to him that he would not.
He looked back to the place where he had last spotted Elizabeth.
To his dismay, she was nowhere to be seen.
Miss Kitty took up her knife. “I shall go first.”
Darcy watched his sister-in-law carefully dissect the flour, the bullet on top remaining motionless.
Another wave of sickness passed through him.
His eyelids drooped suddenly, and he snapped them open, willing himself to concentrate his mind on the task.
Everyone made their attempts, the pudding slowly crumbling, until it was at last his turn, leaving him with nothing but an unsteady flour pillar to cut from.
Recalling all his years of shooting and fencing, he stilled his hand, placed the tip of the knife a quarter of an inch away from the bullet, and sliced.
The flour tumbled. The bullet shook. A collective gasp filled the air.
But, by some divine intervention, the blasted thing stayed put.
Rowdy applause erupted through the room; Darcy looked about triumphantly, but Elizabeth had not returned.
He stood, hoping to seek her out. Blood rushed from his head to his feet, and his stomach churned alarmingly.
In spirited tones, Mr Kingsnorth called out, “You are leaving, Mr Darcy? I thought you were the kind of man who would stay until the end.”
An acid taste flooded Darcy’s mouth, which he was only just able to suppress. His voice hoarse, he said, “Where is Elizabeth—Mrs Darcy?”
A murmur from the guests indicated that his wife had left the room. From behind the shoulders of the onlookers appeared Mrs Wickham, crowing gleefully. “Perhaps she has run away.”
At Darcy’s elbow, Miss Mary snorted. “A subject, dear Lydia, of which you have extensive knowledge.”
Miss Kitty erupted into a fit of giggles.
Mrs Bennet gave them a scolding look. “My dear Mr Darcy does not want to hear your bickering.” In imploring tones, she said to Darcy, “You cannot mean to go now. Not before we have completed our diverting little game?”
“I wish to find Mrs Darcy…forgive me.”
Mrs Bennet looked at him admiringly. “Such a chivalrous king!” She turned to Mrs Bingley, who was sitting quietly on a nearby sofa. “Of course you must go to Lizzy. Dear Jane—perhaps your husband would take Mr Darcy’s place?”
Taken aback, Mrs Bingley stammered softly, “I am sorry, Mama. He has just left to find me some water.”
Undeterred, Mrs Bennet replied, “Very well, you may take Mr Darcy’s turn.”
Poor Mrs Bingley’s face was pale, and even in his half-addled state Darcy could see that she looked unwell.
Somewhere, in the depths of his brain, came a promise that he should rescue his sister-in-law in a moment such as this.
Turning to Mrs Bennet, he willed himself to speak.
“Mrs Bingley is not to participate… I am the king… I decree it to be so.”
Mrs Bennet clapped her hands in delight. “In that case, you must rejoin us and have another attempt.”
How is it my turn again? Darcy had not sufficient command of his faculties to plead his case.
To his despair, he had no choice but to sit back down and take up the knife once more.
The insides of his stomach pleaded with him to reconsider.
He looked over to see Bingley return to his wife’s side.
Mrs Bingley whispered something in her husband’s ear, then gave Darcy a grateful smile.
All eyes were upon him. There was nothing else to be done.
He swung the knife through the damned pudding, and the bullet smacked against the plate.
“Now you must retrieve the bullet—you can use everything but your hands!” Mrs Bennet shoved the plate in front of him. The dull smell of the flour stung his nose. His insides protested, and he covered his mouth with his fist.
“No.” He stood abruptly, and the chair fell back. Not for the first time that evening, the whole room stopped and stared at him in stunned silence. But Darcy did not care. Vomit burnt in his throat. Excusing himself, he barrelled through the spectators and escaped out of the nearest door.