Chapter 13
Thirteen
Sir William Lucas, a man of modest fortune, rarely had cause to indulge in extravagance.
Yet, upon the occasion of his daughter Charlotte's engagement to Mr Collins, he spared no effort in celebrating the event with an unprecedented display of hospitality.
Charlotte, at seven-and-twenty, was fast approaching that delicate age at which gentlemen often ceased to regard a lady with matrimonial intent.
Therefore, it seemed only fitting that her engagement should be commemorated with a ball—a rare and indeed singular opportunity.
Sir William, determined to make the most of the occasion, ensured that every aspect of the evening was marked by an air of occasion and abundance.
As Elizabeth and her family arrived at Lucas Lodge, it was evident that no expense had been spared.
The lavish spread of food and drink, the lively strains of music filling the air, and the meticulous arrangement of the drawing room bespoke an effort that transcended the ordinary.
The house was transformed, as though to match the celebratory mood, into a scene of utter cheerfulness.
Even Mr Bennet, who generally held such gatherings in little esteem, had been persuaded to make an appearance—partly out of respect for Sir William, a man he deemed a friend, and partly to show that no ill will lingered on his part regarding Charlotte’s acceptance of Mr Collins’s suit.
The room buzzed with animated conversation, the sound of clinking glasses, and the light swish of dancing slippers as the guests mingled and sought their respective circles.
Every member of the Bennet’s family dispersed to what pleasure them.
Elizabeth, as was her habit, cast a quick glance around the room, catching sight of her mother engaged in a spirited conversation with Mrs. Lucas, and her younger sisters absorbed in lively chatter with some of the other young ladies.
Making her way through the crowd, Elizabeth found Charlotte standing near the entrance, conversing with her mother. Upon seeing her, Elizabeth’s countenance brightened, and, unable to contain her pleasure, she hurried toward her friend and embraced her warmly.
“Charlotte, how glad I am for you!” she exclaimed, her voice brimming with affection. “You look positively radiant this evening.”
Charlotte returned the smile, though a touch of nervousness betrayed her otherwise composed exterior.
“Thank you, Lizzy,” she replied. “You, too, look exceedingly well.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “I hope you no longer harbour no ill thoughts toward me for accepting Mr Collins’s proposal.
I am aware that it was not entirely to your liking. ”
Elizabeth gave her a gentle smile, squeezing Charlotte's hand in reassurance. “Not at all, Charlotte. I wish you nothing but happiness, and I am confident you will make the best of your situation.”
Just then, the door opened, and Elizabeth’s heart gave an unexpected leap at the sound of the approaching militia men.
She turned with renewed interest, her gaze narrowing when she saw Mr Wickham entering the room with them.
He was unmistakable in his militia uniform, his manner confident, even familiar.
Upon spotting her, he made a beeline for Elizabeth, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips.
She could not help but return the smile as he reached her side.
“Miss Bennet,” he greeted, his voice warm and low, “Miss Lucas,” he added with a polite nod toward Charlotte.
Charlotte smiled and exchanged pleasantries with Mr Wickham before excusing herself, citing the need to attend to the refreshments. Elizabeth, however, suspected that Charlotte’s true motive was to leave them in some privacy, rather than attend to any guests’ glasses.
Once Charlotte had taken her leave, Elizabeth turned back to her companion. “I must admit, I wondered if you would make an appearance this evening. I was somewhat surprised that you missed the last ball at Netherfield—though, I suppose Mr Darcy’s presence may have been a deterrent.”
Mr Wickham's smile deepened. “Indeed, Miss Bennet,” he replied, his voice slightly rueful. “I shall no longer allow Mr Darcy to dictate my actions. I was unwell for the last gathering, but I would not miss this one, especially considering Sir William’s connection to the militia. It seemed a fitting occasion to show our respect.”
Their conversation was interrupted as a ripple of excitement passed through the room.
Elizabeth turned instinctively toward the door.
Mr Bingley and his party had arrived, causing an immediate stir among the guests.
First to appear were Mr Bingley and his two sisters.
The brother, with warm pleasantries, greeted everyone around, while the sisters acted like they were forced to be there.
Behind them came Mr Hurst, followed by another gentleman whose commanding presence immediately captured Elizabeth’s attention.
This new arrival was tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of quiet authority that drew every eye.
His gaze, cool and assured, swept the room as he entered, and the parting of the crowd around him suggested that he was a figure of note.
As Mr Darcy followed closely behind, Elizabeth could not suppress a flash of irritation at the way the company instinctively made way for him.
The room’s reaction suggested an almost reverent respect for his status, though Elizabeth was well aware that many present harboured no great fondness for him.
Other simply made way out of fear for the Darcy Curse.
Mr Bingley, his face bright with pleasure, immediately made his way toward Jane, and within moments, the two were engaged in easy conversation, their shared laughter ringing out across the room.
Elizabeth gave them a brief smile, before her gaze once again returned to the man who stood beside Mr Darcy.
“Who is that?” she asked, her words quiet and more to herself than to Mr Wickham.
“Ah, that is Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Wickham replied, his tone slightly dismissive. “He is the son of the Earl of Matlock, and Darcy’s cousin. Another proud member of that illustrious family.”
A small, sardonic smile curved Elizabeth’s lip. “It seems pride runs thick in that family. I dare say Mr Collins has had a great deal to say on the matter of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Wickham chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Ah, you’ve heard of Lady Catherine, have you? They’re all much the same—arrogant, self-important, believing their family is the pinnacle of society. Nothing new there.”
Elizabeth chuckled at this, the thought of Lady Catherine, Mr Darcy and their extended family all cut from the same cloth amused her greatly.
Just as she opened her mouth to make another remark, she felt a sudden shift in the air.
Instinctively, her eyes snapped back toward the door, where Mr Darcy was.
A slight shiver passed over her as his gaze seemed to freeze the moment it landed on her and Wickham.
His posture stiffened for a mere instant, and she could have sworn she saw a flicker of something—a fleeting emotion she could not quite decipher—cross his features.
It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Elizabeth with an inexplicable feeling in her chest.
Before she could ponder it further, Mr Darcy turned abruptly, as though to compose himself, but the strange impression lingered.
Wickham, noticing her distraction, raised an eyebrow with a slight, knowing smile. “So, Darcy has taken note of us, I see,” he remarked, his voice laced with the faintest hint of mockery.
Elizabeth made a valiant attempt to mask her reaction, but her mind was racing. Had Mr Darcy truly been startled by their presence, or was there something deeper, some hidden meaning behind that brief exchange? The question remained, unanswered for the moment.
***
The party went on for a while, the lively music and the hum of conversation filling the air long after the clock had struck the hour of ten.
Guests had danced, and now the atmosphere was one of growing warmth, with the ladies in their elegant gowns and the gentlemen in their finest coats and waistcoats, all somewhat more relaxed than they had been at the beginning of the evening.
Elizabeth had enjoyed a few dances, including one with Mr Wickham, whose easy manner and engaging conversation made him a pleasant partner.
She was not surprised to see that Mr Darcy had danced only with Miss Bingley.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, on the other hand, had surprisingly danced with Kitty and Jane.
As the night grew late, the excitement in the room began to subside.
A few guests had already taken their leave, while others lingered, enjoying the last moments of the evening’s gaiety.
It was then that Mr Darcy, who had been standing at the edge of the room with an inscrutable expression, suddenly began to move toward Mr Wickham, who was engaged in conversation with several gentlemen near the refreshment table.
Elizabeth, who had been speaking with Charlotte, paused mid-discourse, her eyes widening as she watched the usually aloof gentleman make his way briskly toward Mr Wickham.
The room, as though attuned to the unspoken tension, seemed to grow still, conversations faltering as guests turned their attention toward the impending confrontation.
Wickham’s eyes flicked up, meeting Darcy’s gaze with a sudden sharpness that sent a ripple of awareness through the gathering. Darcy’s movements were slow, deliberate, and though there was no outward sign of aggression, Elizabeth felt the oppressive weight of his presence as he drew near.
"Mr Wickham," Darcy began, his voice cold, and yet controlled, "I believe we need to have a word."