Chapter 13 #2
Elizabeth, her curiosity piqued, felt her heart beat faster. What was this? She knew there was history between them, but she had never imagined it would come to this. Mr Wickham, to Elizabeth’s surprise responded with a slight smile, though there was a hard edge to his eyes.
"Of course, Mr Darcy," he replied smoothly, his tone too polite to be entirely sincere. "What would you like to discuss?"
The room, which had been filled with the quiet murmur of conversation, seemed to grow hushed in anticipation.
Bingley, who had been speaking with Jane, turned to look at the two men, his face creasing in concern.
Elizabeth, feeling the sudden tension, could see that he was trying to move toward them, no doubt in an effort to diffuse the situation before it escalated further.
"Mr Darcy," Bingley began, his voice light and cheerful, "I am sure this is all some misunderstanding. Let us not spoil the evening."
But Darcy, his expression hardening, barely glanced at him. "You would do well to stay out of this, Bingley," he said, his voice tinged with an authority that made the room fall silent. "This is a matter between Mr Wickham and me."
Wickham’s lips curled into a smile, but it was a smile devoid of warmth or humour.
His voice, though still controlled, carried an edge of rising tension.
"Would you mind leaving me be, Darcy?" he demanded, his tone sharpening. "You speak of conversation, yet there’s a look in your eyes as if you mean to intimidate me. What? do you imagine you hold dominion over the world now? Am I to avoid you simply because you’ve graced the room with your presence? "
The venom in Wickham’s words was palpable, and Elizabeth could not miss the unmistakable anger that burned in his gaze as he stared fiercely at Darcy. The room seemed to still as Wickham’s disdain-filled glare met Darcy’s, a silent battle of wills flickering between them.
A murmur passed through the room, and a few of the guests stepped back, unsure of what would happen next. Someone, an older gentleman, whispered something about the Darcy curse, urging Wickham to remember the trouble that might follow his words. Wickham laughed bitterly.
"There is no curse," he declared loudly, his voice cutting through the whispers. "It is not a curse. it is Fitzwilliam Darcy. He is the one who causes the harm, and he should not think he can come after me."
Elizabeth’s heart thudded in her chest, her pulse quickening as she looked from one man to the other.
She had known there was animosity between them, but never had she imagined it would manifest in such an open confrontation.
Darcy, for his part, stood perfectly still, his face impassive, though Elizabeth could see the tightness in his jaw.
A tense silence followed Wickham’s declaration, and the room seemed to hold its breath.
I should do something.
Elizabeth wanted to do something. Anything.
Just as Elizabeth was about to make a move, Darcy’s voice broke the stillness. "I would rather leave than listen to this travesty," he said, his tone filled with disdain.
Elizabeth stood at the edge of the room, her gaze lingering on the retreating figure of Mr Darcy.
His presence had been like a shadow over the evening, and now, just as he was about to take his leave, her carefully laid plans seemed to crumble.
Her mind raced with thoughts that darkened her countenance.
This was her plan, after all. To draw him out, to expose him for what she believed him to be—a man who posed a threat to everyone.
A killer. She had resolved to provoke him subtly, to set him at odds with himself, and then slip away to Jane's room at Longbourn.
There, she would lie in wait, prepared to catch him should he attempt some ill-intentioned venture under cover of night.
Surely, he would be caught, his true nature revealed to all.
Yet now, Wickham had stepped in, and everything was unravelling before her eyes.
Her hands clenched at her sides, trembling with a surge of indignation.
No, she would not allow this. Wickham’s outburst, though theatrical, had done little more than stir the room into whispers and, perhaps, place him in unnecessary peril.
On second thought, Elizabeth reminded herself, the two men were already sworn enemies.
Mr Wickham had made that perfectly clear.
If Mr Darcy, with all his pride and cold reserve, had not acted against him before, would he now?
Darcy, his expression inscrutable, turned sharply on his heel. His broad shoulders, held rigid with a pride that seemed unyielding, marked his intention to depart without further engagement. Yet, as he moved toward the door, Elizabeth felt the words burning on her tongue.
She stepped forward, her heart racing, and her voice, steady and resolute, cut through the low murmurs of the room.
"Mr Darcy," she called, her tone commanding enough to halt him mid-stride.
Darcy paused, his back still to her, before slowly turning to meet her gaze. His dark eyes, deep and unreadable, settled on her with a gravity that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine.
The room grew hushed, the tension palpable as all eyes turned to witness the unfolding scene.
"Are we to live like this, Mr Darcy?" she demanded, her tone cutting through the tension. "How long are we to live in fear of you and your so-called curse? Are we to cower before a man who thinks himself above everyone else?"
Her mother, who had been standing nearby, gasped in shock, her hand flying to her mouth in an effort to silence her daughter. "Elizabeth! What are you saying?" she hissed, but Elizabeth ignored her, her eyes fixed firmly on Darcy.
"Why should we fear a man," she continued, "when we know there is no curse, only a man who would stop at nothing to denigrate those he deems beneath him?"
A murmur spread through the room, and all eyes were now on Darcy, whose expression had frozen in place at her words.
He opened his mouth as though to speak, but then, as though reconsidering, he closed it again.
The look in his eyes was unreadable, and after a moment, he turned on his heel without a word, Colonel Fitzwilliam following at his side.
Bingley, looking thoroughly uncomfortable, followed quickly after them, and soon the entire Darcy party was making its way to the door.
Just like that, the party was over.
The guests began to leave, some in silence, others exchanging hurried whispers.
Elizabeth stood in the middle of the room, her heart racing.
She could feel the weight of every gaze upon her, but she did not look away.
For once, she had spoken her mind, and she had not been afraid to do so.
The night, once full of promise, had ended in a flurry of confusion and bitter words, and yet Elizabeth felt a strange sense of satisfaction, even in the midst of it all.