Chapter 11 #2
“My girl, their existence is not necessarily proof of what Mr. Wickham claimed. Did the colonel state that Mr. Darcy encouraged their affection? That he pursued them relentlessly? That he abandoned them?”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “The pain in Mr. Wickham’s voice and his tortured expression when he spoke to me about this, Papa, seemed genuine.”
“I understand that, Lizzy. I do. I am not saying that Mr. Wickham does not believe what he told you. However, perhaps he does not know all the facts.”
“I want to believe you, Papa. I desperately desire nothing more than to believe that Fitzwilliam is deserving of my heart, that I can give it to him unreservedly.” She pulled away from him to stand by the window.
Her father came to stand beside her. “What will you do?”
“I will go to the ball.” Elizabeth’s jaw set with determination even as tears continued to fall.
“If he does not come, that will tell me everything I need to know. And if he does come…” Her spine became rigid.
“Then I will look him in the eye and ask him directly about these women and see how he responds.”
“What if it destroys what is between you?”
“It is already destroyed, do you not see? Do you not remember telling me that doubt, once seeded, is a persistent weed?”
“Yes, I did. And I regret having done so.” He wrapped his arms around her. “These misunderstandings have a way of working out, dear girl. Do not despair. Your Mr. Darcy proved to be a man of honor during and after your duel. I cannot believe this has been a game to him.”
Elizabeth drew comfort from his opinion. “Thank you, Papa.”
“Chin up, my daughter. If you can survive a man bringing pistols and a sword to a chess match, you can survive anything.”
The morning of the ball, each pulse of Elizabeth’s heartbeat drove another wedge through her skull. She had not slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Darcy’s face—first loving and tender, then cold and mocking, shifting between the two until she wanted to scream.
“I cannot go,” she told her father when he came to wake her. “Tell Mama I am ill. I feel wretched.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, his expression sympathetic but firm. “You must go, Lizzy. If you do not, you will regret it. You need answers, and you cannot get them hiding in your room.”
“I cannot stand before him and pretend everything is well. I cannot.”
A knock at the door made them both look up. Her mother entered without waiting for permission, her face flushed with a mixture of excitement and disappointment.
“Mr. Bennet. Lizzy. I have news from Netherfield. Mr. Bingley sent a note this morning.” She waved the paper dramatically.
“Disaster has struck. One shipment of flowers is missing. Poor Miss Bingley must be beside herself. However, he is looking forward to our arrival. And Mr. Darcy is still delayed in London. He may not return to Netherfield Park in time for the ball at all, though why that is of concern to us, I do not know.”
Cold prickled across Elizabeth’s cheeks.
“Of course, we shall still attend, even without the extra flowers or Mr. Darcy.” Her mother continued, oblivious to Elizabeth’s distress.
“Mr. Bingley particularly requested that we not alter our plans. He is holding the ball to celebrate dear Jane’s recovery, after all.
But how fortunate for you, Lizzy. You will not have Mr. Darcy staring at you all evening.
Perhaps you will actually enjoy yourself for once. ”
As soon as her mother rushed from the room to share her news with others, Elizabeth relaxed against her father. “You are correct, Papa. I will still go to the ball. I will not hide. I will face whatever truth awaits me.”
“That is my brave girl.” He hugged her to him, then stepped back. “If he is unavailable for your first, I shall stand up with you. We shall be the handsomest pair in the room.”
She smiled through her tears. “I love you, Papa.”
“And I love you, too, dear Lizzy.”
Alone again, a comment her father made flashed repeatedly in her mind. Mr. Darcy proved to be a man of honor during and after your duel.
Lying back on her bed, she rested her arm over her eyes, recalling every detail of the chess match.
The way his large hands hovered over each piece before he made his move.
The way he pursed his lips together when he was in deep thought.
Even before that, when he realized that chess would be the challenge, his shock was mixed with delight.
Replaying in slow motion each detail of the morning, Elizabeth concluded that her father was absolutely correct. Fitzwilliam Darcy was a man of honor.
Dropping her arm to her side, she stared at the ceiling as she recalled each conversation. When they spoke about Pemberley, about her family and his, and…and his…?
Good heavens! Her hand shot to her mouth as she sat straight up.
She knew exactly whom to trust. Herself. And the man she had seen with her own eyes, the honorable gentleman who had brought a sword to a chess match and stayed to face the consequences of his pride.
Sliding from the bed, she washed away her tears with cool water. Tonight, Fitzwilliam would return. When he placed the ninth piece in her hands, he would see that nothing—not Mr. Wickham’s lies, not the colonel’s innocent confirmations, not her own doubt—had shaken her faith in him.
She had a ball to attend. And a gentleman to see.