Chapter 12
The Bennet family arrived at Netherfield in a flurry of excitement and nervous energy.
Her mother’s exclamations carried across the entrance hall as she commented on the decorations, the guests already milling in the ballroom, and the elegance of it all.
Jane moved with her usual grace, her eyes searching for Mr. Bingley.
Mary went to the far corner to be as far away from the dancers as possible.
Kitty and Lydia chattered about the officers they hoped to see.
And Elizabeth stood quietly, her heart pounding, scanning the crowded ballroom for one person only.
“Do you see him, Papa?”
“I do not.”
Mr. Bingley appeared before her. “Miss Elizabeth! I am so pleased you have come. I must beg your forgiveness. Darcy was delayed in London. He sent word, making me promise to ensure you knew he would be here as soon as he may, that nothing would keep him away.”
The emphasis on those last words steadied Elizabeth’s chest. “I thank you for telling me.”
“Oh.” Bingley waved at someone across the room. “The colonel just signaled me that Darcy is here. He likely entered through the kitchen so he would not be seen in his traveling clothes. I suspect he is running up the back stairs now.”
Intense relief flooded her.
Bingley beamed and moved on to escort Jane around the ballroom, while the musicians tuned their instruments. Candles blazed in every chandelier, making the room glow with warmth and light.
And then she heard Lydia’s complaints over the top of their milling neighbors.
“Mr. Wickham promised me the first set, and he is not even here. I had my hair done especially for him, and he has cried off without even sending word. How rude!”
Kitty made sympathetic noises. “Perhaps he was called to duty with the regiment?”
“Without telling anyone? Without even a note?” Lydia’s pout was audible. “I think he is very ill-mannered. And after he was so particular in securing my promise too!”
Elizabeth’s hands tightened on her reticule, which contained the eight drawings Darcy had given her. The irony was not lost on her. Neither was the significance. Just as he had claimed Darcy did to his supposed victims, Mr. Wickham made a promise to a lady and refused to keep to his word.
This confirmed her opinion that Fitzwilliam Darcy was a man of honor. Mr. Wickham, for all his professed concern about honorable behavior, had proven himself lacking in that very quality.
It was a small thing, a tiny detail that proved she had chosen the right man to trust. Now she simply had to wait for him to present himself to her.
Darcy had never been so frustrated by circumstances beyond his control in his entire life.
First, the business in London had taken twice as long as anticipated.
By the time the papers were signed, he was already behind schedule.
Then, five miles from London, one of the carriage horses went lame.
He had stood on the roadside, watching his driver examine the animal’s leg.
Time slipped through his fingers like sand.
Once it was determined the horse could not continue, it was a three-mile walk to the next coaching inn.
“Follow with the carriage as best you can.”
Three miles during which he imagined Elizabeth arriving at Netherfield, looking for him, wondering if he would come. He cursed every stone in the road and every minute that passed.
At the coaching inn, he hired their fastest horse. He was barely a mile from the inn when a cry went up from ahead of him. A carriage accident. A family with small children. The passengers were shaken. One woman was bleeding from a wound on her forehead.
Every fiber of his being screamed at him to continue to Netherfield, to Elizabeth.
But he could not. A gentleman did not ride past people in need, no matter how urgent his own affairs.
So he had stopped. He used his cravat to bind the woman’s wound.
He ensured the children were unharmed and that the family had sufficient funds to reach the next town safely.
Then he rode back to the inn for aid. And all the while, the minutes ticked past.
By the time he finally reached Netherfield, the music for the first set was beginning. No matter how quickly he readied himself, he would not present himself properly in time. The opening dances, Elizabeth’s dances, would be over. The thought made his chest ache. Would she think he was not coming?
Likely, Richard or her father would step in. But it should have been him. It should have been his hand holding hers, his privilege to lead her onto the floor before all of Hertfordshire.
At the servant’s entrance, he took the back stairs two at a time, racing toward his rooms. He burst into his chambers and immediately began stripping off his travel-stained coat.
“Mr. Darcy!” His valet appeared in the doorway, startled by his abrupt arrival. “I took the liberty of having a bath prepared for you, though I fear the water has gone cold by now.”
“I care not,” Darcy said, already working on his waistcoat buttons. “Is my clothing ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
Within a short period of time, Darcy was scrubbed with ruthless efficiency and garbed in formal attire. Running his hands through his still-damp hair, he checked his pocket where the ninth piece was safely tucked away.
“Go, sir,” Parker said. “She is waiting for you.”
Darcy needed no further encouragement. Descending the stairs toward the ballroom, the music was louder now. A country dance was in progress. Through the doorway, he could see couples moving through the figures. Then, cutting through the chatter and music, he heard young, petulant Miss Lydia Bennet.
“Well, this is a fine thing. Mr. Wickham has not come at all, but at least the other officers are here. Though I must say, I am quite put out. Mr. Wickham was so insistent that I save him the first, and now…”
Darcy stopped dead in his tracks, his blood running cold. “Wickham?” The name came out sharper than he intended, cutting through conversations around him. Heads turned. And there, near the refreshment table, he saw Lydia Bennet staring at him with wide eyes.
“He is here?” Darcy demanded, his voice dangerously quiet as he scanned the ballroom for that familiar despised face. “George Wickham is at this ball?”
Miss Lydia shook her head quickly, apparently sensing she had misspoken. “No, sir. He was supposed to be, but he cried off. Very rude of him, I must say.”
Relief filled him, immediately followed by suspicion. Had Wickham approached Elizabeth? Had he…
His eyes swept the room, searching for her.
When he found her, she was standing near the far wall with her friend Miss Lucas, a glass of lemonade in her hand.
She was wearing pale blue silk that made her eyes luminous even from across the room.
Her hair was simply but elegantly arranged.
She looked beautiful. She looked perfect.
And she was staring at him with an expression he could not quite read.
Everything else fell away: the curious onlookers, Bingley appearing at his side with questions, the interrupted dancing. All of it ceased to matter. He crossed the ballroom with single-minded purpose, barely aware of people stepping aside to let him pass, until he stood before her.
“Elizabeth,” he said, and something tight in his chest finally eased.
“Fitzwilliam.” The smile that curved her lips made his heart stutter. There was no anger in her expression. No disappointment. Just…warmth. Relief. Possibly, joy. “You came.”
“Did you doubt I would?” The question came out more uncertain than he intended.
“Not for a moment.”
The certainty, the absolute faith, struck him.
She glanced around at the curious faces surrounding them. “We have an audience. May we speak privately?”
“Come with me.” It was not a request but an urgent need.
Setting down her glass, she took his offered arm as he directed them toward her father. The three left the ballroom for Bingley’s study.
Voices rose behind them in speculation. He did not care. Let them talk. Let them wonder.
Elizabeth’s heart had not stopped pounding since she saw him enter the ballroom.
Fitzwilliam. Windblown. Urgently scanning the room with an intensity that made her breath catch.
When his eyes finally found hers, the relief that washed over his features was so profound it made her throat tighten with emotion.
He had come. And now, as he closed the study door behind them and turned to face her, she could see the concern etched in every line of his face. The tension in his shoulders. The fear in his eyes.
“Elizabeth.” He crossed to her immediately, while her father settled in a corner chair. “Are you well?”
The care, the genuine worry, eased her concerns.
“I am well,” she said softly, reaching for his hands.
His fingers closed around hers immediately, gripping tightly as if she were his anchor.
“Truly. Nothing terrible has taken place. However, some events happened while you were in London that you need to know.”
“Wickham,” he said flatly. “This is about Wickham.”
“Yes.” She squeezed his hands. “Before I tell you what he said, Fitzwilliam, I need you to understand this. He very nearly succeeded. What he told me was convincing, specific, and was confirmed by evidence. For days, I struggled with doubt—doubted you and myself.” Her grip tightened.
“In the end, I chose to trust the man I have come to know rather than the villain Mr. Wickham tried to paint. That is what you need to understand—not that I never doubted, but that I chose you anyway.”
Confusion flickered across his features. “Elizabeth, what did he do?”
“He told me terrible things about you. Lies designed to drive me away from you. But he failed, Fitzwilliam. He failed because I have seen your heart in eight drawings of a chess game that changed my life.”
“Tell me what he said.” His expression darkened.