Chapter Nine #2
Elizabeth, for her part, could not deny pleasure in the result.
The fabrics were lovely, the workmanship exquisite, and when she caught sight of herself in the tall mirrors provided for the purpose, she could not help but acknowledge that she appeared…
well. More polished than she had ever been, more suited, perhaps, to the world she was now expected to inhabit.
But, even in that moment, her thoughts turned—as they so often did—to him.
What would Mr. Darcy have thought of her in such a gown? Would he have approved of the color, the cut, the elegance of it? Would his gaze have lingered, as it had once done, not in boldness but in appreciation?
She could almost hear his voice, warm and sincere, offering some understated compliment that would nevertheless carry all the substance of his regard.
Her hand rose unconsciously to the necklace at her throat.
The shell rested there always now, suspended upon its slender chain, hidden at times beneath the folds of her gown, never forgotten.
It had become a part of her, a small and constant reminder of what she had known—and lost. She touched it lightly, her fingers brushing over its smooth surface, drawing from it a steadiness she could find nowhere else.
Thus adorned, and with wardrobes more extensive than she could reasonably justify, the sisters returned to Grosvenor Square, their preparations complete.
Lady Matlock’s Twelfth Night ball arrived with all the brilliance and anticipation that such an event demanded.
The house was illuminated from top to bottom, every window aglow with candlelight that spilled out into the square beyond.
Carriages lined the street in orderly succession, their occupants alighting in a constant stream of silks and jewels, laughter and expectation.
Within, the rooms had been transformed into a spectacle of elegance, the polished floors reflecting the light of countless chandeliers, the air filled with the hum of conversation and the distant strains of music.
Elizabeth entered with Jane at her side, her composure steady though her senses were keenly aware of every detail.
The press of society was unlike anything she had experienced before, each face new, each voice unfamiliar, and the structure of it—the ritual of introduction, of observation, of interaction—was as orderly as any she had known.
They were soon presented. Lord and Lady Matlock received them with gracious civility, their manners refined yet not unkind, and Elizabeth noted with some interest the authority that seemed to accompany Lady Matlock in particular.
There was strength in her bearing, a dignity that did not require display.
Their sons stood beside them.
Viscount Bramley greeted them warmly, his manner easy and agreeable, his attentions soon directed toward Jane with evident interest.
His brother, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam stood nearby, his posture erect, his expression warm, though there was something in his countenance that spoke of recent strain.
A black band encircled his arm, stark against the dark fabric of his coat, and Elizabeth observed it with a moment’s curiosity before recalling Sir Walter’s earlier remark regarding the family’s recent mourning.
It was a detail easily accounted for, and she thought no more of it.
Introductions were made, courtesies exchanged, and within moments the gentlemen began to claim their partners.
Viscount Bramley bowed over Jane’s hand, requesting the first set, which she accepted with a gentle inclination of her head, while Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to Elizabeth.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, offering his arm. “May I have the honor?”
She accepted, placing her hand lightly upon his sleeve, and allowed herself to be led to the floor.
The dance began with the measured grace expected of such an assembly, each step familiar, each movement dictated by the music and the company. Elizabeth found herself grateful for the structure of it, for the necessity of attention that left little room for wandering thought.
Colonel Fitzwilliam proved an agreeable partner, his manner open and his conversation easy without being overly familiar. There was intelligence in his remarks, and a warmth that suggested a man accustomed to society yet not wholly governed by it.
“You have but recently come to Town, I think?” he said as they moved through the figures.
“Only a short time ago,” Elizabeth replied. “We are fortunate to be under the patronage of Sir Walter and Lady Margaret Barton.” They had accompanied the ladies that night while Mr. Bennet stayed behind to read in the Barton’s library.
“A fortunate connection, indeed,” he returned. “They are well regarded.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, then, after a brief hesitation, spoke again.
“I understand your family has lately suffered a loss,” she said gently. “You have my sincere sympathy.”
The colonel’s expression altered, though not in the way she expected. He did not accept the condolence with gratitude, nor did he dismiss it lightly. Instead, something sharper entered his gaze, a tension that seemed to rise unbidden.
He shook his head once, rejecting the sentiment itself. “My cousin Darcy’s death was tragic and unexpected,” he said. “The family is still reeling.”
Elizabeth stopped. The movement of the dance faltered around her, the music continuing though it seemed suddenly distant, indistinct.
“Darcy—” she began, but the word failed her. She felt the color drained from her face, leaving her pale, her breath unsteady as the realization struck with full and devastating force.
Colonel Fitzwilliam saw it at once.
“Miss Bennet—”
“I—” She could not finish. The room seemed to tilt, the air too thin, too distant.
He did not hesitate. With a firmness that admitted no argument, he guided her from the set, his hand firm upon her arm as he led her toward the edge of the room and then beyond it, into a quieter space where the noise of the assembly was softened.
“Sit,” he said, placing her carefully upon a chair. “I shall fetch something at once.”
Elizabeth could not protest. Her hands trembled in her lap, her vision blurred, and when he returned with a glass of punch, she accepted it without thought, though she scarcely tasted it.
The tears came before she could stop them. They were not in great, unrestrained sobs, but serenely, steadily, slipping down her cheeks as the meaning of it settled upon her anew.
He watched her, his expression grave.
“What may I do for your present relief?” he asked.
Elizabeth drew a breath, though it did little to steady her.
“May I—” she began, then faltered. “May I speak candidly?”
“You may,” he said at once.
She clasped her hands together, gathering what composure she could.
“I met Mr. Darcy in Ramsgate,” she said. “We became acquainted—very well acquainted—and…” Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to continue. “We were to be engaged. He left, intending to return within a fortnight, and—he never did.”
The colonel’s expression sharpened.
“He wrote of you,” he said slowly. “Not in detail, but enough that I knew there was someone—someone of consequence to him.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. “He was everything,” she whispered.
A silence fell between them, not empty, but filled with understanding.
“You did not know?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I learned of his death through a letter,” she said. “From his sister.”
At that, something in the colonel’s expression darkened.
“My cousin’s former friend,” he said, his tone tightening, “Mr. George Wickham, wooed her and eloped with her before we learned of Darcy’s death.
Without marriage articles, Pemberley and Georgiana’s future were not protected.
There is nothing we can do. We have tried to call and to write, to no avail. ”
Elizabeth stared at him. “Mrs. Wickham has written to me,” she said slowly. “Several times. Nothing in her letters seemed amiss.”
The colonel’s gaze fixed upon her. “You have received letters?”
“Yes.” Her breath caught. “The latest was at Christmas. She wrote of spending it with her husband. She said—” Elizabeth hesitated, the words now striking her differently than they had before. “She said her dear George wished to have her all to himself.”
The colonel’s jaw tightened. “Did she give any indication of suffering?”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “She wrote only in generalities. Nothing precise.”
He exhaled slowly. “At least we know she lives,” he said. “And that she is…not entirely cut off from correspondence.”
“She is but sixteen,” Elizabeth said. She recalled Mrs. Wickham’s letter informing Elizabeth of the date.
“Yes,” he replied.
They fell into silence once more, the importance of it settling between them.
“I would not have believed it of him,” Elizabeth said at last, her voice low. “Not of Mr. Darcy’s friend. How can a friend act so despicably.”
“One cannot call the miscreant a friend,” the colonel returned. “I know Wickham of old. There is nothing beneath him if it serves his purpose.”
Elizabeth drew her hands together more tightly. “I thought—” She stopped. “I thought I understood something of what had occurred. Now I see I understood nothing at all. Poor Miss Darcy.”
The colonel regarded her steadily.
“You knew them both. That is more than most. And your correspondence with my cousin has given me a great gift. I was her guardian, you see, along with her brother. And the family has worried greatly for her welfare.”
Elizabeth lowered her gaze.
“Then I am pleased to have been of assistance.” She smiled, though it did not reach her eyes.
From the ballroom beyond, the music swelled once more, the sounds of society continuing unabated, indifferent to the revelations that had just altered the course of her understanding.
Elizabeth rose slowly. “I thank you,” she said. “For your kindness—and your candor.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed. “You may command both, Miss Bennet, at any time.”
She inclined her head, her composure returning by degrees, though her heart remained unsteady.