19. Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

" G entlemen, I must inform you that I have decided to return to London immediately. There are… urgent matters that require my attention."

Darcy, Bingley, and Wickham were gathered in the drawing room for the afternoon, the fire crackling softly as Bingley and Wickham played at piquet. Darcy sat opposite them on the sofa with a book in his hand, the words running incomprehensibly across the page. By this point, he had no idea what book he was even holding, and he had been similarly unable to focus on Bingley and Wickham's swirling back-and-forth of conversation. There was no point in delaying his announcement any longer—the thing must be done.

Wickham spun around, and his face fell in disappointment. "Darcy, that is most unfortunate. Why, you only arrived a week ago."

"Indeed, but my mind is quite made up. I have asked Giles to make preparations to depart on the morrow."

Wickham turned his attention back to the cards in his hand, but his shoulders sagged. "Well! No one ever deterred you from your object, eh, Bingley? It is a pity, though, for you will miss the ball. I had also hoped to seek your advice on several matters."

Darcy raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued despite his discomfort. "Which matters?"

Wickham twisted again in his chair, his face brightening with inspiration. "Do you remember last night when I told you about the Longbourn farm that was nearly washed away by the flooding?"

Darcy's forehead crunched. "I do not recall…" Surely, if it had to do with Longbourn and the Bennets, he would have paid attention… even if he did not wish to.

"Oh, you must remember. It was when I passed you in the hall last night. We were out rather late, as you recall. By the by, what were you doing yesterday?"

Darcy swallowed. "I had a deal of business to correspond. "

"Ah, of course. Always was your way. Although the maids informed me you spent much of the day in your room, so I thought perhaps you might have found some ‘other' amusements."

It was a few seconds before Darcy caught the implication. His neck crawled with heat. "Er… no."

"Ah. Well, no matter. Yes, anyway, I said something to you about that family who lost their house and the trouble of seeing all their livestock and possessions moved. ‘Twill take a deal of money and no small amount of time to put it all right again. Anyway, I have been considering purchasing the land from Mr Bennet so that it might be held by Netherfield."

Darcy frowned, the audaciousness of the proposal striking him as more likely a figment of his addled brain than a real plan.

" Buy the farm?" Darcy repeated.

"Yes, that is what I said. Is that so shocking?"

"But you are not the owner of Netherfield. How do you intend to manage such a purchase?"

Wickham chuckled as he turned back to his cards. "Perhaps it does seem improbable, but I assure you, Darcy, I will see everything done through the proper channels. If an outright purchase is not permitted under my contract, perhaps I might sub-lease the property from Mr Bennet. I plan to speak to Mr Northam and Mr Philips on the matter, of course, and if necessary, I shall also address Sir Anthony Mortimer."

"Sir Anthony Mortimer? That was…" Darcy had to wedge the name from where it had lodged in his brain. "He was the man being put forward as a potential new MP for the area?"

Wickham nodded. "Precisely. I am sure he is the right man for the post."

Darcy pressed his fingers into his left eye socket as a sharp stab interrupted his line of thought. "What makes you so certain?"

"Oh, everyone around thinks well of him. At least, all those who matter, and I am certain the rest will be persuaded in time. And you remember Viscount Halstead, of course? He has always vouched for Mortimer."

Darcy hesitated, his mind stumping on the name as if he had just blundered into a tree. "Viscount Halstead? I know no such person."

Wickham laughed lightly, as if Darcy were making a jest. "Surely you remember, Darcy. We were all very good friends."

"I do not forget my friends. "

"Well!" Wickham shook his head as he placed a card on the table. "I cannot think how you do not remember Halstead. Come, man, he visited Pemberley in our junior year! His father bought a horse from yours. Fine chestnut stallion, as I recall. We all used to go to the club together, and he even covered your debts once."

"That is not possible. I rarely gambled and never ran up debts."

Wickham snorted as he surveyed the table. "I assure you, you did, although you are not wrong that you almost never ended the night behind because you nearly always won. That was the beginning of my life in debt, as you recall, and my first great loss was to you. You were a devilish master at Whist."

"I enjoyed its stimulating challenges, but I never—"

"Oh, come, Darcy, no sense in trying to play the saint. We are all old friends here, are we not? Bingley, surely you recall Halstead."

Bingley, who had been listening quietly, paused with his hand over the stack of cards and blinked for a few seconds. "Y-yes, I do believe I recall the man. I think he had the highest marks in Latin, did he not?"

"Yes, that's the fellow." Wickham nodded. "Burned Darcy like you cannot imagine. Come, tell him. Egad, Darcy, what has become of your memory?"

"There is nothing the matter with my memory," Darcy snapped. And then he rubbed his throbbing temple, rather surreptitiously.

"Well, then surely you must recall Halstead, Darcy. Think back if you will. He was taller even than you, with sandy hair, and he hailed from Yorkshire."

A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He searched his memory, but it was like grasping at shadows. He looked at Bingley, who seemed genuinely confused by his uncertainty.

Wickham pressed on. "Halstead had a lovely sister—I believe you fancied her for most of one evening—that is, until she spoke and dashed your illusions. Oh, and he was the only man who bested you at chess in your last year. Surely you cannot forget that."

Darcy's head pounded with the effort of trying to remember. Those all sounded very like things that might have been part of his experience, but they simply never happened! He would remember things like that. Would he not? His breath quickened, and it was as if the walls were closing in.

He glanced at Bingley, who was, by now, nodding in agreement with Wickham. "Yes, Darcy. I did not know him well, but I remember him clearly. I say, where is he now? "

Yes, where was this fellow now? For Darcy was well acquainted with the ton , and surely, even if he had somehow missed the man at university, he would have been introduced through Lord Matlock or at Almack's.

"Oh! Last I heard, he was in The States brokering some deal in cotton on behalf of his uncle, Lord Wexfield. Surely you remember him , at least?"

Darcy scratched his memory. That name he did recall. Lady Matlock had mentioned the man not long ago. But Halstead? Darcy was certain he had never heard of the man, but with both Wickham and Bingley swearing that Darcy must know him, how could he deny it?

The room spun, and Darcy gripped the arms of his chair. His memory, once so reliable, now seemed a traitor. He forced a smile, though it felt hollow. "Yes, of course. How could I forget Halstead?"

Wickham beamed, satisfied. "I knew you could not have forgot. With Halstead and Wexfield and many others vouching for Mortimer in London, it only strengthens Mortimer's position when the time comes."

Darcy nodded, though his confusion deepened as his voice faded. "Indeed… Indeed."

Wickham gathered the cards to shuffle and deal another round, and Bingley excused himself to pour a brandy on the opposite side of the room. Darcy shook his head when Bingley gestured, offering him a glass, and fell to fingering the pages of his book.

How could he have forgot a man he apparently knew so well as Halstead? But search though he might, Darcy had absolutely no memory of the man. His hand trembled, and his right eyelid began to twitch. This was all progressing faster than he could ever have imagined.

"I say, Darcy," Wickham said from the table where he was dealing cards, "one thing I had been meaning to ask you was what you thought of old Mrs Nicholls' cooking. Is she up to the task of cooking for a ball?"

Darcy shook his dazed head and tried to focus on Wickham's profile. "I have no way of knowing that, but everything I have tasted from her kitchen is more than adequate."

"You did not think her white soup was too salty?"

Darcy blinked. "I have not had the pleasure of sampling it."

Wickham turned to look at him fully, his face scrunched in half wonder. "Why, of course, you have. She made us a sample of it two days ago to see that I approved. Bingley was out, but you and I tasted it. I recall you made a rather peculiar face, and I wondered at it at the time, but I believe you had just got a letter from Fitzwilliam, so I presumed that might be the cause."

Dash it all, he was panting, and a cool sheen was breaking through his hairline and nearly trickling down his temple. "I… I did have a letter from Fitzwilliam the day before yesterday…"

"There, you see. You were probably distracted and entirely forgot what you were eating. Surely, you recall now. Was it too thick? Shall I have her use fewer eggs?"

"I… I do not…"

"Oh, no bother. I only thought you had such discriminating taste; you would have some opinions, but I suppose nearly every cook has their way, so I may as well let Nicholls do as she pleases. I shall have my hands full enough restraining Mrs Bennet, shall I not?" he laughed. "By the by, as you will not be here to open the ball with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, shall I offer to take your place with the lady?"

Darcy blinked. "What?"

Wickham stared at him as if Darcy had just kicked his hunting dogs. "Why… Miss Elizabeth! She is expecting you to dance the first with her, and I daresay, I believe you asked for the supper set as well."

Darcy's mouth was open, but only a vague gasp escaped. When did he ask Elizabeth Bennet to dance? And twice in one evening? That was not his usual form, particularly not so far in advance of the ball!

Then again… he had to confess that the notion had , indeed, occurred to him, and probably more than once. Elizabeth Bennet would be the one lady in all the room who would not be a punishment for him to stand up with. But when had he acted upon that sentiment?

Wickham turned back to his cards as Bingley rejoined him at the table. "I am sorry you shall miss the pleasure of dancing with the lady, Darcy. Egad, it looks as if you regret the loss more than I had realised. Well, no matter. I hope she will not be too disappointed if I offer to take your place. I confess I was a bit jealous when you engaged her first."

"I…" Darcy shook his head. "I did not ask Miss Elizabeth to dance at the ball," he stated bluntly. He was sure of that. He would remember that!

Wickham glanced over his shoulder, a peculiar look on his face. "Darcy, are you quite well this evening? You seem a bit off. Perhaps a bit of port will set you right."

Curse it, his cravat was choking him. Darcy gulped against the knot and felt a damp streak trickling down his throat. Blast, if that was more numbness from the side of his mouth, he would never recover from the mortification! He performed a quick swipe but found only nervous perspiration. "I…" He sucked in a breath to steady the quaking in his chest. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I must return to my room to write some letters."

He stood, his legs unsteady beneath him. Wickham's voice followed him as he left the room, but the words were a blur. Each step was a battle against the pain and muddy confusion in his head, and a growing sense of dread dragged at him like an anchor. What was happening to him? Why could he not remember?

Reaching his room, he closed the door and leaned against it, trying to steady his racing thoughts. The headache roared, and he felt the world slipping away. He moved to his desk, the letter from Dr Westing still lying there. The words from the letter came back to him, chilling in their clarity: "Your time may be limited."

With trembling hands, Darcy sat and tried to compose himself. The faces of his friends, their voices insisting on memories he could not grasp, haunted him. He dipped his pen in ink, but the letters on the page blurred together. He set the pen down, his mind too fogged to write.

He needed rest, but more than that, he needed answers.

" M ama, with all the flooding and hardship round the area, are you sure a ball just now is in good taste?"

Mrs Bennet paused as she descended from the carriage to laugh at her daughter's preposterous suggestion. "Why, Lizzy, do you not know that times of hardship are when people most need a diversion?"

Elizabeth gripped the edge of her skirt to step down as the footman offered his hand. "Yes, but Mama, a ball is a rather extravagant expense. Ought we not be encouraging Mr Wickham to spend the money on repairing his own tenant farms and waterways? And what about us? You propose new gowns for Jane and… Mama! "

But Mrs Bennet was already prancing toward the steps of Netherfield, her bonnet ribbons fluttering behind her. "You shall see, Lizzy! Now, come along. The gentlemen are waiting!"

Elizabeth lodged her feet firmly in the gravel of the drive, her mouth screwed into a frustrated scowl. "Jane, she is going to make a spectacle of us all."

Jane, the last out of the carriage, inclined her head to thank the footman for his assistance and drew beside Elizabeth. "At least she permitted us to come today. We might be able to…" She cleared her throat.

"Restrain her? Good luck with that. You know she only permitted us to come today because there were three single gentlemen inside. No, I say the miracle was in you persuading her that Lydia and Kitty would do better to spend their time working over their gowns rather than coming with us. How did you manage that?"

Jane's mouth dimpled on one side in a shy chuckle. "Oh, I might have let a little ‘spilt' candle wax spoil Lydia's lace."

Elizabeth let out an astonished laugh. "Jane Bennet! Why, I am impressed. That sounds very like something I would have done!"

"Where do you think I got the idea? Come, Lizzy, it will not be that horrid. The gentlemen are all generous, and it was Mr Wickham's idea to let Mama help."

"No, it was her idea. He was just too polite to refuse her." Elizabeth sighed and let Jane loop her arm to drag her into the house.

Jane was right in the reception they found inside. Mr Wickham and Mr Bingley were entirely welcoming and generous. Elizabeth sat beside Jane on the sofa, a cup of tea cooling in her hand as her eyes skated across the room. Where was Mr Darcy today? Perhaps he was occupied above stairs. Just as well—he would probably not view her mother so amiably.

She dragged her gaze back to the gentleman sitting opposite her mother and tried to keep her attention there, but the trouble was, details of things like dances and lavish suppers were so far removed from the top of her concerns that she could hardly believe they were even being discussed.

"… And the seventh shall be the supper set, of course," Mama was saying as she showed Mr Wickham a list. "I thought perhaps Sellenger's Round for that one. My Lydia dances that one particularly well. Have you spoken to your cook about the roast partridge? I think a roast venison would be much finer. "

"Ah, but it would overpower the roast lamb, would it not?" Mr Wickham asked. "No, I think we shall keep the partridge, but Mrs Bennet, I have a daring suggestion about the dance order."

Mrs Bennet squinted at her list. "Why, there is nothing the matter with the order. I understand this is how it is done in London."

"Precisely my point, Mrs Bennet. We are a somewhat more relaxed gathering here, are we not? Now, I see that you have no waltzes planned. Shall we remedy that?"

Beside Elizabeth, Jane stiffened, and Elizabeth saw the quick flush rise to Mr Bingley's cheeks as his eye was drawn helplessly toward her sister.

"A waltz, Mr Wickham?" Mrs Bennet gasped. "Oh, why, to be sure, I understand they are becoming rather popular, but so scandalous!"

"Nothing of the sort, I assure you!" the gentleman laughed. "Yes, of course, the gentleman holds the lady somewhat closer, but with a fair space between them, and I daresay the steps are far easier to keep pace with than the reel. It is just what a gentleman prefers as a bit of a breather in an evening where there shall be, I fear, more ladies wanting a partner than willing gentlemen to provide one. Now, let us see. Shall we put it just after supper, where we might all ease into the rest of the evening with full bellies and a slower rhythm? Or shall it be just before, when we are all weary and beginning to need the rest?"

"Oh, by all means after," Mrs Bennet opined.

"I am afraid I shall beg to differ," Bingley spoke up. "Is not a faster dance just after supper to be preferred? Something like Mr Beveridge's Maggot to liven everyone up for the rest of the evening. I think I should vastly prefer the slower dance just before supper." He followed this with a significant look toward Jane.

"Very clever, my friend," Mr Wickham agreed. "Shall we change the sequence, Mrs Bennet?"

"Well, I…" Mrs Bennet giggled. "Oh, Mr Bennet shall go distracted if he has to dance with me that set! By all means, Mr Wickham. Oh, and I do hope you have not yet got a partner, for my girls are all splendid dancers, especially Lydia."

Mr Wickham smiled widely, and Elizabeth's face heated when his open gaze found her. "Oh, I am quite assured of that, Mrs Bennet. On that subject, Miss Elizabeth, I hope you will not be too disappointed if I beg your hand for that set. I know you had your heart set on another."

Elizabeth's throat tightened. "Whatever do you mean, sir? "

"Oh, why I thought the matter was settled between you and Darcy. Yes, I am sure he said something to me about it. Do you not recall, Bingley?"

Mr Bingley had been mouthing something to Jane—obviously, something rather inappropriate, by the red stain that rose on his cheeks when Mr Wickham caught him out—and he started when his friend spoke his name. "What? Darcy? Oh, yes, to be sure. A pity he has to return to London before the grand event."

Elizabeth felt as if she were a ball being bounced around in the street by a dozen children. "I… what? I do not follow."

"Why, no matter, Miss Elizabeth," Mr Wickham assured her. "One of us will see that you are properly engaged for the supper set, shall we not, Bingley? I would not wish for you to be disappointed."

She could only stare. "Disappointed in… what, precisely?"

"Oh, Lizzy, must you argue with everyone?" Mama huffed in exasperation. "The gentleman is offering to dance with you!"

She shook herself. "Ah, yes. I understand that, but what is this about Mr Darcy?"

"Some business or other," Mr Wickham replied with a wave of his hand. "Although I am sure he will be terribly disappointed to miss the chance to stand up with you, for I assure you, he was looking forward to it. But you know Darcy! He was never a man to neglect his duties."

Elizabeth swallowed. "I… I suppose not, Mr Wickham."

"Of course not. Now, then! We have the supper set and the one just after that settled. What did you propose for the ninth, Mrs Bennet?"

"Well! The quadrille, of course, but if you would prefer the reel…"

"Oh, the reel to be sure," Mr Wickham said, nodding over the page. "And then the quadrille next…"

Elizabeth set her saucer on the side table and merely leaned back, gripping the sofa cushion and trying to listen to it all. What had just happened? Mama was debating dances with the master of Netherfield, his guest was making mooning faces at a hotly blushing Jane, and Mr Darcy was leaving before any of it took place.

This… this was a very strange ball.