22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

E lizabeth sat at the long, polished table in the grand dining room of Netherfield, tapping her toes under the table as her eyes rolled around the room—taking in her mother near the head of the table, her father sitting as far away as possible, her sisters… She grimaced and looked away.

The room buzzed with the sounds of clinking silverware, low murmurs, and the occasional burst of laughter. She tried to focus on the food in front of her, but her eyes kept drifting to the people around her, particularly to Mr Darcy sitting beside her, looking as though he were battling his own private war.

Darcy's face was a mask of calm, but she could not ignore the subtle signs of strain. His complexion was growing pale again—the way his eyes squinted slightly as if the light pained him, the occasional press of his fingers to his temples when he thought no one was looking—all were familiar to her by now. She had seen the signs before, and whatever excuses he had offered this evening, he was clearly still suffering from that headache. Anyone could be forgiven for being a touch irritable under the circumstances.

But why he had suddenly decided to speak ill of Mr Wickham baffled her. Had the man suddenly gone dotty? Had something happened that Mr Darcy refused to disclose? Or was it just plain, ugly jealousy? He and Mr Wickham had seemed to be on such good terms. Why now? Why would Darcy choose this moment to try and tarnish Mr Wickham's reputation, especially when Wickham was his friend and host? It made no sense.

Her frustration gnawed at her, making it hard to focus on the conversations around her. Instead, she glanced across the room. Charlotte was sitting beside Mr Wickham, her face aglow with laughter for the first time in ages. Elizabeth had hoped Mr Collins might show some interest in Charlotte, perhaps offering her a chance at securing his attentions. And what better opportunity than the supper set, complete with the most intimate, half-scandalous dance any lady in Meryton had ever performed ?

But Mr Wickham had stepped in, and now Charlotte seemed captivated by his charm, a smile lighting up her face. Elizabeth chided herself for her initial frustration. Charlotte was clearly enjoying herself, and for once, she was not overshadowed by her younger sister, Maria. Mr Wickham's easy manner only added to Charlotte's glow, and it warmed Elizabeth's heart to see her friend so happy, even if just for the evening.

But was Mr Wickham's interest in Charlotte anything more than the amusement of the evening? Elizabeth doubted it. He was undeniably charming, but… well, Mr Wickham could enjoy the company of any lady he liked. And gentlemen who were popular with the ladies usually did not request Charlotte's company. She couldn't see him offering marriage, and a marriage was probably her friend's best hope for happiness. Mr Collins, though pompous and absurd at times, offered stability and security—things Charlotte desperately needed.

Elizabeth sighed and tried to twist her thoughts away from Charlotte and back to the other conversations around her, for her own dinner partner was still stubbornly silent. Jane was speaking softly with Mr Bingley, their heads close together in a private exchange. Across the table, Lydia and Kitty were giggling with their partners over some jest, while Mary, who had no partner, sat with a group of other girls, her fingers drumming lightly on the tablecloth as she ignored their chatter. And then, there was Mama, seated at the foot of the table and holding court with her friends… Elizabeth groaned. Perhaps that was enough looking around the room.

She stole another glance at Darcy. He sat rigid and silent, picking at his food without interest. Vexed as she was at him at the moment, she would rather talk to him than dwell on her frustrations with everything else in the room. She could at least extend him some sympathy, some sign that she understood his discomfort, but the crowded dining room offered little privacy.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and leaned slightly towards him, her voice low to avoid drawing attention. "Mr Darcy, I trust the evening is not too taxing on you."

Darcy's eyes flicked to hers, and for a moment, something softened in his gaze. But then he looked away, his expression hardening. "I appreciate your concern, Miss Elizabeth. One manages as best one can."

She studied his profile, noting the intermittent clenching of his jaw, the unsteady flickering of his eyelids. "It must be challenging to navigate such an evening when one is not at one's best. "

He glanced at her again, his brow furrowing slightly. "Indeed. But I find that expectations are rarely considerate of one's personal discomfort."

"I can imagine. Such occasions demand much of us, even when we feel we have little to give."

Darcy's lips pressed into a thin line, and he seemed to struggle with his thoughts as his eyes skipped across the room to rest vaguely near the head of the table, where Charlotte sat with Mr Wickham. "Yes, well, those who think happiness is within their grasp often find themselves disappointed."

Elizabeth blinked as the back of her neck prickled. "You speak as if from experience."

Darcy hesitated, his gaze searching hers. "Perhaps I do. Or perhaps it is merely an observation."

Elizabeth frowned, trying to understand his meaning. Given the direction of his gaze a moment ago, it seemed like another dig at Mr Wickham. Was he suggesting that Wickham had ruined his happiness, or perhaps that the man was leading Charlotte on? Either way, it annoyed her. She had her own frustrations with Mr Wickham's choice, but it didn't give Darcy the right to insult her friend in the process.

"Happiness is not freely given, Mr Darcy. One must seek after it."

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Not everyone is deserving of happiness."

She blinked, taken aback by his candour. "I suppose it is not a matter of deserving but of striving for it."

Darcy's gaze remained intense, as if he were trying to discern her very thoughts. "Even those who strive may find it elusive, Miss Elizabeth. We cannot control… all our days, can we?"

Elizabeth hesitated, sensing a deeper meaning behind his words but unsure of what to say. She looked at him, trying to bridge the gap between their mutual misunderstandings. "It is true that life often thwarts our efforts," she began, choosing her words carefully. "But perhaps it is our response to these challenges that defines us."

"And what if our response is not enough? What if the choices we make, even with the best intentions, bring nothing but pain?"

"Then…" She cleared her throat. "While I cannot speak from deep experience, I can say that in principle, true happiness is a thing that does not derive from our circumstances, but rather in spite of them. "

He stifled a bitter chuckle. "How charmingly naive. Some people have not the character to surmount troubles. And some troubles, Miss Elizabeth, are dark enough to overshadow any pursuit of happiness."

Her chest tightened at his earnestness, conflicting with the irritation she felt. "And some people believe they are entitled to it—that it is owed to them, regardless of the cost to others."

Darcy's eyes narrowed slightly, his expression unreadable as his eyes twitched toward the head of the table once more. "Yes, there are those who think only of their own desires."

Oh, good heavens, were they back on Mr Wickham again? How tiresome. Elizabeth glanced around the room, seeking a distraction, but found none. When she turned back to Darcy, his gaze was still fixed on her, intense and searching.

He took a breath, seeming to gather himself. "Miss Elizabeth, I—"

"Mr Darcy," she interrupted, her frustration spilling over, "it seems we are destined to misunderstand each other. Perhaps it is best if we leave our conversation here."

Darcy's face tightened, and he gave a curt nod. "As you wish, Miss Elizabeth."

The silence that followed was heavy, and Elizabeth felt a pang of regret. But before she could say anything more, Darcy stood abruptly, excusing himself from the table. She stared after him as he left, but within seconds, his figure was swallowed by the swirl of the room.

T he rest of the meal passed in a blur. Elizabeth ate mechanically, barely tasting the food. Her thoughts kept drifting back to Darcy, to the look in his eyes when he spoke of disappointment and happiness. Was he speaking of Anne de Bourgh? Was the engagement not to his liking, perhaps? The phrase "sowing wild oats" came suddenly to her mind, and the idea left a bitter taste in her mouth. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to his words, something he was not saying .

And then there was Mr Wickham. Elizabeth couldn't ignore the nagging doubt Darcy had planted. Could there be truth in his warnings? Was she being blinded by Wickham's charm? But he had shown nothing but kindness and respect since his arrival. Surely, Darcy was mistaken—or worse, deliberately trying to mislead her.

After what felt like an eternity, the meal ended, and the guests began to disperse. She wanted to join them, to lose herself in the movement and forget her worries, if only for a little while. But she felt rooted to her seat, the weight of her thoughts holding her back. Eventually, the need for fresh air and a quiet space to calm her thoughts pulled her out of the dining room after the others. She made her way to the terrace, longing for just a moment or two to herself before plunging back into the ballroom.

The stars twinkled overhead, a stark contrast to the turmoil within her. She leaned against the railing, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. The events of the evening swirled in her mind—Darcy's cryptic words, Mr Wickham's charm, Charlotte's radiant smile.

"Miss Elizabeth?"

The voice startled her, and she turned to see Mr Wickham standing a few feet away, his expression concerned. "Are you quite all right?"

Elizabeth forced a smile. "Yes, thank you, Mr Wickham. I just needed some fresh air."

He stepped closer, his gaze warm and understanding. "It has been a glorious evening, hasn't it? I hope you have enjoyed yourself."

She nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. "Yes, it has been a lovely evening. Thank you for your hospitality."

Mr Wickham's smile widened. "It is my pleasure, Miss Elizabeth. If there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask."

There it was again—that charm, that easy manner that made it so difficult to doubt him. But Darcy's words lingered in her mind, casting a shadow over their interaction.

"Mr Wickham," she began hesitantly, "may I ask you something?"

"Of course, anything."

She hesitated, unsure how to phrase her question without sounding accusatory. "I have heard... some things. About you and Mr Darcy. He... he implied that you had not always… that is, you were not always the sort of man we know you to be now."

Wickham's expression sobered thoughtfully. "I see. Mr Darcy and I have... a complicated history. He has never forgiven me for certain youthful indiscretions."

"Indiscretions? "

Wickham nodded, his gaze distant. "Nothing, I fear, that I ought to tell a lady, Miss Elizabeth. I was young and foolish. I made mistakes. But I have tried to make amends—surely, you see my efforts, I hope?"

She smiled. "Naturally, sir. Why, I think there is no one in all Meryton who does not."

Mr Wickham shrugged. "Save for Darcy. He seems determined to hold my past against me, but you must forgive him. Darcy is not wrong in recalling his experience. But I hope I can rely on your generous nature to permit a man to prove he is no longer the youth that his companions remember."

Elizabeth studied his face, searching for any sign of deceit. But all she saw was a man trying to move on from his past, a man who had been judged too harshly. "I see," she said softly. "Thank you for your honesty, Mr Wickham."

He smiled again, but it was a sadder smile this time. "Thank you for listening, Miss Elizabeth. It means more than you know. May I ask, do you intend to dance again this evening?"

She tightened her lips into a smile and shook her head. "I am obliged to dance the last with Mr Collins, but I should like a few moments to myself first."

"Of course. I will ask a footman to bring you some refreshment if you like."

"I thank you, but no." She tilted her head. "Wait a moment. Would you try to encourage Mr Collins to ask Miss Lucas for a set?"

His grin widened. "With pleasure, Miss Elizabeth."

With that, he bowed and left her alone on the terrace. She watched him go, her heart aching with confusion. Both men seemed good. They seemed earnest. Could both be truthful but simply have conflicting views? Surely, that made the most sense.

The sound of laughter and music drifted from the ballroom. Elizabeth sighed, feeling more lost than ever. The night had raised more questions than answers, and she had no idea how to find her way through the maze of conflicting emotions and loyalties.

As she turned to rejoin the party, her gaze caught on a window a little above and to the side of the terrace. Mr Darcy stood in the shadows, his face half-hidden in the dim light. He watched her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and she saw a flicker of something in his gaze—regret, perhaps, or longing. But then he turned away, disappearing into the darkness.

D arcy stood by the window of his room, his head aching and his heart heavy. The dim light of the room was a small reprieve from the brightness and noise of the ball. He had retreated here after the disastrous dinner, unable to endure the relentless throb of his headache in the overly illuminated rooms of Netherfield. He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to will away the pain, but it was no use. The laudanum had dulled the edges of his agony but had not extinguished it.

As Darcy looked out over the terrace below, his gaze fell on Elizabeth. Of course, she would have to come back where he could see her once more. It was like she knew she was taunting him.

She was engaged in an intimate conversation with Wickham, her expression open and unguarded. Wickham, ever the charmer, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her company. The sight triggered a tumult of emotions in Darcy—anger, jealousy, and a deep, aching longing. These feelings were unfamiliar to him, disorienting in their intensity.

He had tried to hold himself together in Elizabeth's presence, to maintain some semblance of composure despite the physical pain and the emotional turmoil. But it was clear she did not enjoy his company tonight. Her guarded expressions, the way she turned to Wickham for conversation, all spoke volumes. It stung more than he cared to admit.

Elizabeth smiled at something Wickham said—he could see the slight tilt of her head from where he stood, and he knew her mannerisms well enough by now to read her with precision. She seemed to trust Wickham, to genuinely like him. It was a bitter draught to swallow. How could she be so deceived by that man? Darcy knew Wickham's true nature… did he not?

Something still seemed off about all this, but perhaps it was more a product of Darcy's own incapacitation. His powers of observation were diminished, his own doubts and insecurities surely clouding whatever he might otherwise have observed. Had Wickham changed? Darcy could not allow that he had, but Elizabeth certainly seemed to think the man worthy of her regard. The jealousy flared hotter, fueled by his helplessness to intervene.

He had not realised until now how much he had pinned his hopes on this evening, or how wildly they had spun beyond his grasp when she was standing beside him. The idea of marrying Elizabeth, of spending his final days with someone who inspired and understood him, might have been a beacon in his darkening world.

He had lingered in Meryton for this chance, had endured the agony of his illness and the burden of his prognosis, just to have a beautiful evening with her. The sight of her in that evening gown, more resplendent than any of his imaginings, now seemed a cruel taunt.

Darcy leaned heavily against the window frame, his eyes never leaving Elizabeth. Wickham had gone now, and she stood alone for some minutes, letting him drink in the sight of her slim shoulders squared against the November cold. Delicate, but strong… Darcy's throat ached with longing.

He could have loved her.

That thought was a shard in the chest. Where had it come from? With a start, he recognised that the feeling had been simmering since their first meeting. The tenderness that bent his soul whenever he looked at her, the lightness that overtook his face when she spoke, and even the sense of peace and clarity she brought whenever she was near. Indeed, the sentiment of love, or at least the beginnings of that feeling, had long been making itself known.

But the act of loving… now, that was another thing altogether. The notion of caring for, holding, and cleaving and baring his most intimate thoughts—of sharing all of himself and what remained of his life with someone he could hold dear—that was something he might have found with Elizabeth Bennet, had George Wickham not somehow made a mockery of him.

She turned at last, and some impulse made her look up, directly into his window. He saw a flicker of something in her gaze—perhaps curiosity or confusion—but it quickly passed, cooling into a distant sort of curiosity. He was a puzzlement to her, no more.

The ache of loss in his chest deepened, a gnawing grief that threatened to consume him. The idea of proposing to Elizabeth had seemed so clear, so right. It had offered a semblance of hope. Not only a way to leave a meaningful legacy, but to have a friend beside him through the trials ahead—someone who saw him for himself. But tonight had shattered that hope. She was not interested in him; she was enamoured with Wickham. It was clear in every glance, every smile she bestowed upon him.

Darcy's fists clenched at his sides. The injustice of it all rankled. Wickham did not deserve her trust, her affection. Yet, Darcy was powerless to change her mind. His attempts to warn her had only driven a wedge between them. Indeed, he would have done better to simply smile and play along with whatever she believed because he had no proof that she was wrong.

Enough of this. He turned away from the window, his steps dragging with every inch. The room felt oppressive, the walls closing in on him. He needed to leave, to get away from this place where he could not trust even the truths of his own mind. To London, then, at last, where he ought to have gone more than a week ago. Time to focus on his affairs and prepare for the end.