28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Eight

D arcy stepped out of his carriage onto the gravel driveway of Netherfield, his limbs heavy with the fatigue of travel. The house loomed before him, its grand facade softened by the early afternoon light, yet something about it seemed slightly altered since his last visit. He could not place what it was—perhaps it was only his own state of mind, a mind fogged by pain and dulled by the effort to keep his thoughts in order.

As he stepped toward the house, his eye fell on a row of other carriages lined up in the stable yard. Only their tops were visible over the wall, but there were, indeed, at least seven other equipages all resting in the yard. Apparently, Wickham had company, and a great deal of it. His visit was rather poorly timed, after all.

Darcy paused, glancing back at his carriage. Ought he to go? Surely, he would learn nothing valuable of Wickham if the man was occupied in playing to the crowd. He had come here in hopes of securing a private conversation. But there was nothing else for it. He had already sent that letter, asking if he could break his journey on his way north, and he would lose face if he did not enter the house.

The butler, an older man with a severe countenance, greeted him at the door. "Good afternoon, Mr Darcy. We have been expecting you. Please, come in."

Darcy handed over his hat and gloves, his eyes scanning the entrance hall as he stepped inside. The air was cool and faintly scented with the polish used on the wooden panelling. No one was about, save for two of Wickham's unusually attractive "maids" bustling towards the drawing room at the far end of the hall with tea carts.

As the butler led him further into the hall, Darcy's gaze was drawn once again to the portrait that had unnerved him on his previous visit. The boys in the painting were still locked in their eternal poses, one serious, the other almost mocking. Perhaps their image could have been a mere chance—a strange coincidence that someone had commissioned years ago, perfectly innocent of how it might appear to Darcy. The girl, though—her resemblance to Georgiana remained disturbingly clear. The rage that had simmered beneath the surface on his last visit now flared again, prickling over the back of his neck. His head pounded with a familiar, piercing light, and for a moment, he wondered if he had made a mistake in coming here.

"Darcy," a voice called out, jolting him from his thoughts. Wickham appeared at the far end of the hall, approaching quickly with a look of polite contrition on his face. "I must apologise for not being here to greet you immediately. We have a number of guests this afternoon, and I was momentarily detained."

Darcy nodded stiffly, his mind still half-absorbed by the portrait. "No matter," he replied, a touch too formally. "I thank you for your hospitality."

"Could I do any less?" Wickham gestured with a smile. "Please, make yourself comfortable. If you wish to refresh yourself after your journey, your room has been prepared. I cannot tell you how pleased Bingley and I were to hear of your return so quickly. I imagine some urgent business at Pemberley calls you north?"

Darcy pulled his lips into a tight assent. "Business… yes. I see I have taken you from your guests, so I will—"

"Oh, no need to absent yourself, Darcy. These are all friends to you. Truly, I would be most honoured if you could join us in the drawing room as soon as you are refreshed after your journey."

Darcy's eyes narrowed faintly in the direction of the drawing room. "You have a rather large group of callers this afternoon. Something serious?"

"I should say so! The gentlemen of Meryton have gathered to formalize their choice of Sir Anthony Mortimer as their next MP. Mortimer himself is present, and we shall soon adjourn to a formal dinner. I have already ordered a place set for you at the table."

Darcy blinked, trying to process the information. The combination of travel and his worsening headache made it difficult to focus. Still, he managed to nod. "Thank you. I shall join you shortly."

Wickham's smile widened. "Excellent. I shall tell everyone we can look forward to your company, and I know I will be able to count on you, Darcy, for your clever head if any questions of a legal nature should arise."

With that, Wickham turned on his heel and departed, leaving Darcy alone with the footman, who waited patiently to escort him upstairs. Darcy followed him, each step sending a dull throb through his temples. The prospect of enduring a formal dinner in such company filled him with a sense of dread, yet he could not refuse the invitation without causing offence .

Once he was alone in his room, Darcy shut the door behind him and leaned heavily against it, his hand trembling slightly as he reached into his coat pocket for the small vial of laudanum he had brought with him. He uncorked it and measured a dose with practised efficiency, swallowing it down with the hope that it would ease the throbbing in his head.

He moved to the window, looking out over the grounds of Netherfield as he waited for the laudanum to take effect. A fresh snow was just beginning to fall over the formal gardens, coating the land in a pure, clean blanket. How could everything seem so serene when everything inside him felt so wrong? He closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing, on the rhythm of his heartbeat, anything to anchor himself in the present moment.

But the light behind his eyes still flickered, and the pain continued to gnaw at him, dulling his senses and clouding his thoughts. Somehow, he had to rally for the evening ahead, to maintain the appearance of composure and control. Wickham had been almost too eager to invite him to this gathering, to ensure his place at the table. The thought sent a shiver of suspicion through Darcy's already troubled mind.

He pushed himself away from the window and began to prepare for dinner, his movements slow and deliberate as he fought to keep the pain at bay. There would be time enough to ponder Wickham's intentions later—if his head allowed it. For now, all he could do was endure.

" C aptain Carter is positively the most charming man in all of Meryton, do you not agree, Kitty?" Lydia's words were punctuated by giggles as she flounced onto the settee, fanning herself.

"Oh, indeed!" Kitty chimed in, barely able to contain her laughter. "And did you see the way he looked at me when we passed by the milliner's shop? I am certain he agrees about how fetching I looked in that new bonnet. "

Elizabeth twisted a piece of embroidery thread between her fingers, trying to block out the shrill laughter that filled the room. Lydia's exaggerated tales of the officers grated on her nerves, jarring against the weightier thoughts that occupied her mind.

Mrs Bennet clapped her hands together. "My dear girls, how delightful it is to see you both so admired! But do remember to conduct yourselves with proper decorum—though, of course, a little charm never hurt anyone."

Mary, seated primly in the corner with a book balanced on her lap, looked up. "Charm is of little consequence when it comes to matters of true importance. A solid mind and good principles are the foundation of a respectable life. I do hope you will not be led astray by frivolous pursuits."

"Exactly so, my dear!" Mrs Bennet seconded. "After all, Lydia, you see how it came about for Mary. Perhaps it would do no harm to—"

"But she is only marrying Mr Collins," Kitty sighed. "I want to catch someone more exciting, like Captain Carter. You do not see Captain Carter lurking about the booksellers,' or reading Fordyce all the time, do you?"

Mary lifted her chin. "Booksellers and Fordyce are precisely what a gentleman should concern himself with, Kitty. A man's character is not built on mere excitement or frivolous pursuits but on his dedication to moral and intellectual improvement. Mr Collins may not be a captain, but he is a man of substance and duty, which is far more worthy of respect than the fleeting charms of an officer's uniform."

Elizabeth stifled a sigh as Mary's voice dripped with the smugness that had become all too familiar since her engagement to Mr Collins. It was insufferable, really, how Mary had transformed into a model of self-righteousness, as though her upcoming marriage elevated her to a higher moral plane.

"Do not be so dull, Mary," Lydia retorted, waving a dismissive hand. "We have plenty of time to think about serious matters when we are old and grey."

"Indeed, indeed!" Mrs Bennet agreed. "Youth is for enjoyment, my dear Mary. And your sisters are only having a bit of fun."

Jane sat beside Elizabeth, quietly stitching a handkerchief, her blank expression betraying no hint of anything like the vexation that Elizabeth was feeling. Elizabeth's mind still spun on that conversation with her father from the day before.

Her father and Mr Collins were at Netherfield even now, meeting with the gentlemen of Meryton. The selection of Sir Anthony Mortimer as their new MP should have brought some relief, but it did not. Her father's lack of enthusiasm about the man's qualifications had left her uneasy, but the fact that everyone else was so willing to endorse him with seemingly few questions asked only deepened her concerns.

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Lydia's voice pierced through the fog in her mind. "Lizzy! Are you even listening? You have been sitting there with that sour look on your face for ages! Do stop being such a bore and tell us what you think of Captain Denny."

Elizabeth blinked, realising that she had been staring blankly at the wall, lost in her thoughts. "I think," she said, her voice clipped, "that it would do you some good, Lydia, to hold a serious thought in your head for more than a moment. You prattle on about these officers without a care in the world, but you might at least do others the courtesy of letting them think about something worthwhile!"

The words came out more sharply than she had intended, and the effect was immediate. Lydia's face fell, the hurt clear in her wide eyes. Kitty looked at Elizabeth in surprise, and even Mrs Bennet's cheerful expression dimmed. Jane's eyes flicked to Elizabeth, her mouth parting in silent concern.

"Lizzy!" Mrs Bennet's voice carried a note of reproach. "That was quite uncalled for."

Elizabeth's cheeks flushed with shame. "I... I am sorry, Lydia. I did not mean to speak so harshly."

But the damage was done. Lydia turned her face away, her lips quivering slightly as she tried to laugh it off. "Well, if you are going to be so grumpy, I suppose we shall just have to enjoy ourselves without you."

Elizabeth could hardly bear the sight of Lydia's wounded expression. "I did not mean it, truly," she stammered, rising quickly from her chair. "I… I think I shall go upstairs for a while."

As the drawing-room door swung closed behind her, she clutched her hands into fists and squeezed them over her face, standing momentarily in the hall. "Foolish, Elizabeth. How could you? Scolding Lydia like that. She may be frivolous, but you know better." The words felt heavy on her tongue, like stones she could not swallow.

She ought to go back and make a proper apology now, while the regret was most raw. But her blood was up, and so, no doubt, was Lydia's. There would be no sensible conversations had if she turned back now, so she pulled her hands from her face and made for the stairs. Perhaps after a good while muffling her frustrations with her pillow, she could be rational again .

Her pace quickened as she reached the hall, her only thought now to find solace in the privacy of her room. "Lydia is still young," she muttered to herself as she mounted the stairs. "You could recall yourself at fifteen. But no, you had to wound her pride instead. Always too quick to speak your mind..."

Her foot hit the stair awkwardly, and in her distraction, she misjudged the step. Her weak ankle buckled beneath her, and before she could catch herself, a sharp, searing pain shot through her leg. Elizabeth cried out, the sound muffled as she bit down on her hand, clinging desperately to the bannister to keep herself from collapsing.

Elizabeth cursed her carelessness, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. "Stupid, stupid girl," she hissed under her breath, the ache in her ankle only amplifying her frustration. "This is what you get for rushing—no sense, no patience…"

"Lizzy?" Mrs Bennet's voice called from the parlour, tinged with irritation. "What have you done now?"

Elizabeth bit back tears, her breath hitching as she tried to compose herself. "Nothing, Mama," she called back, forcing her voice to remain steady. "I just... bruised my toe."

"For mercy's sake!" came her mother's exasperated reply. "It sounded as if you broke the stair!" Her voice shifted, and Elizabeth could tell that her mother was addressing her sisters, but still loudly enough for Elizabeth to hear every word. "Oh, I shall go distracted if Mr Wickham does not make his intentions known sooner and take her away. That girl, with her muddy hems and bruised shins! How shall I ever make a proper lady of her?"

Elizabeth's teeth sank into her lower lip as the tears streamed hotly down her cheeks. The pain was more than a mere bruise—it throbbed with each heartbeat, the strained muscle reminding her of her foolishness. She was still clinging to the bannister, the throbbing in her ankle making her feel faint. The idea of climbing the stairs to her room was too daunting now, and it would be easier to limp back down.

Hopefully, none of her sisters would think of coming out of the sitting room. She could endure only so much humility for one day.

Hobbling as best she could, Elizabeth made her way to the kitchen, each step sending fresh waves of pain through her ankle. When she reached the door, she knocked gently before pushing it open. Mrs Hill looked up from her work, her eyes widening with concern as she saw Elizabeth's pale face and the way she leaned heavily on the doorframe.

"Miss Elizabeth! Whatever has happened?"

"I twisted my ankle, Mrs Hill," Elizabeth replied. "Do you have a bucket of cold water? I think it would help if I soaked my foot. "

Mrs Hill nodded quickly, setting aside her work. "Of course, Miss. Sit yourself down, and I'll have it ready in a moment."

Elizabeth limped to a nearby chair, sinking into it with a sigh of relief. As she waited for the water, she closed her eyes, trying to push away the embarrassment and the pain that seemed to swell with each passing minute. How had everything gone so wrong so quickly? The weight of her earlier outburst, the sting of Lydia's hurt, and now this—an injury caused by her own carelessness. She felt utterly wretched, her body and mind both aching as she sat there, waiting for the painful bite of the cold water and the brief numbness that might follow.

D arcy wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, the acrid taste of bile still lingering on his tongue as he sat back on his heels, the chamber pot beside him a miserable reminder of his condition. His stomach twisted again, but there was nothing left to bring up. He closed his eyes, trying to steady himself, but the room seemed to tilt and spin around him, the walls closing in like the jaws of some monstrous beast.

He dragged himself upright, using the edge of the bed for support, but as he stood, the world fractured into two, his vision doubling in a sickening blur. He swayed, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps, and for a moment, he considered calling for his valet. The man had just left, having seen to Darcy's dressing for dinner, and the thought of summoning him back, of admitting that he was not even capable of making it down to the dining room, filled him with a bitter sense of defeat.

But no. He would not give in to this… this weakness. He had been through worse. He would go down to dinner, would face whatever awaited him there, and would do so without the need for explanations or excuses. With a groan, he collapsed onto the bed, the mattress swallowing him up as the spinning in his head grew more intense. He lay there for a moment, his eyes closed, trying to will the world back into focus. The ceiling above him was an indistinct swirl of shadow and light, and he could barely make out the lines of the room, let alone the details.

Time ticked on, and Darcy knew he could not linger much longer. Dinner awaited him—no doubt Wickham and the others were already assembled downstairs, perhaps even wondering at his absence. The thought of Wickham, of the smug look that would cross his face if Darcy did not appear, was enough to push him into action.

With a trembling hand, he pulled out his handkerchief, dabbing at the sweat that had gathered on his brow. His skin was clammy, his fingers unsteady as they moved across his forehead, but at least the worst of the nausea seemed to have passed. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the rapid pounding of his heart, and forced himself to sit up.

The room swam before his eyes, but he gritted his teeth and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor. He stood slowly, testing his balance, and when the dizziness did not immediately overwhelm him, he began to make his way toward the door.

The hallway beyond was dimly lit, the light flickering uncertainly in his wavering vision. He reached out to the bannister, gripping it with all the strength he could muster. The wood was solid beneath his hand, a lifeline in the midst of the disorienting whirlpool that had become his reality.

Step by step, he descended the stairs, his eyes fixed on the bannister as though it were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth. Each movement was deliberate and careful, his mind focused entirely on the task of placing one foot in front of the other. The stairs seemed to stretch on endlessly, an abyss that threatened to swallow him whole if he made one wrong move.

Devil take it, he was going to fall. He was going to fall, break his neck, and George Wickham was going to crow over him in triumph at last. Wickham, with that vile painting and all his convincing half-truths that even Darcy had nearly swallowed.

No! If all that was left to him was to call out the truth in the face of lies, then he would see the duty done before this thing in his head got the best of him. Darcy's grip tightened on the bannister, his knuckles white, and he forced his gaze forward, willing himself to continue until the ground levelled out beneath him.