29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Twenty-Nine

T he murmur of voices quieted slightly as he entered the dining room, and the subtle rustle of fabric against wood signalled the room's attention shifting towards him. His vision swam for a moment, the faces blurring together, but he quickly forced his eyes to focus.

Wickham was the first to rise, a congenial smile plastered across his face. "Darcy! How good of you to join us. We were beginning to wonder if the rigours of travel had got the better of you."

Darcy managed a polite nod, though the effort to appear composed nearly cost him his balance. The room seemed to tilt slightly as he made his way toward the table, but he kept his steps measured and slow, gripping the back of his chair when he finally reached it. Bingley, seated to his right, offered him a concerned look as the footman pulled out his chair.

"My friends," Wickham said, gesturing around the table, "most of you already have had the pleasure of meeting my good friend, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, in Derbyshire."

Darcy paused before seating himself to incline his head toward the general assembly. Most of the faces were familiar—particularly Sir William Lucas on his left, Mr Philips across the table from him, and Mr Bennet just beyond.

Wickham extended a hand towards a new gentleman to his right. "Darcy, you have not met our guest of honour this evening. May I present to you our candidate, Sir Anthony Mortimer?"

Darcy hesitated, his gaze shifting to the far end of the table where Sir Anthony sat. He blinked, forcing his vision to clear, and saw that Sir Anthony was a full head shorter than Wickham, with auburn hair and a burly physique. His breath died in his chest. Sir Anthony's appearance matched perfectly with Georgiana's description of Wickham's "friend," Mr Billings .

Darcy shook his head… a thing he regretted almost instantly, but could he trust his memory on this point? Surely, he could not have remembered those details incorrectly. The shoulders of a blacksmith but the hands of a gentleman…

There could be no mistake. It must be the same man, for, as Georgiana had said, he had a rather distinctive look to him. Not a face anyone would forget easily, to be sure.

Darcy's hands began to tremble, and he quickly clasped them together to steady himself. With great effort, he inclined his head in a bow. "Sir Anthony," he greeted, his voice just loud enough to carry across the room.

"Mr Darcy," Sir Anthony replied, nodding in return, his gaze sharp and appraising. "I have heard much of you. We are pleased you could join us for this evening."

"The honour is mine." Darcy felt his stomach starting to squeeze and lurch again, but he forced himself to sit down, though his mind whirled with the implications of what he had just seen. The chair creaked under his weight as he lowered himself, and the room seemed to spin in slow, nauseating circles.

A moment later, a single file line of footmen began carrying in the soup course, and the room's focus on Darcy began to break up. That was when Bingley leaned toward him. "Darcy, are you quite well?" he asked quietly. "You look rather pale, old boy."

Darcy sighed, realising with a pang of resignation that if Bingley, the least observant man he had ever known, had finally noticed his distress, then surely everyone else must have as well. Including Wickham, who was now watching him with a faint, knowing smile. Darcy's grip on the edge of the table tightened.

"Merely a mild headache from travel," Darcy replied, doing his best to sound nonchalant. "Nothing more."

Bingley nodded, though his brow remained furrowed. "I hope an excellent meal will prove the only cure necessary."

Darcy managed a thin smile as he picked up his spoon, trying to steady his hand as he dipped it into the soup. The other gentlemen around the table began to engage in various conversations, most of them centred on politics. Darcy's gaze flickered to Sir Anthony again, then to Wickham, who was talking animatedly with Mr Bennet across the table.

At least Bennet appeared to be putting some real questions to the man. Darcy could not hear the specifics over the general hum of conversation, but Mr Bennet's manner was probing, his features guarded, and Sir Anthony was being forced to articulate himself about something .

That bore watching, to be sure. Perhaps the man who had sired such a cleverly irreverent daughter as Elizabeth Bennet might be the one man in the room who would not join lockstep with the going political tide.

As Darcy sipped his soup, a thought began to form in his mind. Bingley, intelligent though he was, had always been too easily influenced by those around him. Too willing to believe what he was told, and too eager to please to be confident in standing on his own two feet. Just how thoroughly had Wickham won Bingley over? Was there still any hope of convincing his friend of the truth? Perhaps he might test the waters a bit… discover precisely how strong the current was.

"Bingley," he said, keeping his tone casual, "do you think Viscount Halstead intends to lend his support for Sir Anthony's election?"

"Halstead…?" Bingley blinked, his expression briefly bemused as if he were struggling to recall the name. "Oh, yes," he said after a moment, his brow smoothing. "I am quite sure he will."

Darcy nodded, letting the comment rest for a moment before tilting his head slightly. "But wait," he said, pretending to puzzle it out, "I thought Halstead was in America."

Bingley's eyes widened as if surprised by the realisation. "Yes, indeed. You are correct, Darcy. Brokering that deal in cotton, was that right? Yes, I am sure I recall that."

Darcy's heart sank. Truly, Bingley had no real memory of Halstead but was simply going along with what others suggested and claiming the "memories" as his own. Darcy dipped his spoon into his soup again, his thoughts tangling together. What the devil was he to say now?

Between spoonfuls, he probed a bit farther. "Do you remember the time we all played cricket together? Halstead bested us both—though I must admit, it was a close match."

Bingley chuckled, his eyes lighting up. "Ah, yes! That was a grand time, indeed. Halstead was quite the player."

Darcy went quiet for a moment, his chest tightening with a sense of despair. Finally, in a voice so low that only Bingley could hear, he said, "There never was a Viscount Halstead."

Bingley looked at him blankly for a moment, then his brow furrowed in confusion. "But of course there was," he said, his tone almost defensive. "I remember him well. He bested you at chess once, and was quite the Latin scholar, as I recall."

Darcy shook his head slowly, his voice heavy with the weight of the truth. "No, Bingley. There was no such man. I can prove it. "

Bingley stared at him, his expression troubled. He stirred the remnants of his soup thoughtfully as if trying to reconcile the contradiction in his memory. Then, after a long pause, he laughed lightly, though the sound was forced. "But you recalled him before. You said so yourself."

"I…" Darcy grimaced. "I was suffering a megrim, and I—"

"What, another headache? Darcy, you ought to see a doctor."

Darcy gritted his teeth. "I have, and it is… they are not… unmanageable."

"Gracious, how often has this been happening? Perhaps… egad, I hesitate to say it, but perhaps your memory is not what it was? Nothing to be ashamed of, to be sure. How could you be expected to think clearly when your head is splitting?"

Darcy's temper flared, and he clamped his jaw against the indignant outburst that was fore on his tongue. "Bingley, I am quite serious. You have been induced to believe you remember something that never happened simply because the events are hazy enough in your mind, and you refuse to disoblige someone. Viscount Halstead does not exist."

"No, no, Darcy, I am sure there is some simple explanation. An innocent misunderstanding, that is all. I think he went by Reginald when we knew him—perhaps he had not inherited the title yet. Egad, why are you so fixed on this? What matters it if Wickham and I remember a man that you do not recall? You act as if it was something of the greatest import." Bingley lifted his spoon to his mouth again, his forehead crumpling appreciatively. "I say, there is nothing to match Nicholls' white soup."

Darcy sighed, feeling the last shred of hope slip away. He had lost Bingley to Wickham's influence. As the servants began to clear the soup course, a crushing sense of defeat settled over him. How was he to convince anyone that they were being lied to if even Bingley would not listen to the truth?

E lizabeth's eyes roved around the dimly lit kitchen as her fingers drummed on the work table. Her swollen ankle was still propped up on a stool, the tightness in her skin making every throb of pain feel like a knife twisting. She bit down on her lip, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. It seemed the ache in her ankle had only intensified as the evening wore on, the skin now flushed red and angry, the swelling so pronounced that even the slightest movement sent waves of agony shooting up her leg. How could she have been so foolish? The ankle had only just begun to mend, but in her rush to escape the embarrassment of the drawing room, she had managed to undo weeks of careful healing.

She gingerly touched the swollen joint, wincing at the tenderness there. To make matters worse, her knee was now sore as well, a dull ache that pulsed with every heartbeat. She must have banged it when she stumbled on the stairs earlier. A fresh wave of frustration welled up inside her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to keep the tears at bay.

She had missed supper with her mother and sisters. Not that Mrs Hill let her go hungry, but she had tendered the excuse that she was in her room, not feeling well and wishing to be left alone. And now, it had grown so late that no one cared to ask where she was. The rest of the family had long since retired upstairs for the night, all probably assuming that she was in a temper or asleep.

That was just as well. Not that she did not wish to apologise—she owed Lydia that much—but she did not want anyone to worry, least of all Jane. If Jane discovered she had hurt herself again, she would insist on staying with her, fussing over her until she was tucked safely into bed. Elizabeth loved her sister dearly, but tonight, she could not bear the thought of being coddled. She had let them all go to bed, and now, it was probably safe to follow.

As she prepared to make the arduous journey upstairs, she heard the front door creak open. Her father had returned from Netherfield. Elizabeth turned to Mrs Hill, who had been quietly bustling about the kitchen, and asked in a low voice, "Mrs Hill, would you help me to the door? I should like to greet Papa."

Mrs Hill hesitated, her gaze flickering to Elizabeth's swollen ankle with concern. "Are you sure, Miss Lizzy? You're in no state to be moving about."

Elizabeth forced a small, strained smile. "It is nothing, really. I just want to see him for a moment."

With Mrs Hill's support, Elizabeth managed to shuffle to the door, biting down on the inside of her cheek to stifle a gasp of pain with every small hop. She was exhausted but could not resist the thought of seeing her father and perhaps gleaning some news of what had happened at Netherfield.

As Mr Bennet stepped into the house, Elizabeth could immediately see the weariness etched into his features. He greeted her with an indifferent nod, already lost in his own thoughts, but the shuffling sound she made as she approached him caught his attention. He paused, his tired eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the way she was leaning on Mrs Hill's shoulder and the awkward way she was moving.

"Lizzy," he sighed and shook his head, with the ghost of a smile playing at his lips, "what have you done to yourself this time?"

Elizabeth tried to brush it off with a wave of her hand. "Oh, truly nothing, Papa. Just my usual way of seeking attention, you know."

Mr Bennet chuckled softly, though the sound was heavy with exhaustion. He looked over at Mrs Hill and nodded his thanks. "That will be all, Mrs Hill. I shall take care of Lizzy from here. I know she means to corner me in my study before going to bed anyway."

Mrs Hill hesitated for a moment, her eyes lingering on Elizabeth with concern, but then she bobbed a quick curtsey and quietly excused herself, leaving them alone in the dimly lit hallway.

Elizabeth leaned heavily on her father's arm as he guided her into the drawing room, wincing with each step. Instead of leading her to the usual hard-backed chair in his study, Mr Bennet directed her toward the comfortable sofa by the window. With a soft groan of relief, Elizabeth sank into the cushions, easing her aching ankle onto a pillow.

"Thank you, Papa," she said with a teasing smirk as she adjusted the pillow. "You take great care to hide how considerate you can be when you choose."

Mr Bennet scoffed lightly. "Considerate? Lizzy, you mistake me. I have never found but that good, considerate people are taken advantage of. Put out and inconvenienced and occasionally even truly disadvantaged. No, no, I prefer to remain careless and indifferent, and I must say it has worked rather well these past twenty years."

Elizabeth sighed and shifted on the sofa, shaking her head. "You have not fooled as many people as you think you have."

"Hmm." He moved toward the fireplace, his movements slower than usual, and took up the poker to stoke the dying embers. The faint glow brightened under his efforts, sending a warm light flickering through the dim room. Elizabeth watched him, her eyes softening. Beneath his gruff exterior, her father had always been more caring than he let on .

But then, as he straightened and set the poker aside, she noticed the weariness in his expression. He sighed deeply, sinking into the chair opposite her, his shoulders sagging as he rubbed his forehead.

"I may have to reconsider that strategy," he murmured.

She shifted again, wincing as a sharp pain shot through her ankle. "Why do you say that? What happened at dinner?"

"Well, Sir Anthony Mortimer is a clever man, I will give him that. He answered all my questions with a certain eloquence, but..."

"But what?" Elizabeth pressed, her curiosity piqued. "What questions did you ask him?"

Mr Bennet sighed again. "I asked Sir Anthony about the allocation of funds for rural development, specifically for Meryton. I wanted to see if he was genuinely invested in our town's interests or if he would be more inclined to divert funds to the cities for larger, more prestigious projects."

Elizabeth nodded. "And how did he respond?"

Mr Bennet leaned back, his gaze growing distant as he recounted the conversation. "He said that rural development was indeed important and that he would make sure it was given due consideration. But he also emphasized the need to support urban growth, claiming it was essential for the overall prosperity of the nation. He talked a great deal about balance, about making sure that all regions benefited from government support, but... well, he provided no specifics."

Elizabeth frowned. "Did you ask him about how he plans to protect agricultural communities from the encroaching influence of industrialisation? Our tenants, and the farms—"

"I did," Mr Bennet confirmed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "His answer was similar. He spoke at length about the need to harmonise the old with the new, to ensure that traditional farming practices were not entirely overshadowed by industrial advances. He mentioned something about promoting technological innovation that could benefit agriculture. He went on for a long while about it. All very clever, naturally."

"What about your question regarding the upcoming legislation on land enclosures? The farmers are all deeply invested in the outcome of that."

Mr Bennet nodded slowly. "Ah, yes, I did ask about that. He gave what I suppose was a reassuring answer, saying he understood the concerns and that any legislation would be carefully considered to protect the interests of landowners and tenants alike. But when I pressed him on how he intended to vote on the issue, he said he would consult with his colleagues and weigh all perspectives before making a decision."

Elizabeth pursed her lips, absorbing the details. "It all sounds rather positive on the surface," she began slowly. "He sounds a… a prudent man. But, Papa, did he really answer your questions? It seems to me that he said a lot of words without actually giving you any clear answers."

Mr Bennet thinned his lips and nodded, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. "There, you have hit the nail on the head, Lizzy. Indeed, he had a great many fine words, but the more he spoke, the less he actually said."

Elizabeth snorted. "Well, surely, someone must think to make him commit to an answer. You cannot be the only one asking questions."

"No, in fact, it seems I am. The rest of the room was filled with nothing but praise for the man."

"But that is preposterous! He is not a pretty statue to be admired, but a man who proposes to represent us in Parliament! We must know how the man will act when he is not sitting at table with the community, when he is in London reading bills and voting on measures. Surely, someone else heard the conspicuous lack of any sort of decisiveness."

Her father crossed his legs. You would be the only other person to notice that. You, and I think, Mr Darcy, who looked rather nonplussed at dinner."

Elizabeth started, her heart flipping in her chest as she shifted too quickly on the sofa, sending a fresh wave of pain through her ankle. "Mr Darcy? What has he to do with this?"

Mr Bennet grunted, leaning forward slightly. "Darcy arrived while we were having drinks in the drawing room. He is breaking his journey at Netherfield on his way north."

Elizabeth blinked, trying to process this unexpected information. "How long does he intend to stay?" she asked, her voice wobbling just a little.

"I could not say. Darcy did not appear to be in a very conversational mood. I would not expect him to stay long."

Elizabeth's thoughts swirled. Her father was right about one thing—Mr Darcy was no admirer of Mr Wickham's, and that cynicism extended to Mr Wickham's "great friend" Sir Anthony. "Did you speak to him privately at all?" she asked, trying to sound casual.

Mr Bennet shook his head. "No, he was seated at the opposite end of the table and did not stay long for drinks after dinner. A pity, really. I think he would have asked Sir Anthony some pointed questions of his own, had he been so inclined. The man is intelligent, with a rather logical edge to his thinking that might have cut through Sir Anthony's smooth talk. I wonder if he plays chess," he mused.

Elizabeth fell silent, her thoughts racing. Mr Darcy... here, in Meryton again, and just when everything seemed to be falling apart. "Did he look... ill to you?" she asked after a moment, her concern slipping into her voice.

Her father paused, his gaze sharpening as his thoughts refocused. "Perhaps... now that you mention it. He did seem a bit off-colour. But then again, it could just be the strain of travel."

"Yes," she murmured. "Perhaps."

"Well, it is not for us to puzzle out, I suppose. Neither is Sir Anthony, who, I imagine, will run his election quite uncontested." Her father stood, moving toward the sideboard to pour himself a drink. As he passed back in front of her, he paused, his expression softening. "You ought to go to bed, Lizzy. You need the rest, and I shan't be good company tonight." He set his drink back on the side table, then extended a hand to help her up.

Elizabeth blinked out of a brief reverie, then nodded. "Yes, I think you are right."

As her father extended his arm, Elizabeth accepted it with a quiet nod, determined to hide the sharp pang in her ankle with every step. She found herself relying on his support more than she intended, the pain intensifying with each movement. The throb in her ankle deepened, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from wincing.

With every lift of her foot, the swelling in her ankle tightened uncomfortably against the confines of her stockings, the ache intensifying as she struggled to keep her balance. Her grip on her father's arm tightened, and she fought back a wince, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The stairs seemed to stretch on endlessly, and she focused on the bannister, trying to will herself up each step without faltering.

Her father glanced at her with concern, but Elizabeth kept her gaze down, not wanting him to see the strain etched on her face. She couldn't help but recall Mr Darcy's words from their conversation, the way he had mentioned his own pain, the throbbing in his head that had made him retreat from their company. How similar it felt now, this relentless pounding that seemed to consume her entire being, making each movement an ordeal.

Finally, they reached the landing. The last few steps to her room felt like a final trial, and by the time she sank onto the edge of her bed, her ankle was screaming in protest. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself, and whispered a faint thanks to her father, her voice tight with exhaustion and lingering pain .

Her father lingered long enough to say, "Good night, Lizzy. Sleep well," before he closed the door. Elizabeth dropped backwards onto her pillow, hissing in pain as she lifted her ankle to lie on top of the bed.

Sleep was the last thing on her mind. All she could think of was Mr Darcy. What had brought him back to Meryton so soon, and why was he going north again so suddenly? Had his headaches improved? If so, what would it be like to talk to him once more when he was feeling himself, his personality not hidden beneath the dark shroud of chronic pain?

Would he smile at her again, with that warmth in those dark eyes that could make her stomach pool in her shoes? Understand her thoughts before she spoke the words, as he had done the very first day they met?

But more importantly, and much more urgently, she was aching to know what he thought of Sir Anthony. It was not an exaggeration to suggest that the welfare of their community might depend on clear heads and honest men. Mr Darcy was… well, he was one of those, at least.

And it would be good to see him again. But if he was leaving again soon, she would not have a chance before he went.

Not unless she did something desperate, and probably ill-advised.