22. Twenty-Two

Twenty-Two

Darcy

D inner with Colonel Forster and his officers was exactly as dreadful as I had expected.

Bingley, of course, had agreed to the evening with enthusiasm, while I had spent the entire carriage ride into Meryton contemplating whether I could feign a sudden illness to escape. Hurst had been little help, already half-asleep in the corner of the carriage, and I'd been left alone to grapple with the fact that I'd soon be sitting down to a meal with Wickham.

Wickham.

It was as if fate took some dark delight in torturing me.

By the time we arrived at Colonel Forster's residence, my mood had soured entirely. The officers were already gathered—Lieutenants Denny, Saunders, and Wickham among them—and my spine went rigid as we were led to the dining room. Forster regaled us with the usual pleasantries, his deep voice carrying easily over the clinking of glasses and idle conversation. His wife, young and sprightly, was nowhere to be seen, but Forster assured us she was engaged with friends. I had no doubt those "friends" included a gaggle of Meryton's young ladies, no doubt discussing which officers would make the best suitors.

Dinner began with forced cordiality, as these things often do. Bingley, all smiles as usual, complimented Forster on the spread before us. I merely nodded in agreement, grateful I hadn't been placed next to Wickham. Unfortunately, he was only two seats away, and the moment I sat down, my mood soured like week-old milk.

"Lovely evening for dinner," Bingley said, grasping at the obvious. He kept sliding uncomfortable glances toward me as if waiting for me to embarrass him again. I prayed he would be wrong, just this once.

"Indeed," Forster agreed. "Though we're expecting the weather to turn before morning. I'll have to keep a close watch on the clouds."

Saunders, seated across from me, added with a smile, "Better than marching in the rain, sir. Though I daresay our boys wouldn't mind a little fresh air."

It was the kind of talk that lulled me into a sense of false security—the quiet before the storm. I should have known better.

Just as Colonel Forster stood to propose a toast, I felt a familiar presence at my side. Ewan, slouched casually near the fireplace, arms crossed, grinning like a cat who had found a particularly amusing mouse. I froze, my wine glass halfway to my lips.

"Aye, lad, look at them all. Bunch o' proud roosters struttin' aboot," Ewan drawled. He cast a disdainful glance at the officers, particularly at Wickham. "I dinnae care fer redcoats, but ye knew that."

I clenched my jaw, determined to ignore him. He had to know I couldn't respond, not here, not in front of these men.

But Ewan wasn't the type to take a hint. He waggled his eyebrows at me. "Clap yer eyes on this."

Just as Saunders shifted in his chair, it jerked backwards out from under him, sending the poor man flailing. He went down in a heap, limbs flailing like a beached fish.

Wickham chuckled. "Perhaps too much wine already, Saunders?"

I nearly choked on my drink as Saunders scrambled back to his feet, glancing around as if searching for an explanation. The other officers laughed it off, but there was an unmistakable flicker of confusion in their eyes.

Ewan, of course, found it delightful. "Och, laddie, ye see that? Like a fish floppin' out o' water!"

I shot him a warning glance, but he only winked in response.

Dinner continued, with idle conversation turning to politics and the latest news from London. Bingley managed to steer the topic toward the local militia and their drills, much to Forster's pleasure.

Wickham took every opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, spinning tales of his "adventures" and "heroism." I had to grit my teeth through every insufferable word.

And then, of course, Ewan struck again.

Forster, mid-sentence about troop movements, reached for his wine glass—only to find it empty. His brow furrowed, clearly puzzled, as he looked down at the drained glass. He hadn't taken more than a sip from it. With a grumble, he refilled it, casting a glance at his men as if one of them had somehow pilfered his drink.

I nearly laughed out loud but caught myself just in time. Ewan, however, was shaking with silent laughter beside me.

Forster cleared his throat, apparently deciding to move on from the strange occurrence, and turned to Bingley with a smile. "So, Mr. Bingley, I hear there's to be another grand event at Netherfield soon. A yuletide ball, if the rumors are true?"

Bingley blinked, his smile faltering for just a moment. "A... ball?"

Forster chuckled heartily. "Yes, my wife and her friends have been talking of nothing else since they heard of the butcher's delivery. Apparently, your cook placed quite the order."

Bingley sent me a wide-eyed glance, and I shrugged slightly, just as mystified as he was. But true to Bingley's polite nature, he recovered quickly.

"Ah, yes, well... perhaps the ladies are planning something," he said with a laugh, although his eyes remained confused. "You know how they are. Always keeping us men in the dark."

Forster laughed along, but I could see the wariness in his men. It wasn't just the ball. It was the strange chair, the empty wine glass... and now, as Forster was speaking, his wig began to slip ever so slightly to the left.

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying desperately not to react. Forster did not appear to even notice as the wig shifted further and further, until it sat at a ridiculous angle on his head.

"Aye, he looks like a teapot aboot tae tip o'er," Ewan snickered.

I couldn't help it. I choked on my wine, sputtering in an uncharacteristic fit of laughter. Every eye at the table turned toward me.

"Mr. Darcy," Forster said, raising a brow. "Are you... quite well?"

I coughed, struggling to compose myself. "Apologies, Colonel. The wine, it must have gone down... the wrong way."

Forster nodded slowly, but his eyes lingered on me for a moment longer. Wickham, of course, was watching me with that smarmy, knowing grin of his, as if he suspected far more than I would ever admit.

I sent Ewan a murderous glare, but he only looked more amused. "Och, lad, ye should be thankin' me! I've gone an' made yer evenin' a sight more entertainin', haven't I?"

The rest of the meal passed in a blur of half-hearted conversation and strained smiles. Glasses moved just beyond the officers' reach, legs of pheasant suddenly vanished from their plates, and the fire from the hearth kept blustering up, then going cold all at once, as though "someone" was tampering with it. It was when the shutter on the window suddenly blew open, leaving the panes flapping in a stiff breeze from outside, that even Hurst began glancing about nervously.

Ordinarily, we'd have stayed for port and cigars. Bingley had told me that was how he had passed his last meal with the colonel. But tonight, Colonel Forster, clearly uncomfortable with the odd occurrences, cleared his throat as Saunders jumped up to lock the window. "It seems the weather is turning. Terrible shame, sir. We have drills early in the morning, and I'd hate for the drive back to Netherfield to be unpleasant."

Bingley nodded immediately. Poor chap, he had no idea that we had brought the trouble with us, and must have thought we would escape it when we left. "I… I think you are right, Colonel. We, ah… we wouldn't want to keep you."

The officers seemed relieved to see us go, and I could hardly blame them. As we said our farewells, I caught Wickham's gaze lingering on me, his eyes sharp and calculating. But for once, I didn't care.

Ewan had made Wickham the butt of more than one of his pranks that evening—more than the others had noticed—and I could only imagine what Wickham's face would have looked like if he'd known. I almost smiled at the thought.

Almost.

T he next day at Netherfield brought an odd calm. Ewan had been conspicuously absent, though I doubted for a second that meant he wasn't meddling somewhere. I suspected he was behind the rumors of the ball, but why he would orchestrate such a thing remained a mystery.

Bingley, however, was utterly baffled.

"I just don't understand it, Darcy," he said, pacing in front of the study window. "The butcher confirmed the order—enough provisions to feed an army! Yet, no one in the house knows anything about it." He paused, throwing his hands up in frustration. "I've spoken with Cook. She's just as confused as I am. She swore up and down she placed no such order!"

I sat back in my chair, watching him with the calmness of a man who was fairly certain he already knew the culprit. Ewan's interference was written all over this, but why he was intent on hosting a grand event at Netherfield on Christmas Eve? That remained maddeningly unclear.

Bingley paused his pacing long enough to look at me, eyebrows raised. "You're sure you didn't...?"

I shot him a pointed look.

He nodded. "Right. Of course not."

He resumed pacing, his brow furrowed deeply. "I was almost resolved to put a stop to the whole thing," he admitted, "but then I started thinking… Well, why not? I've been invited to no fewer than ten dinners over the Twelfth Night season, but as it happens, no one around here has any major plans for Christmas Eve. It might be nice to host something festive."

There it was. The exact moment Ewan had been waiting for, no doubt. Bingley, the most easily guided man alive, was now halfway to embracing the idea of this ball as if he'd thought of it himself.

I sighed, leaning forward slightly. "Bingley, are you sure this is wise? I can't shake the feeling that someone—" a ghostly Scotsman, perhaps— "is pulling strings here, and you may regret this decision later."

He waved a hand dismissively. "I don't see the harm. The provisions are already being prepared, and truly, a Christmas Eve ball would be splendid. Just think of the atmosphere—dancing, caroling, good cheer!"

I could think of other things. Ewan, lurking in the shadows, plotting something devious. Wickham, probably charming every unsuspecting guest in attendance. And the potential chaos that would ensue when both of those elements collided in one ballroom.

Before I could press the issue further, the door creaked open, and Williams, the footman, entered with a slight bow. "Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, I've been asked to inform you that Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst are currently entertaining the Bennet ladies in the drawing room."

I turned sharply to Bingley. Why on earth would we be alerted about that? It wasn't as if Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst hadn't entertained female guests before—far from it. The Bennet ladies had been here on more than one occasion without requiring an official notice.

But the way Bingley's face had gone from pleasantly confused to a rather vivid shade of red told me there was something more at play.

"Why," I asked, narrowing my eyes, "would we need to be informed of that particular visit?"

Bingley scratched the back of his neck, clearly flustered. "Well... I... may have asked Williams to fetch me any time the Bennets called."

I raised an eyebrow. "The Bennets. Specifically."

Bingley gave a sheepish nod.

"Jane Bennet," I said flatly.

He turned an even deeper shade of crimson, which at least answered that question.

I sighed and stood, straightening my jacket. "Let's go, then. You can't very well leave Miss Bennet waiting, can you?"

Bingley beamed at me. "Right! Yes, of course." He moved toward the door, eager to follow Williams to the drawing room.

I, on the other hand, was less enthusiastic. There was only one hope that would make this surprise visit remotely tolerable: Elizabeth.

If she was there, perhaps she could help smooth matters over—especially if this ridiculous ball was brought up.

Heaven help us all.

Elizabeth

M iss Bingley was doing her best to play the perfect hostess, which meant wearing a smile that looked as though it might crack at any moment. She had greeted us with such warmth, you'd think we were old friends, but her eyes told a different story altogether—especially when Lydia and Kitty began chattering about the officers.

"Oh, Miss Bennet," she purred, turning to Jane with an almost predatory smile, "we were so delighted to hear of your visit today. It's been far too long."

Jane inclined her head. "We're always pleased to call at Netherfield, Miss Bingley."

Caroline and Mrs. Hurst exchanged a glance over Jane's head, their lips tight in the universal language of sisters who pretend to smile while silently begging for rescue. They were marvelous at it, though, not a crack in the veneer as Kitty launched into a description of some rather dramatic spectacle involving Lieutenant Denny and a misfired musket. If either hostess found the story tiresome, they hid it behind a mask of politeness, though I suspected Caroline's cheek twitched a little too much.

"It was the most thrilling thing that's happened in weeks," Lydia declared, her hands gesticulating wildly. "And I'm sure we'll see something even grander at the ball!"

Miss Bingley blinked. "Ball?"

At that moment, the door opened, and the gentlemen entered.

Bingley was all smiles, as usual, but I scarcely paid him any mind. My attention, as always of late, went straight to Darcy, who followed closely behind, looking like he was holding his breath. His eyes scanned the room, searching—no doubt for Ewan. He was nearly twitching with it, and when his gaze finally found mine, I raised my brows in silent question.

Darcy gave the barest shake of his head. No ghost, no nonsense. Not right now, at least. That settled, I shifted my attention to my mother.

Mama made a flurry of herself greeting the gentlemen, and before long, she was in full form, exclaiming loudly about the ball Lydia had so casually let slip.

"Oh, Mr. Bingley!" she said, clasping her hands together, "we're all so delighted about the ball! It's going to be such a tremendous event. I must make over my gown, of course, but I think Jane shall have a new one. She's so beautiful—she deserves to look her best, don't you think?"

I winced. There it was, laid out as plainly as possible for all to see. The plan. The expectation. My mother might as well have pulled out a contract and handed it to Bingley with Jane's name on it, ready for his signature.

I glanced toward Caroline Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, whose eyes had gone noticeably glassy. They still wore their hostess smiles, but they were brittle at the edges, as if the idea of Jane in a new gown, dazzling their brother at a ball, was a fate worse than death.

"I hadn't realized we were hosting a ball," Caroline said, her voice as smooth as glass, though I didn't miss the undercurrent of irritation. "I had thought we'd be in London by the end of the month."

I turned my gaze to Darcy, seeking some sort of explanation. His expression was... well, tight was the only word for it. His lips pressed together as if holding back some dreadful piece of news, and when my eyes met his, he gave me the faintest, almost imperceptible eye roll.

I sensed a ghost afoot.

Poor Mr. Bingley looked like a man juggling too many glass balls at once. His smile had wavered for just a second when his sisters expressed their dismay, but he quickly recovered.

"Well," he said brightly, "we're to have so many lovely dinners this season, I think a Christmas Eve ball would be just the thing! A perfect way to celebrate, don't you think?"

I had to give him credit—he said it with such conviction, you'd think this ball had been planned all along.

Jane smiled at him—that particular smile, the one she reserved only for Bingley—and, if I wasn't mistaken, that was all it took. Bingley's mind was made up.

"There will be a ball," he said, looking directly at her.

Caroline's smile barely held. Mrs. Hurst's teacup rattled just the tiniest bit on its saucer.

And Darcy? Oh, Darcy was frowning. He glanced at me, then raised his brows in that way of his—the one that said, "I don't like this, and I'm sure you don't either." I could read him as well as I could read any book, and at that moment, we were both on the same page.

I didn't know exactly what was happening, but I had a strong suspicion that this mysterious ball had everything to do with Ewan. I could practically hear the ghost cackling in some invisible corner of the room, rubbing his hands together in delight.

The rest of the conversation blurred as Mrs. Bennet continued to gush about gowns and preparations, Lydia babbled on about the officers, and Kitty joined in with her own suggestions for the ball. But I kept glancing toward Darcy, whose eyes met mine each time with that same unspoken understanding.

Something was definitely brewing.