by Jann Rowland
“Mr. Darcy, I assure you, I do not hold your inability to resist the siren call of my cousin, a woman who has used her wiles to entrap you.”
“Not another word, Mr. Collins!” hissed Mr. Darcy. “This is none of your concern. I require you to be silent!”
It seemed Mr. Collins was cowed, for he nodded vigorously and did not speak another word. The moment ruined, Mr. Darcy decided there was nothing to do but depart, and as the time for their visit had more than elapsed, he gathered up his sister, made his excuses, and with one more piercing look at the sweating parson, departed.
When their visitors left, Elizabeth excused herself, unwilling to allow Mr. Collins any further opportunity to spew his drivel. The comfort and privacy of her own room was welcome, for it afforded Elizabeth the opportunity to consider what was happening between herself and the gentleman. Though it had only been a short time, Elizabeth was coming to the inescapable conclusion she was falling in love with him.
The realization that Mr. Darcy and his sister had gone to Longbourn filled Caroline Bingley with annoyance.
What could he want there, of all places?
Caroline could not answer her own question, but the thought that he had gone there often of late entered her consciousness and teased her with it. There was something happening, something of which Caroline felt, with the sure and unerring instinct of a fortune hunter, that she would not like. Had she not been so distracted by her twin suitors she might have had more time to devote some thought to the matter. Then again, there was still much to do for the ball on the morrow, and Caroline was determined to ensure it was the most sophisticated event that Mr. Darcy had ever attended.
Or as sophisticated as she could make it in this backward society. It would have been better, of course, had she had the ability to hold it in London and invite all the right people. These savages in Meryton could scarcely speak in polite English, let alone lend any distinction to her ball.
There was little choice, however, but to work with what she was given, for surely Mr. Darcy would not hold the lack of materials, good help, or people of quality against her.
That Mr. Collins had not bothered her that day was a blessing, for Caroline did not know if she could have withstood the man’s inane ramblings. Though it galled her to confess it, perhaps it would be best if the man would get on with it and propose, then she could refuse him and have done with his attentions altogether. As long as no one in town ever knew she received a proposal of marriage from such an odious man, she was willing to endure one, if only to dispense with it altogether! What Caroline had not counted on was the other man who seemed intent on gaining her fortune.
“Miss Bingley,” came a voice as Caroline was fixing the flower arrangements for the following evening’s entertainment. “How fortunate that I have found you today, for I have missed your company of late.”
So dismayed was Caroline to see Mr. Wickham that she almost groaned out loud. Would these men never leave her alone? Caroline Bingley had experienced her share of admirers, but never had they been so unsuitable. When could she escape them?
“I see you are hard at work preparing for the morrow’s entertainment,” said Mr. Wickham when Caroline did not respond. “It has been my pleasure to attend many social events in the past, but I dare say they will all pale compared to what I shall experience here. You are a talented hostess.”
While such pretty words could not fail to stoke Caroline’s vanity, the fact that the man she wished to speak them had not done so tempered whatever pleasure she might have felt. Caroline was in no mood to accept such simpering designed for no other purpose than to ingratiate.
“Why are you here, Mr. Wickham?” asked Caroline, deciding in a moment that bluntness was to be preferred.
“Do I need a reason to visit such a vision of loveliness?”
At Caroline’s frown, Mr. Wickham laughed and shook his head. “You have my apologies, Miss Bingley. I should not have attempted to treat you like that idiot Collins. I have no desire to behave with such servility toward a woman I know to be intelligent.”
“Then your reason for coming?” asked Caroline, only a little mollified.
“To request your hand for the first sets at tomorrow night’s ball,” replied Mr. Wickham.
Shocked, Caroline could only stare. The sight of his smug assurance raised her annoyance, for it seemed Mr. Wickham was a man of confidence in his own charm; Caroline would not about to allow him to escape without a deserved set down.
“I believe Mr. Wickham has you there,” came the chortling voice of her sister’s husband.
Confused, Caroline glanced at him, which Hurst took as reason enough to clarify his statement. “Mr. Wickham has asked you to dance, Caroline. You are aware of the convention concerning dancing for young ladies, are you not?”
“The dance has not even started yet,” snapped Caroline. “You cannot hold me to such a ridiculous convention before the ball has even begun.”
“There is also the matter of being a dutiful hostess,” rejoined Hurst. The portly man was sitting back in his chair, hands clasped over his ample belly, regarding her with his usual brand of smug amusement. “It would not do to offend one of your—your brother’s—guests, now would it? It seems to me you have no choice but to accept.”
“I think my husband has a point, Caroline,” said Louisa, traitor that she was. “Though you may argue the ball has not started, he has made a request; it would not do to reject it.”
Caroline stood, looking at her relations, her thoughts a jumbled mass of offense, annoyance, confusion, and wonder. Then the sight of Mr. Wickham, his smugness never receding for even a moment, entered her vision, and a new emotion found its way into her mind: determination.
“All your arguments neglect to consider one thing,” said Caroline.
“Oh?” was Mr. Wickham’s lazy reply. “What is that?”
“That I expect to be dancing the first with someone else,” snarled Caroline from between clenched teeth.
“And who would that be?” asked Mr. Wickham, though Caroline was certain he knew to whom she was referring.
“Mr. Darcy,” said she, her glare at the officer even unfriendlier than it had been before.
Whatever reaction she had expected, it was not laughter, and not from both men at once. Hurst was a man Caroline had never liked, for he was a glutton, a bore, and a man of little interest besides hunting, his dogs, and as much wine as he could pour down his gullet. Mr. Wickham, at least, was a better physical specimen than her brother-in-law, but his smug superiority made Caroline want to tear out her hair in frustration.
“My dear Caroline,” said Hurst from between his wheezing guffaws, “you truly are amusing. I do not know when I have laughed so hard.”
“I fail to understand how you would treat me so,” replied Caroline, feeling more than a little sulky.
“Why, your assertion that you will dance the first with Darcy. Many times he has had the opportunity to solicit your hand for the first set, and yet he never has. Does that not tell you something?
“Furthermore,” said Hurst, preventing her from responding to his offensive words, “if Darcy is to dance the first with any woman, I will wager it will be Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Miss Eliza?” gasped Caroline.
“Of course,” said Hurst, heedless of Caroline’s consternation. “Why, have you not seen how they are always together whenever in company?”
“That is interesting,” said Mr. Wickham, though Caroline hardly heard him. “I have known Darcy for many years; he is more liable to insult a woman than pay her attention, and only a week after knowing her.”
“Darcy is rather stiff,” agreed Hurst. “But had you seen them together of late, their closeness would surprise you, for I dare say they are rather cozy together. Had Darcy paid as much attention to Caroline as he does to Miss Elizabeth, my sister would have arrived at Netherfield wearing her wedding clothes, with her trousseau packed into as many trunks as she could find!�
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The men burst out into raucous laughter, Caroline looking on with fury. Mr. Wickham, for all he claimed to admire her, attempting, as he was, to induce her to dance with him, to speak whenever nearby, to fall for his disgusting charm, was not put off in the slightest by Hurst’s portrayal of her interest in Mr. Darcy. That it was the truth, Caroline pushed aside without considering—it was not as if she cared what either man thought.
“The richest part,” said Mr. Wickham, still chuckling, “is all Miss Elizabeth’s efforts will be in vain. Darcy is to marry his cousin Miss Anne de Bourgh.”
“That is nothing more than a rumor,” snapped Caroline.
“Perhaps it is,” replied Mr. Wickham, not taken aback by her tone. “Darcy is a man who likes to have his own way, but that is nothing compared to how much Lady Catherine de Bourgh likes to have hers. If I were to place wagers on the likely outcome of the irresistible force of Lady Catherine against the immovable object of Darcy, I would choose the lady. It is my understanding she has the family on her side also.”
“That is interesting, Mr. Wickham,” said Hurst. “Perhaps I should enter it into the book at White’s, for I suspect Darcy might just surprise you. When he looks at Miss Elizabeth, it is as if no other person in the world exists. I dare say the lure of a young, pretty woman such as Miss Elizabeth might just overcome whatever arguments Lady Catherine might summon, particularly as Miss de Bourgh is, by all accounts, in poor health.”
The two men continued to banter while Caroline thought furiously of what she had just learned. Curse Mr. Collins and Mr. Wickham! Had they not distracted her, Caroline was certain she would have seen the danger; she might have acted to stop this infatuation! And Colonel Fitzwilliam had mentioned the possibility, but Caroline, certain Mr. Darcy would not fall for a woman as unsuitable as Miss Elizabeth, had discounted it.
All was not lost. What Mr. Darcy saw in Miss Elizabeth Caroline did not know, but it could not survive if she pointed out how poor his choice was. Could it?
“Well, what say you, Miss Bingley?”
Caroline glared at Mr. Wickham. It made no impression upon him, for the man was nothing more than amused. Her relations were no help at all.
“I suggest you accept, Caroline,” said Hurst.
“Very well,” said Caroline with a superior sniff. “One dance. I shall not dance with you again.”
“I look forward to it,” said Mr. Wickham.
The man then bowed and excused himself, proving he was not bereft of sense. It was just as well, for Caroline did not think she could have withstood anymore of his insincere flattery.
Of more importance was what she could do about Mr. Darcy. Now that the first was unavailable, she could not dance it with him, but Caroline acknowledged it had not been probable anyway. Miss Eliza was another matter altogether. If Mr. Darcy should dance the first with her, that would be a sign of a serious impediment in her designs. Then she would need to act quickly.
The problem was, Caroline was uncertain what she could do.
Chapter XIV
The building the regiment used for its headquarters boasted a sizeable room, one suitable for meetings of the higher ranks of the regiment’s commanders. Fitzwilliam was not a man who believed in an abundance of meetings. A close friend in the regulars had once branded meetings as a means by which one might escape from having to do something productive. While Fitzwilliam had thought it amusing at the time, that particular general had proven the supposition, as he had rarely decided on anything.
The morning of the ball at Netherfield, however, Fitzwilliam had made an exception, for there were several items of business he wished to discuss. The roster for that evening had already been filled by several good men who were to command the regiment in his absence in shifts—the first would remain behind when the rest left for Netherfield, while certain other officers would return to relieve them, allowing those remaining behind to attend the latter half of the ball. It was the fairest way to handle an event this anticipated, for the soldiers could not be left without someone in command the entire evening.
Of particular interest to Fitzwilliam, Wickham stood leaning against the wall, looking around with equal parts disinterest and boredom. Wickham had not been one of those who had volunteered to miss part of the amusement, not a surprise given his general proclivities. There was a matter Fitzwilliam wished to discuss with him before allowing him to depart; it was a surprise to Fitzwilliam, however, that it did not have to do with the performance of his duties, which Wickham’s captain had informed him was adequate, though not exceptional.
As for the rest of this motley crew . . . Well, the best that could be said about many of them was that they were green. They were not bad sorts—but they were not the same caliber of men he had left behind in his last command. Then again, the regulars had no shortage of malcontents, dullards, laggards, and the like, so it was not all superior to the militia.
When the last few stragglers had entered the room, Fitzwilliam addressed them. “As you all know, tonight is the long-expected ball at Netherfield, to which we have all been invited. Now, as we cannot all attend at once, several of you have agreed to take partial duty for the evening. Is everyone who is staying behind aware of their assignments?”
A murmur of agreement reached Fitzwilliam’s ears and he smiled in approval. “Excellent. To the men, this will be the same as any other evening. Should anything serious occur, you all know where to find me. I may make an appearance back at camp during the festivities, so you may bring any problems to me at that time.
“The next item of business I wish to discuss is that of our behavior at the ball tonight.”
Fitzwilliam let his gaze rove over the room, fixing several of those he knew were a little boisterous or careless in their actions with a pointed reminder. Wickham’s eyes he avoided—the upcoming conversation may come to the attention of the rest of the company, and there were already too many rumors about Fitzwilliam’s history with Wickham.
“You are officers of His Majesty’s army, and as such, a certain standard of conduct is required. Act in a manner that will not cast shade on the uniform you wear. Meryton, the same as any other neighborhood in England, has its share of silly young misses, eager to socialize with a man wearing scarlet. There will be no young ladies disgraced, no raucous revelry, and, in short, no behavior which would reflect poorly upon the regiment. Violators will be removed from the ball in disgrace and will face me on the morrow. Have I made myself clear?”
The general murmur of agreement prompted Fitzwilliam to nod. They were, as he had considered earlier, a good lot, and they all understood by now that Fitzwilliam ran a tight ship. Fitzwilliam did not expect any lapses from the men, but it was important to remind them, for many were quite young.
“Very well,” said Fitzwilliam with a smile. “Then let us enjoy this evening, for this community has welcomed us with open arms. Dismissed.”
As the men filed from the room, Fitzwilliam caught Wickham’s eye, prompting him to maintain his position against the wall. The rest of the men did not even bat an eyelash at the sight—Fitzwilliam suspected the excitement for the coming evening rendered most insensible of anything but the imagined delights. When the room had emptied, Wickham pushed himself away from the wall and approached, fixing Fitzwilliam with a sardonic sneer.
“There is no reason to take me to task, Colonel. I know not to get into any trouble.”
Fitzwilliam fixed his cousin’s nemesis with a slight smile. “One thing that has always impressed me about you, Wickham, is your sense of when to protect your own hide.”
“For one in my position, such thoughts must be of paramount importance,” said Wickham.
The suggestion that life—or Darcy—had denied him greater benefits was an old complaint and not one Fitzwilliam would waste any time debating. The thought crossed Fitzwilliam’s mind that Wickham might have spoken of something else altogether. Whatever Wickham meant, Fitzwilliam did not mean to bandy words with him.
/> “There is another matter of which we should speak.” Wickham raised his eyebrow, prompting Fitzwilliam to clarify: “I understand you went to Netherfield yesterday.”
Wickham cocked his head to the side. “I suspected you have the men reporting on my movements.”
“I do have two cousins staying at the estate,” rejoined Fitzwilliam. They were not the source of his information; neither were the men who monitored Wickham’s movements, but Fitzwilliam did not wish him to be aware of that fact.
“So you do,” replied Wickham, like he did not care. “As I was not on duty, I cannot imagine why you would concern yourself with my movements. There is no one at Netherfield for whom you could concern yourself; I have not said two words to Georgiana.”
“There is nothing of censure in my wish to speak of this, Wickham. I make no accusations. It is, however, interesting that you have chosen to ply Miss Bingley with your attempts at lovemaking, considering she possesses the greatest dowry in the neighborhood other than Georgiana.”
“Are you warning me away from Bingley’s sister?” asked Wickham, tired of exchanging words. “If I conduct my affairs properly, what does it matter to you if I woo a woman?”
“Nothing,” replied Fitzwilliam with a chuckle. “It is more for your benefit I speak, for Miss Bingley is one of the worst examples of social climbing I have ever seen. You do know she has convinced herself that Darcy will offer for her?”
Wickham snorted, which was an echo of Fitzwilliam’s thoughts on the matter with precision. “We both know that is unlikely,” replied Wickham. “She is the opposite of the kind of woman Darcy would favor. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, however . . .”
The hackles on Fitzwilliam’s neck rose at Wickham’s predatory tone. Something in his countenance must have alerted Wickham to his tension, for the man laughed and shook his head.
“You may rein in your vengeful thoughts, Fitzwilliam. I have no intention of interfering with Darcy’s courtship.