She buried her head in her hands again.
‘Oh, Lizzy,’ said Jane, shocked. ‘I am sure you don’t mean that.’
‘I do! A part of me was horrified, of course, and a part of me wanted to tell them to stop, but another part of me was excited that they were fighting over me.’
Jane looked sorrowful, but she said gently, ‘You cannot help your feelings.’
‘No, I cannot. But what does it mean?’
‘It means you are human,’ said Jane comfortingly.
‘ Does it? I am not so sure. You see, Jane, that is not the worst of it. The worst of it is . . . ’ She could hardly bring herself to say it. ‘ . . . I wanted Mr Darcy to win!’
‘Mr Darcy!’ said Jane, shocked.
‘Yes.’ Lizzy looked at her with haunted eyes. ‘I should have wanted Mr Wickham to win. He is the one who has been courting me, and he is the better man. I hate Mr Darcy! He is proud and disagreeable and rude! But I cannot help it, I wanted him to be the victor. Jane, what does it mean?’
‘It means you are overwrought,’ said Jane. ‘You had been walking for some time in the cold, then you were standing beneath a bridge in the damp, and you have taken cold. Perhaps you have a fever.’ She put a hand on Lizzy’s forehead.
‘Do I have a fever?’ asked Lizzy.
Jane hesitated.
‘I cannot be sure,’ she said. ‘You feel a little overheated. But perhaps it is just as a result of your walk. Here, let me help you out of your things. I rang for the maid when I saw you approaching the house because it is nearly time for us to dress for the ball. She will be here with the water for your bath soon. Once you have washed and dressed you will feel more like yourself, and you should have something to eat, too. You are probably confused in your thoughts because of hunger. I will ask the maid to fetch us some tea and scones.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lizzy with heartfelt gratitude as she squeezed Jane’s hands. ‘You are such a comfort to me. I know I can tell you anything. And perhaps you are right. Perhaps I was just feverish, or needing something hot to eat.’
Jane smiled.
‘Yes, I am sure that was it.’
Lizzy nodded, but in her heart of hearts she did not believe it.
Mr Darcy had stirred up powerful feelings in her breast and she did not know what to do with them.
She did not know what to do about Mr Wickham, either. He had something to tell her, it seemed, and he would reveal it at the ball.
What it could be she did not know, but she was intrigued. And she felt that the Netherfield ball was going to be the most important event of her life so far.
Chapter Eight
Mr Darcy rode swiftly back to the stables at Netherfield and his horse at last clattered into the stable yard. He called to one of the grooms as he dismounted and handed the animal into the groom’s care. Then he went inside, using the side door so that his dishevelled appearance would not be remarked upon.
He was unfortunate, however, for Caroline Bingley was just inside, arranging flowers in a little-used passage that might, however, be visited by some stranger wandering in the wrong direction at the ball.
‘Mr Darcy!’ she exclaimed, looking at him in horror. ‘What happened? Are you hurt? What has befallen you?’
‘I was thrown from my horse,’ he said, making a quick but plausible excuse.
‘You should get rid of the animal at once. You could have been killed,’ said Caroline.
‘It was not the horse’s fault. A bird flew up in front of it and startled it.’
‘You are not hurt, I hope?’ she asked.
He saw her looking at his legs and knew she was thinking that he might not be able to dance.
‘No. Fortunately I landed in the river. But I am cold and wet, and if you will excuse me I must take a bath and then have something to eat before changing for the ball.’
‘Of course. I will send the servants to you at once. If there is anything else you need, I beg you will ask me. We are at your service here, all of us.’
She gave him what she hoped was a winning smile, but which looked too much like the predatory glance of a tigress for his liking. He knew that Caroline wanted him and wanted to be his wife, but he would never make her wishes come true.
The one woman he had been able to think of as his wife – despite her lowly statue - disliked him, and with good reason. But perhaps at the ball he would have a chance to make her change her opinion of him.
When first they had met, he had slighted her looks and refused to dance with her. At their second meeting he had been ill at ease and had not known what to say to her. But having been in her company several times since, even if he had not had an opportunity to speak to her, he had come to know her somewhat and to admire her more and more. Her playful character lightened his own, which tended to be too serious, and her brilliant eyes did more to please him than any number of sonatas rattled off in his honour.
But he must hurry if he was to be ready in time for the ball.
First he must get out of his wet clothes.
He continued on his way, going up the back stairs to his room so that he would not drip on the front staircase.
By the time he reached his room, he found that one of the servants was already filling the hip bath in his dressing room, pouring in jugs of hot water.
He stripped off his white shirt, which clung to him, and only relinquished its hold on the muscular curves of his chest with a struggle. He threw it on the floor and then stripped off his boots and breeches, before pulling on a dressing gown and going through to the small adjacent room, where the hot water was sending plumes of steam into the air.
The servants had finished filling the bath and he dismissed them. Then, removing his robe, he stepped gratefully into the water, sliding down into its warm embrace.
He was muddy as well as wet, and he slid right under the water so that he was fully submerged. He lay there, relaxing his muscles in the warm water as he thought over the day’s events. It had given him great satisfaction to best Wickham but he was pleased that no one had seen the unseemly struggle. It did not do for gentlemen to be seen brawling in public. Boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s gym was one thing: it was allowed and even encouraged for gentlemen. But wrestling in public, in a river in the countryside – no, that was something that was only fit for ruffians.
He did not know how he had forgotten his dignity so easily. He was usually too proud to do anything of the sort, but George had always been able to rouse him to anger. The two men had sparred even as children. There was something in their characters that went beyond the differences in their rank, and went beyond the jealousy that Mr Darcy’s superior status engendered in the less fortunate Wickham. It was something written into their very beings. Like brothers – and they had been raised almost as brothers – they had a need to test themselves against one another and could provoke each other with a single word or gesture, even if they were not trying to do so.
Darcy put his hands on the side of the hip bath and pulled himself upright. His valet had left all sorts of preparations within reach and he washed his hair, ridding it of the mud that had clung to it after his ducking. He smoothed his hands back over his sleek hair, so that it clung to his head, revealing the fine shape of his forehead and cheek bones.
Then he washed his body, vigorously soaping his arms and chest to rid them of the weed and mud that had been in the river. He slid back into the bath, submerging again to rinse himself, before finishing soaping his body.
The bath water was by now full of suds so he stood up, pouring a clean jug of water over himself in a refreshing shower. The water dropped off him, running down his toned body and back into the bath. Then he stepped out of the bath and picked up one of the large towels his valet had left ready for him.
He began to dry himself, running the towel over his lithe body. But then the sight of something out of the window arrested his attention. His window was not overlooked and there was no danger of his being seen, so he went
over to it and leaned against the frame. For there in the distance, through the trees, he could see the chimneys of Longbourn, Elizabeth’s home. He could see something of the roof and a little of the side of the house besides. There was a window there – yes, he could just make it out. Was it Elizabeth’s window? Was she getting ready for the ball, even as he was? Was she dressing in one of the soft muslin gowns that became her so well? Was she sitting in front of her dressing table as her maid arranged her hair? Was she fastening a necklace around her smooth white throat?
He fell into a daydream. Once Wickham told her of his marriage, then she would be free. And then . . .
Darcy could not longer hide from himself that he wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman in his life. He had thought he could forget her by going away to London but he was wrong. He must get to know her better . . .
A new vision of the future stretched out in front of him, one with Elizabeth at his side. His family would not approve, but he did not care. She was beneath him, but he did not care. What did such things matter, now that he had found the woman of his dreams? He no longer cared for rank or fortune. He cared only for Elizabeth.
Elizabeth was, at that moment, putting the finishing touches to her toilette. Her gown was a pure white muslin with a satin trim beneath the bust and at the hem of her short, puffed sleeves. Her long white evening gloves were elegant and she had seed pearls scattered through her dark hair. It was arranged in a glossy bun on top of her head, with becoming ringlets arranged around the front.
She was in her best looks and she was glad of it, for she needed all her confidence. Mr Wickham was going to say something of great importance, and she had to be ready for anything.
She turned to Jane.
‘Are you ready?’ she asked.
Jane nodded.
‘You look beautiful,’ said Lizzy.
And indeed it was true. Jane, too, was in her best looks. Her complexion was brightened by the knowledge that she would be seeing her beloved Mr Bingley at the ball. Her golden hair was arranged becomingly in a high bun with ribbon threaded through it and her long white evening gown accentuated her slender, willowy figure.
Their mother’s peevish tones came to them through the door.
‘Hill! Hill! I cannot find my fan! Where have you put it?’
‘Why, it is right here, Mrs Bennet,’ came Hill’s calm rejoinder.
‘What is it doing there?’ demanded Mrs Bennet. ‘Oh, my nerves! Lydia! Kitty! Stop chasing each other round the house, it is time to go!’
There was some bustle and confusion as they all put on their cloaks and bonnets and outdoor shoes, but at last they were off.
The night was dark, but the journey was not long, and as they approached Netherfield Park it looked like a fairyland. It was lit up with flambeaux outside the house, and inside a thousand candles sparkled in glittering chandeliers.
There was already a crush. It seemed as if the whole neighbourhood had been invited, and as if even more guests had been invited from neighbourhoods beyond the immediate surrounds, which indeed they had, for Mr Bingley was a sociable gentleman and he had made many friends in his short time at Netherfield.
Kitty and Lydia ran off to join the officers. Mary went to sit at the side of the room with the chaperones. She had hoped to spend some time with their cousin, Mr Collins, who had been due to visit them, but Lady Catherine had needed him at the last minute and so he had put his visit off for a few weeks. Jane was quickly claimed by Mr Bingley, and Elizabeth wandered through the elegant hall, with its marble flooring and equally imposing marble columns. She made her way at last to the ballroom.
She expected to see Mr Wickham at any minute, but he was nowhere to be found. She began to become anxious. She had prepared herself for seeing him, and had steeled herself for anything, and her nerves were strung up, especially after witnessing the wrestling match between him and Mr Darcy. She felt that she was at fever pitch.
At last she saw Captain Denny, who asked her to dance. She accepted his hand, glad of a chance to find out what had become of Mr Wickham. To begin with, she talked of the weather and other such commonplaces so that her questions should not seem too pointed, then she said casually, ‘How many were in your party? I hope there was not too much of a crush in the carriage.’
‘No, no crush, we came on horseback. With ten of us there was no other choice. We were to have been eleven, but Wickham cried off at the last moment.’
‘Oh?’ asked Elizabeth, trying not to sound too disappointed. ‘He is not ill, I hope?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. At least, something like that but not quite. He was thrown from his horse and landed in the river. He has hurt his leg and riding would have been difficult for him. Dancing would have been impossible. So he sent his apologies to the Bingleys and he is spending the evening at home, with his feet up, to give his leg a chance to heal.’
Elizabeth nodded. The sparkle had gone out of her eyes, but she hoped that Denny would not notice.
The dance came to an end. Elizabeth felt on edge. She would be on tenterhooks all evening, for she could not now solve the mystery of the fight between Mr Wickham and Mr Darcy, and she could not find out what Mr Wickham was meant to be telling her.
Unless . . . There was one other man in the room who knew, and he was walking towards her with a purposeful air.
She could not but help acknowledge that he was very handsome. His dark hair showed up very well against his white shirt and black coat. His pantaloons were pulled tight across his muscular thighs, and many of the women turned to look at him as he walked past.
‘Miss Elizabeth,’ he said, bowing before her. ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance?’
She saw a slight apprehension in his eyes and she knew he was uncertain of her acceptance. The thought pleased her. It seemed that Mr Darcy was losing some of his arrogance, in the face of her determined dislike.
But she dropped him a curtsey and accepted his hand.
He looked relieved, and all eyes followed them as they went out on to the floor.
Luckily, it was such a crush that, once the dance had begun, they were largely unobserved, for there was no room for anyone to become the object of too much attention.
To begin with they said nothing, then Mr Darcy made some commonplace comment and Elizabeth made some formal reply. But then she could contain herself no longer and said, ‘Mr Wickham is not here, I see.’
There was a pause as the dance separated them for a moment, then Mr Darcy said, ‘No.’
‘He sent his apologies, I understand?’
Mr Darcy looked unsure of himself again but then said, ‘He did.’
‘He fell from his horse, I believe.’
‘So it would appear.’
Elizabeth turned bright eyes towards him and said challengingly, ‘I wonder why that should be?’
Mr Darcy coloured slightly and said, ‘Accidents happen.’
‘But this was not an accident, was it?’ she said, her anger and her passion breaking out. ‘There is no use in dissembling, Mr Darcy, I saw you today, down by the bridge, wrestling with each other.’
He looked shocked and mumbled some kind of apology. Then, colouring even further he said, ‘This means that you know all.’
‘No, Mr Darcy, I do not know all. I could not hear your conversation, but I heard enough to know that you were arguing over me and that Mr Wickham was meant to tell me something tonight.’
Her eyes were sparkling with righteous anger and Mr Darcy had never seen her look more beautiful.
‘This is very awkward,’ he said.
‘Awkward or not, I demand to know what you were talking about,’ she said. ‘What is it that I must know?’
At this inopportune moment the music stopped and the dance came to an end. Mr Darcy was forced to bow and Elizabeth was forced to curtsey and he escorted her to the side of the room.
‘I demand to know,’ she said, her whole body quivering with indignation.
Again, he thought he had never seen anyone more lovely.
‘I cannot tell you. It is for Mr Wickham to say.’
‘But you do know what it is?’ she demanded.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then you must tell me,’ she said. ‘As a gentleman, you must.’
She could see that her words had hit home. As a gentleman. And Mr Darcy prided himself on being a gentleman.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But will you not come into the ante-room? I think you will need to sit down.’
He indicated an open door leading off into another, smaller room. There were a few guests there, taking a rest from the noise of the ballroom, and she nodded her head, all the while wondering what it could be.
She took his proffered arm and felt an unwelcome spark of electricity shoot through her at the contact. Her eyes were drawn to his and she knew he had felt it, too. Of all the provoking men, why did he have to be the one to have this effect on her? She was angry with him, and angry with herself, but it could not be helped.
He led her into a corner of the room, where she sat on a sofa and pretended to look through a book of engravings.
He sat down next to her.
‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What is so terrible that I needed to be sitting down to hear it?’
‘Only this,’ he said. ‘That Mr Wickham is married.’
‘Married?’ she exclaimed. And then was grateful that Mr Darcy had led her to an obscure corner, so that her exclamation had not been overheard.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Darcy.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, unable to take it in.
Mr Wickham was married? So all the time he had been paying court to her he had been playing with her and amusing himself at her expense! She felt hurt and angry, and with her feelings in turmoil she blurted out, ‘Then I am glad you bested him this afternoon.’
She saw expressions of vindication and hope and longing chase one another across his face.
‘Miss Elizabeth . . . ’ he began.
‘No, say no more,’ she said.
She was confused by everything that had happened. Her experiences throughout the day had been unexpected and the events of the ball were no less perplexing.
Darcy and Elizabeth What If? Collection 1 Page 6