“I do not forget my friends.”
“Well!” Wickham shook his head as he placed a card on the table. “I cannot think how you do not remember Halstead. Come, man, he visited Pemberley in our junior year! His father bought a horse from yours. Fine chestnut stallion, as I recall. We all used to go to the club together, and he even covered your debts once.”
“That is not possible. I rarely gambled and never ran up debts.”
Wickham snorted as he surveyed the table. “I assure you, you did, although you are not wrong that youalmostnever ended the night behind because you nearly always won. That was the beginning of my life in debt, as you recall, and my first great loss was to you. You were a devilish master at Whist.”
“I enjoyed its stimulating challenges, but I never—”
“Oh, come, Darcy, no sense in trying to play the saint. We are all old friends here, are we not? Bingley, surelyyourecall Halstead.”
Bingley, who had been listening quietly, paused with his hand over the stack of cards and blinked for a few seconds. “Y-yes, I do believe I recall the man. I think he had the highest marks in Latin, did he not?”
“Yes, that’s the fellow.” Wickham nodded. “Burned Darcy like you cannot imagine. Come, tell him. Egad, Darcy, what has become of your memory?”
“There is nothing the matter with my memory,” Darcy snapped. And then he rubbed his throbbing temple, rather surreptitiously.
“Well, then surely you must recall Halstead, Darcy. Think back if you will. He was taller even than you, with sandy hair, and he hailed from Yorkshire.”
A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He searched his memory, but it was like grasping at shadows. He looked at Bingley, who seemed genuinely confused by his uncertainty.
Wickham pressed on. “Halstead had a lovely sister—I believe you fancied her for most of one evening—that is, until she spoke and dashed your illusions. Oh, and he was the only man who bested you at chess in your last year. Surely you cannot forget that.”
Darcy’s head pounded with the effort of trying to remember. Those all sounded very like things that might have been part of his experience, but they simply never happened! He wouldrememberthings like that. Would he not? His breath quickened, and it was as if the walls were closing in.
He glanced at Bingley, who was, by now, nodding in agreement with Wickham. “Yes, Darcy. I did not know him well, but I remember him clearly. I say, where is he now?”
Yes, where was this fellow now?For Darcy was well acquainted with theton, and surely, even if he had somehow missed the man at university, he would have been introduced through Lord Matlock or at Almack’s.
“Oh! Last I heard, he was in The States brokering some deal in cotton on behalf of his uncle, Lord Wexfield. Surely you rememberhim, at least?”
Darcy scratched his memory. That name hedidrecall. Lady Matlock had mentioned the man not long ago. But Halstead? Darcy was certain he had never heard of the man, but with both Wickham and Bingley swearing that Darcy must know him, how could he deny it?
The room spun, and Darcy gripped the arms of his chair. His memory, once so reliable, now seemed a traitor. He forced a smile, though it felt hollow. “Yes, of course. How could I forget Halstead?”
Wickham beamed, satisfied. “I knew you could not have forgot. With Halstead and Wexfield and many others vouching for Mortimer in London, it only strengthens Mortimer’s position when the time comes.”
Darcy nodded, though his confusion deepened as his voice faded. “Indeed… Indeed.”
Wickham gathered the cards to shuffle and deal another round, and Bingley excused himself to pour a brandy on the opposite side of the room. Darcy shook his head when Bingley gestured, offering him a glass, and fell to fingering the pages of his book.
How could he have forgot a man he apparently knew so well as Halstead? But search though he might, Darcy had absolutely no memory of the man. His hand trembled, and his right eyelid began to twitch. This was all progressing faster than he could ever have imagined.
“I say, Darcy,” Wickham said from the table where he was dealing cards, “one thing I had been meaning to ask you was what you thought of old Mrs Nicholls’ cooking. Is she up to the task of cooking for a ball?”
Darcy shook his dazed head and tried to focus on Wickham’s profile. “I have no way of knowing that, but everything I have tasted from her kitchen is more than adequate.”
“You did not think her white soup was too salty?”
Darcy blinked. “I have not had the pleasure of sampling it.”
Wickham turned to look at him fully, his face scrunched in half wonder. “Why, of course, you have. She made us a sample of it two days ago to see that I approved. Bingley was out, but you and I tasted it. I recall you made a rather peculiar face, and I wondered atit at the time, but I believe you had just got a letter from Fitzwilliam, so I presumed that might be the cause.”
Dash it all, he was panting, and a cool sheen was breaking through his hairline and nearly trickling down his temple. “I… I did have a letter from Fitzwilliam the day before yesterday…”
“There, you see. You were probably distracted and entirely forgot what you were eating. Surely, you recall now. Was it too thick? Shall I have her use fewer eggs?”
“I… I do not…”
