The stars twinkled overhead, a stark contrast to the turmoil within her. She leaned against the railing, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. The events of the evening swirled in her mind—Darcy’s cryptic words, Mr Wickham’s charm, Charlotte’s radiant smile.
“Miss Elizabeth?”
The voice startled her, and she turned to see Mr Wickham standing a few feet away, his expression concerned. “Are you quite all right?”
Elizabeth forced a smile. “Yes, thank you, Mr Wickham. I just needed some fresh air.”
He stepped closer, his gaze warm and understanding. “It has been a glorious evening, hasn’t it? I hope you have enjoyed yourself.”
She nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. “Yes, it has been a lovely evening. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Mr Wickham’s smile widened. “It is my pleasure, Miss Elizabeth. If there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask.”
There it was again—that charm, that easy manner that made it so difficult to doubt him. But Darcy’s words lingered in her mind, casting a shadow over their interaction.
“Mr Wickham,” she began hesitantly, “may I ask you something?”
“Of course, anything.”
She hesitated, unsure how to phrase her question without sounding accusatory. “I have heard... some things. About you and Mr Darcy. He... he implied that you had not always… that is, you were not always the sort of man we know you to be now.”
Wickham’s expression sobered thoughtfully. “I see. Mr Darcy and I have... a complicated history. He has never forgiven me for certain youthful indiscretions.”
“Indiscretions?”
Wickham nodded, his gaze distant. “Nothing, I fear, that I ought to tell a lady, Miss Elizabeth. I was young and foolish. I made mistakes. But I have tried to make amends—surely, you see my efforts, I hope?”
She smiled. “Naturally, sir. Why, I think there is no one in all Meryton who does not.”
Mr Wickham shrugged. “Save for Darcy. He seems determined to hold my past against me, but you must forgive him. Darcy is not wrong in recalling his experience. But I hope I can rely on your generous nature to permit a man to prove he is no longer the youth that his companions remember.”
Elizabeth studied his face, searching for any sign of deceit. But all she saw was a man trying to move on from his past, a man who had been judged too harshly. “I see,” she said softly. “Thank you for your honesty, Mr Wickham.”
He smiled again, but it was a sadder smile this time. “Thank you for listening, Miss Elizabeth. It means more than you know. May I ask, do you intend to dance again this evening?”
She tightened her lips into a smile and shook her head. “I am obliged to dance the last with Mr Collins, but I should like a few moments to myself first.”
“Of course. I will ask a footman to bring you some refreshment if you like.”
“I thank you, but no.” She tilted her head. “Wait a moment. Would you try to encourage Mr Collins to ask Miss Lucas for a set?”
His grin widened. “With pleasure, Miss Elizabeth.”
With that, he bowed and left her alone on the terrace. She watched him go, her heart aching with confusion. Both men seemed good. They seemed earnest. Could both be truthful but simply have conflicting views? Surely, that made the most sense.
The sound of laughter and music drifted from the ballroom. Elizabeth sighed, feeling more lost than ever. The night had raised more questions than answers, and she had no idea how to find her way through the maze of conflicting emotions and loyalties.
As she turned to rejoin the party, her gaze caught on a window a little above and to the side of the terrace. Mr Darcy stood in the shadows, his face half-hidden in the dim light. He watched her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and she saw a flicker of something in his gaze—regret, perhaps, or longing. But then he turned away, disappearing into the darkness.
Darcy stood by thewindow of his room, his head aching and his heart heavy. The dim light of the room was a small reprieve from the brightness and noise of the ball. He had retreated here after the disastrous dinner, unable to endure the relentless throb of his headache in the overly illuminated rooms of Netherfield. He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to will away the pain, but it was no use. The laudanum had dulled the edges of his agony but had not extinguished it.
As Darcy looked out over the terrace below, his gaze fell on Elizabeth. Of course, she would have to come back where he could see her once more. It was like she knew she was taunting him.
She was engaged in an intimate conversation with Wickham, her expression open and unguarded. Wickham, ever the charmer, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her company. The sight triggered a tumult of emotions in Darcy—anger, jealousy, and a deep, aching longing. These feelings were unfamiliar to him, disorienting in their intensity.
He had tried to hold himself together in Elizabeth’s presence, to maintain some semblance of composure despite the physical pain and the emotional turmoil. But it was clear she did not enjoy his company tonight. Her guarded expressions, the way she turned to Wickham for conversation, all spoke volumes. It stung more than he cared to admit.
Elizabeth smiled at something Wickham said—he could see the slight tilt of her head from where he stood, and he knew her mannerisms well enough by now to read her with precision. She seemed to trust Wickham, to genuinely like him. It was a bitter draught to swallow. How could she be so deceived by that man? Darcy knew Wickham’s true nature… did he not?
