Something still seemed off about all this, but perhaps it was more a product of Darcy’s own incapacitation. His powers of observation were diminished, his own doubts and insecurities surely clouding whatever he might otherwise have observed.HadWickham changed? Darcy could not allow that he had, but Elizabeth certainly seemed to thinkthe man worthy of her regard. The jealousy flared hotter, fueled by his helplessness to intervene.
He had not realised until now how much he had pinned his hopes on this evening, or how wildly they had spun beyond his grasp when she was standing beside him. The idea of marrying Elizabeth, of spending his final days with someone who inspired and understood him, might have been a beacon in his darkening world.
He had lingered in Meryton for this chance, had endured the agony of his illness and the burden of his prognosis, just to have a beautiful evening with her. The sight of her in that evening gown, more resplendent than any of his imaginings, now seemed a cruel taunt.
Darcy leaned heavily against the window frame, his eyes never leaving Elizabeth. Wickham had gone now, and she stood alone for some minutes, letting him drink in the sight of her slim shoulders squared against the November cold. Delicate, but strong… Darcy’s throat ached with longing.
He could have loved her.
That thought was a shard in the chest. Where had it come from? With a start, he recognised that thefeelinghad been simmering since their first meeting. The tenderness that bent his soul whenever he looked at her, the lightness that overtook his face when she spoke, and even the sense of peace and clarity she brought whenever she was near. Indeed, the sentiment of love, or at least the beginnings of that feeling, had long been making itself known.
But theactof loving… now, that was another thing altogether. The notion of caring for, holding, and cleaving and baring his most intimate thoughts—of sharing all of himself and what remained of his life with someone he could hold dear—that was something he might have found with Elizabeth Bennet, had George Wickham not somehow made a mockery of him.
She turned at last, and some impulse made her look up, directly into his window. He saw a flicker of something in her gaze—perhaps curiosity or confusion—but it quickly passed, cooling into a distant sort of curiosity. He was a puzzlement to her, no more.
The ache of loss in his chest deepened, a gnawing grief that threatened to consume him. The idea of proposing to Elizabeth had seemed so clear, so right. It had offered a semblance of hope. Not only a way to leave a meaningful legacy, but to have a friend beside him through the trials ahead—someone who saw him for himself. But tonight hadshattered that hope. She was not interested in him; she was enamoured with Wickham. It was clear in every glance, every smile she bestowed upon him.
Darcy’s fists clenched at his sides. The injustice of it all rankled. Wickham did not deserve her trust, her affection. Yet, Darcy was powerless to change her mind. His attempts to warn her had only driven a wedge between them. Indeed, he would have done better to simply smile and play along with whatever she believed because he had no proof that she was wrong.
Enough of this. He turned away from the window, his steps dragging with every inch. The room felt oppressive, the walls closing in on him. He needed to leave, to get away from this place where he could not trust even the truths of his own mind. To London, then, at last, where he ought to have gone more than a week ago. Time to focus on his affairs and prepare for the end.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Elizabeth woke with adull, throbbing ache behind her eyes. She squinted against the pale morning light streaming through the window, her head pounding in time with her heartbeat. Too much punch last night. Too much dancing, too little sleep, and far too much happening. The last half of the evening had been a blur of emotions and confusion, and now she paid the price.
She rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable position, but images from the previous evening crowded her mind. Darcy’s intense gaze, Wickham’s charming smile, Charlotte’s laughter... and Collins.Ugh.
Elizabeth groaned, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to block out the memories. She had hoped to steer Mr Collins toward Charlotte, knowing how desperately her friend needed a secure future. Charlotte, however, was too distracted by Wickham to make an earnest attempt at catching Collins’ notice when they finally danced. Elizabeth had watched in dismay as Collins hardly paid attention to her, deciding instead to fix his attention on Elizabeth’s sisters.
A sudden knock on the door made her sit up, and she winced at the involuntary movement. “Lizzy? Are you awake?” Jane’s voice called from the other side.
“Yes, come in,” Elizabeth croaked, her voice rough with sleep and headache.
Jane entered, looking far too bright and alert for someone who had attended the same ball. “Mama wants us downstairs. There is something... well, something important happening.”
Elizabeth frowned, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Important? What do you mean?”
Jane hesitated, a troubled look passing over her face. “It is Mr Collins. He is... he is proposing to Mary.”
Elizabeth’s heart sank. “Proposing toMary?But... but he should be proposing to Charlotte!”
“I know,” Jane said softly, sitting beside her. “But he was determined to ‘settle the companion of his future life’ this very morning, and Mama steered him away from both you and me.”
“She did? I thought shewantedCollins to pursue me!”
“Yes, until she saw you and Mr Wickham dancing last evening. She quite has it fixed in her head that you will be the next mistress of Netherfield.”
Elizabeth squinted. “But I danced with half a dozen others, too. What about Mr Darcy?”
“Oh, she was terribly put out over that. Did you not hear her? All through supper, she could only lament how you should have been with ‘someone who could appreciate your wit, like Mr Wickham, not some prideful, dull fellow like Mr Darcy.’” Jane thinned her lips and rolled her eyes at Elizabeth.
Elizabeth sagged deeper into her mattress. “Mr Darcy is not dull. Prideful, perhaps, but not dull.”
“Well, it matters little, anyway. Mama is entirely persuaded that she will have three daughters married before Christmas, and Mr Darcy is not one of the men she fancied for a son-in-law. She has already begun listing houses for Mr Bingley to consider leasing—after he proposes marriage, of course.”
Elizabeth dropped her face into her hands. “Of course. Well, what of Mr Collins? Why is he suddenly pursuing Mary? I thought he scarcely noticed her.”
Jane shrugged. “He danced the first with her but, to my knowledge, never spoke to her the rest of the night.”
