He dragged himself upright, using the edge of the bed for support, but as he stood, the world fractured into two, his vision doubling in a sickening blur. He swayed, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps, and for a moment, he considered calling for his valet. The man had just left, having seen to Darcy’s dressing for dinner, and the thought of summoning him back, of admitting that he was not even capable of making it down to the dining room, filled him with a bitter sense of defeat.
But no. He would not give in to this… this weakness. He had been through worse. He would go down to dinner, would face whatever awaited him there, and would do so without the need for explanations or excuses. With a groan, he collapsed onto the bed, the mattress swallowing him up as the spinning in his head grew more intense. He lay there for a moment, his eyes closed, trying to will the world back into focus. The ceiling abovehim was an indistinct swirl of shadow and light, and he could barely make out the lines of the room, let alone the details.
Time ticked on, and Darcy knew he could not linger much longer. Dinner awaited him—no doubt Wickham and the others were already assembled downstairs, perhaps even wondering at his absence. The thought of Wickham, of the smug look that would cross his face if Darcy did not appear, was enough to push him into action.
With a trembling hand, he pulled out his handkerchief, dabbing at the sweat that had gathered on his brow. His skin was clammy, his fingers unsteady as they moved across his forehead, but at least the worst of the nausea seemed to have passed. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the rapid pounding of his heart, and forced himself to sit up.
The room swam before his eyes, but he gritted his teeth and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor. He stood slowly, testing his balance, and when the dizziness did not immediately overwhelm him, he began to make his way toward the door.
The hallway beyond was dimly lit, the light flickering uncertainly in his wavering vision. He reached out to the bannister, gripping it with all the strength he could muster. The wood was solid beneath his hand, a lifeline in the midst of the disorienting whirlpool that had become his reality.
Step by step, he descended the stairs, his eyes fixed on the bannister as though it were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth. Each movement was deliberate and careful, his mind focused entirely on the task of placing one foot in front of the other. The stairs seemed to stretch on endlessly, an abyss that threatened to swallow him whole if he made one wrong move.
Devil take it, he was going to fall. He was going to fall, break his neck, and George Wickham was going to crow over him in triumph at last. Wickham, with that vile painting and all his convincing half-truths that even Darcy had nearly swallowed.
No! If all that was left to him was to call out the truth in the face of lies, then he would see the duty done before this thing in his head got the best of him. Darcy’s grip tightened on the bannister, his knuckles white, and he forced his gaze forward, willing himself to continue until the ground levelled out beneath him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The murmur of voicesquieted slightly as he entered the dining room, and the subtle rustle of fabric against wood signalled the room’s attention shifting towards him. His vision swam for a moment, the faces blurring together, but he quickly forced his eyes to focus.
Wickham was the first to rise, a congenial smile plastered across his face. “Darcy! How good of you to join us. We were beginning to wonder if the rigours of travel had got the better of you.”
Darcy managed a polite nod, though the effort to appear composed nearly cost him his balance. The room seemed to tilt slightly as he made his way toward the table, but he kept his steps measured and slow, gripping the back of his chair when he finally reached it. Bingley, seated to his right, offered him a concerned look as the footman pulled out his chair.
“My friends,” Wickham said, gesturing around the table, “most of you already have had the pleasure of meeting my good friend, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, in Derbyshire.”
Darcy paused before seating himself to incline his head toward the general assembly. Most of the faces were familiar—particularly Sir William Lucas on his left, Mr Philips across the table from him, and Mr Bennet just beyond.
Wickham extended a hand towards a new gentleman to his right. “Darcy, you have not met our guest of honour this evening. May I present to you our candidate, Sir Anthony Mortimer?”
Darcy hesitated, his gaze shifting to the far end of the table where Sir Anthony sat. He blinked, forcing his vision to clear, and saw that Sir Anthony was a full head shorter than Wickham, with auburn hair and a burly physique. His breath died in his chest. Sir Anthony’s appearance matched perfectly with Georgiana’s description of Wickham’s “friend,” Mr Billings.
Darcy shook his head… a thing he regretted almost instantly, but could he trust his memory on this point? Surely, he could not have remembered those details incorrectly. The shoulders of a blacksmith but the hands of a gentleman…
There could be no mistake. Itmustbe the same man, for, as Georgiana had said, he had a rather distinctive look to him. Not a face anyone would forget easily, to be sure.
Darcy’s hands began to tremble, and he quickly clasped them together to steady himself. With great effort, he inclined his head in a bow. “Sir Anthony,” he greeted, his voice just loud enough to carry across the room.
“Mr Darcy,” Sir Anthony replied, nodding in return, his gaze sharp and appraising. “I have heard much of you. We are pleased you could join us for this evening.”
“The honour is mine.” Darcy felt his stomach starting to squeeze and lurch again, but he forced himself to sit down, though his mind whirled with the implications of what he had just seen. The chair creaked under his weight as he lowered himself, and the room seemed to spin in slow, nauseating circles.
A moment later, a single file line of footmen began carrying in the soup course, and the room’s focus on Darcy began to break up. That was when Bingley leaned toward him. “Darcy, are you quite well?” he asked quietly. “You look rather pale, old boy.”
Darcy sighed, realising with a pang of resignation that if Bingley, the least observant man he had ever known, had finally noticed his distress, then surely everyone else must have as well. Including Wickham, who was now watching him with a faint, knowing smile. Darcy’s grip on the edge of the table tightened.
“Merely a mild headache from travel,” Darcy replied, doing his best to sound nonchalant. “Nothing more.”
Bingley nodded, though his brow remained furrowed. “I hope an excellent meal will prove the only cure necessary.”
Darcy managed a thin smile as he picked up his spoon, trying to steady his hand as he dipped it into the soup. The other gentlemen around the table began to engage in various conversations, most of them centred on politics. Darcy’s gaze flickered to Sir Anthony again, then to Wickham, who was talking animatedly with Mr Bennet across the table.
At least Bennet appeared to be putting some real questions to the man. Darcy could not hear the specifics over the general hum of conversation, but Mr Bennet’s manner was probing, his features guarded, and Sir Anthony was being forced to articulate himself about something.
That bore watching, to be sure. Perhaps the man who had sired such a cleverly irreverent daughter as Elizabeth Bennet might be the one man in the room who would not join lockstep with the going political tide.
As Darcy sipped his soup, a thought began to form in his mind. Bingley, intelligent though he was, had always been too easily influenced by those around him. Too willing to believe what he was told, and too eager to please to be confident in standing on his own two feet. Just how thoroughly had Wickham won Bingley over? Was there still any hope of convincing his friend of the truth? Perhaps he might test the waters a bit… discover precisely how strong the current was.
