“Bingley,” he said, keeping his tone casual, “do you think Viscount Halstead intends to lend his support for Sir Anthony’s election?”
“Halstead…?” Bingley blinked, his expression briefly bemused as if he were struggling to recall the name. “Oh, yes,” he said after a moment, his brow smoothing. “I am quite sure he will.”
Darcy nodded, letting the comment rest for a moment before tilting his head slightly. “But wait,” he said, pretending to puzzle it out, “I thought Halstead was in America.”
Bingley’s eyes widened as if surprised by the realisation. “Yes, indeed. You are correct, Darcy. Brokering that deal in cotton, was that right? Yes, I am sure I recall that.”
Darcy’s heart sank. Truly, Bingley had no real memory of Halstead but was simply going along with what others suggested and claiming the “memories” as his own. Darcy dipped his spoon into his soup again, his thoughts tangling together. What the devil was he to say now?
Between spoonfuls, he probed a bit farther. “Do you remember the time we all played cricket together? Halstead bested us both—though I must admit, it was a close match.”
Bingley chuckled, his eyes lighting up. “Ah, yes! That was a grand time, indeed. Halstead was quite the player.”
Darcy went quiet for a moment, his chest tightening with a sense of despair. Finally, in a voice so low that only Bingley could hear, he said, “There never was a Viscount Halstead.”
Bingley looked at him blankly for a moment, then his brow furrowed in confusion. “But of course there was,” he said, his tone almost defensive. “I remember him well. He bested you at chess once, and was quite the Latin scholar, as I recall.”
Darcy shook his head slowly, his voice heavy with the weight of the truth. “No, Bingley. There was no such man. I can prove it.”
Bingley stared at him, his expression troubled. He stirred the remnants of his soup thoughtfully as if trying to reconcile the contradiction in his memory. Then, after a long pause, he laughed lightly, though the sound was forced. “But you recalled him before. You said so yourself.”
“I…” Darcy grimaced. “I was suffering a megrim, and I—”
“What, another headache? Darcy, you ought to see a doctor.”
Darcy gritted his teeth. “I have, and it is… they are not… unmanageable.”
“Gracious, how often has this been happening? Perhaps… egad, I hesitate to say it, but perhaps your memory is not what it was? Nothing to be ashamed of, to be sure. How could you be expected to think clearly when your head is splitting?”
Darcy’s temper flared, and he clamped his jaw against the indignant outburst that was fore on his tongue. “Bingley, I am quite serious. You have been induced to believe you remember something that never happened simply because the events are hazy enough in your mind, and you refuse to disoblige someone. Viscount Halstead does not exist.”
“No, no, Darcy, I am sure there is some simple explanation. An innocent misunderstanding, that is all. I think he went by Reginald when we knew him—perhaps he had not inherited the title yet. Egad, why are you so fixed on this? What matters it if Wickham and I remember a man that you do not recall? You act as if it was something of the greatest import.” Bingley lifted his spoon to his mouth again, his forehead crumpling appreciatively. “I say, there is nothing to match Nicholls’ white soup.”
Darcy sighed, feeling the last shred of hope slip away. He had lost Bingley to Wickham’s influence. As the servants began to clear the soup course, a crushing sense of defeat settled over him. How was he to convince anyone that they were being lied to if even Bingley would not listen to the truth?
Elizabeth’s eyes roved aroundthe dimly lit kitchen as her fingers drummed on the work table. Her swollen ankle was still propped up on a stool, the tightnessin her skin making every throb of pain feel like a knife twisting. She bit down on her lip, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. It seemed the ache in her ankle had only intensified as the evening wore on, the skin now flushed red and angry, the swelling so pronounced that even the slightest movement sent waves of agony shooting up her leg. How could she have been so foolish? The ankle had only just begun to mend, but in her rush to escape the embarrassment of the drawing room, she had managed to undo weeks of careful healing.
She gingerly touched the swollen joint, wincing at the tenderness there. To make matters worse, her knee was now sore as well, a dull ache that pulsed with every heartbeat. She must have banged it when she stumbled on the stairs earlier. A fresh wave of frustration welled up inside her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to keep the tears at bay.
She had missed supper with her mother and sisters. Not that Mrs Hill let her go hungry, but she had tendered the excuse that she was in her room, not feeling well and wishing to be left alone. And now, it had grown so late that no one cared to ask where she was. The rest of the family had long since retired upstairs for the night, all probably assuming that she was in a temper or asleep.
That was just as well. Not that she did not wish to apologise—she owed Lydia that much—but she did not want anyone to worry, least of all Jane. If Jane discovered she had hurt herself again, she would insist on staying with her, fussing over her until she was tucked safely into bed. Elizabeth loved her sister dearly, but tonight, she could not bear the thought of being coddled. She had let them all go to bed, and now, it was probably safe to follow.
As she prepared to make the arduous journey upstairs, she heard the front door creak open. Her father had returned from Netherfield. Elizabeth turned to Mrs Hill, who had been quietly bustling about the kitchen, and asked in a low voice, “Mrs Hill, would you help me to the door? I should like to greet Papa.”
Mrs Hill hesitated, her gaze flickering to Elizabeth’s swollen ankle with concern. “Are you sure, Miss Lizzy? You’re in no state to be moving about.”
Elizabeth forced a small, strained smile. “It is nothing, really. I just want to see him for a moment.”
With Mrs Hill’s support, Elizabeth managed to shuffle to the door, biting down on the inside of her cheek to stifle a gasp of pain with every small hop. She was exhausted butcould not resist the thought of seeing her father and perhaps gleaning some news of what had happened at Netherfield.
As Mr Bennet stepped into the house, Elizabeth could immediately see the weariness etched into his features. He greeted her with an indifferent nod, already lost in his own thoughts, but the shuffling sound she made as she approached him caught his attention. He paused, his tired eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the way she was leaning on Mrs Hill’s shoulder and the awkward way she was moving.
“Lizzy,” he sighed and shook his head, with the ghost of a smile playing at his lips, “what have you done to yourself this time?”
Elizabeth tried to brush it off with a wave of her hand. “Oh, truly nothing, Papa. Just my usual way of seeking attention, you know.”
Mr Bennet chuckled softly, though the sound was heavy with exhaustion. He looked over at Mrs Hill and nodded his thanks. “That will be all, Mrs Hill. I shall take care of Lizzy from here. I know she means to corner me in my study before going to bed anyway.”
