“Lieutenant Wickham,” he said, and that was all.
Nothing more.
JustLieutenant Wickham, as if the name alone caused him physical pain.
I watched him carefully, growing more and more bewildered by the second. Lieutenant Wickham hadn’t spoken truly ill of Mr. Darcy the other day, but something was clearly brewing between them—something more than just a casual dislike.
“Is there—” I began, unsure of how to navigate the conversation any further without accidentally making the man combust on the spot, “—some... history between you and Lieutenant Wickham, Mr. Darcy?”
His eyes flicked to mine, and for a moment, I thought he might actually say something useful. But instead, he pulled his horse a step back, nodded stiffly, and said, “Excuse me,” before whirling his mount and galloping off like a swarm of bees was after him.
I stared after him, my mouth half-open in disbelief. That was it? That was the extent of our conversation? He’d barely spoken ten words to me before bolting like a fox in the briars.
“Well,” I muttered to myself, watching his tall figure disappear around the bend, “he’s certainly not getting any less strange.”
Poor Mr. Darcy. As mad as a hatter, and possibly more uncomfortable in his own skin than any person I had ever met. But still, I couldn’t bring myself to dislike him.
I sighed, shaking my head. He wouldn’t harm anyone. Of that much, I was sure. But if he kept behaving this way, the wholetown would soon agree that Mr. Darcy of Pemberley was not quite right in the head.
And for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, the thought made me pity him.
“Lizzy, do you thinkthere will be mistletoe at the ball?” Lydia asked, her voice full of hopeful mischief as she twirled about the room, her ribbons flying behind her.
“Lydia, it is only November. I certainly hope not,” I replied, laughing at the thought. “Besides, with all those officers in attendance, I fear there would be no safe corner left in the room for any woman over the age of fourteen.”
Kitty giggled, but Jane tried to turn our conversation in a more respectable direction. “Oh, Lizzy, you know it will be a lovely night. Mr. Bingley will ensure everyone enjoys themselves.”
“And I’m sure he will,” I said, “especially if a certain Miss Bennet is in attendance.” Jane’s blush was as predictable as it was charming.
We had been talking of the Netherfield Ball for days, and it seemed as if the whole town was abuzz with excitement. The chance to see all our neighbors dressed in their finest, the music, the dancing, and perhaps a moment of stolen romance for some lucky young lady—all the makings of a perfect evening.
Charlotte, seated near the fire, chimed in with her usual practicality. “I’m more excited about the food, to be honest.I hear Netherfield’s cook has outdone herself with the preparations.”
“Oh, Charlotte! Must you always be so sensible? I had hoped you would swoon over the prospect of dancing with every eligible bachelor in Meryton.”
Charlotte snorted. “I’ll leave the swooning to Lydia.”
I grinned, but before I could respond, Charlotte leaned in with a conspiratorial air. “Actually, I’ve heard some rather interesting gossip about the guest list.”
“Oh?” I feigned indifference, though I was always keen to hear the latest news.
Charlotte glanced at the door to ensure no one was listening, then lowered her voice. “Papa was in town the other day, and he overheard some of the men talking about Mr. Darcy.”
I blinked. “Mr. Darcy? What could they possibly have to say about him?”
“Well,” Charlotte said, leaning even closer, “it seems Mr. Darcy had quite the... episode in town a while ago.”
I raised an eyebrow, already half-expecting whatever it was. “I believe I already know this rumor, but what did the gentlemen say?”
“They say he was seen acting very strangely—something about his horse nearly throwing him off, and then he started talking to himself.”
My eyes widened in disbelief, though a laugh threatened to escape me. “To himself? In public?”
Charlotte nodded, her face as serious as ever. “Yes, and Colonel Forster himself had to intervene. Some of the townspeople are starting to wonder if Mr. Darcy is entirely... well, you know.”
Kitty gasped, her eyes widening in excitement. “You mean they think he’s mad?”
I groaned. “Oh, Kitty, don’t be so dramatic. Mr. Darcy is not mad. He’s...”
