Suddenly, what felt like a hand—hishand—clapped me firmly on the back. It wasn’t visible to anyone—probably not even me, if I had twisted round to look—but the force of it made me lurch forward, nearly stumbling into Elizabeth. She stepped back, startled, and Bingley’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth scolded. “Have you lost the last manner you possessed?”
“Ach, there he goes!” Ewan laughed from somewhere behind me. “Still standin’ there like ye’ve a stick up yer backside!”
I managed to recover myself—barely—but I could feel all three of them watching me now. Bingley and Miss Bennet exchanged puzzled glances, and Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as if trying to solve the puzzle that wasme.
“I—” I cleared my throat, forcing out a laugh that sounded horribly strained. “Just a misstep. A sore muscle… from riding yesterday. I’m afraid it has been troubling me some. Perhaps some fresh air would do me good. If you’ll excuse me.”
Elizabeth’s frown deepened, and I could feel her eyes following me as I hurried toward the nearest exit. Behind me, Ewan’s laughter echoed, growing fainter but no less humiliating.
I didn’t stop until I was halfway to the terrace, heart pounding, my mind racing. It was only by sheer willpower that I hadn’t made a complete spectacle of myself... yet.
But if I lived to see another day without being committed to an asylum, it would be a miracle.
Elizabeth
Iwas beginning towonder if there was any corner of the room where I could stand without running into someone I was trying to avoid.
The Netherfield Ball had been exactly as expected—grand, lively, and packed with half of Meryton. I had successfully dodged Mr. Collins for most of the evening—a triumph in itself—only to find myself now dodging another, far more intimidating figure.
Mr. Darcy.
The man had been acting oddly all evening—though to be fair, his definition of “odd” was quickly becoming “business as usual.” I’d caught him glancing in my direction at least a dozen times, each time with a look that was part confusion, part fascination, and wholly unsettling.
It wasn’t that I thought he meant any harm. He looked more like he was trying to figure outwhatI was, rather than who. The way he stared sometimes—well, it was as if he were seeing something I couldn’t.
I spotted him across the room now, standing near Mr. Bingley, looking as though he’d rather be slopping hogs than dressed in formal attire. His gaze flicked to me, just briefly, before he looked away again, and I felt a strange, unsettling pang of pity.
Poor Mr. Darcy. What must it be like to be trapped inside your own head?
Charlotte had once said that it was better to be poor than to be mad. You could climb out of poverty, but madness? That would follow you forever. And here I was, watching it unfold before my very eyes.
I sighed and turned my attention to Lydia, who was still holding court near the punch bowl with Lieutenant Denny and Mr. Wickham. The latter had, unsurprisingly, charmed half the room already, and Lydia, of course, was completely smitten. AsI approached, she let out an excited squeal, nearly spilling her drink in the process.
“Oh, Lizzy!” she cried. “Mr. Wickham has just been telling us the most delightful story about—”
“I’m sure it’s riveting,” I cut in, offering Mr. Wickham a polite smile before glancing back at Mr. Darcy, who had somehow managed to inch even closer.
He was acting stranger than usual—looking at me, then at Mr. Wickham, then back again, as if trying to decipher some unsolvable riddle. His jaw was tight, and his posture even stiffer than usual, which I hadn’t thought possible.
“Excuse me for asking,” I began, unable to resist, “but have you noticed anything... off about Mr. Darcy tonight?”
Mr. Wickham’s expression changed ever so slightly. He glanced over at Darcy, then back at me, before offering a slow, knowing smile. “No more than usual. Stiff as a fire poker, is he? Oh, I wouldn’t worry, Miss Elizabeth. I doubt he’s capable of harm. Just a man... well, not quite right in the head.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You seem awfully confident about that.”
“Oh, I am,” Wickham said, his voice smooth as silk. “I’ve known him for quite some time. Seen him in... shall we say... less than favorable circumstances.”
“Such as?”
Wickham’s eyes gleamed. “Let’s just say that Mr. Darcy has a history of erratic behavior. I’m not surprised you’ve noticed it.” He paused, his gaze shifting briefly to Darcy, who was now standing almost directly behind me, his expression dark and brooding. “His poor sister, though. Imagine having a madman for a brother!”
Sister? Oh! That was right. I vaguely recalled Miss Bingley saying something about Mr. Darcy’s younger sister when I was staying at Netherfield. I wondered where she was now. Probably as far from him as she could get.
I looked at the gentleman again, my heart softening just slightly. Whatever his faults, I couldn’t shake the growing suspicion that he was less a villain and more... well, a victim of something I couldn’t quite understand.
Mr. Darcy caught my eye and, after a moment of hesitation, walked toward me. His steps were measured, but there was an intensity in his gaze that made me straighten in response. Wickham, sensing the approach, took a step back, his usual charm replaced by something colder.
