It was as if fate took some dark delight in torturing me.
By the time we arrived at Colonel Forster’s residence, my mood had soured entirely. The officers were already gathered—Lieutenants Denny, Saunders, and Wickham among them—andmy spine went rigid as we were led to the dining room. Forster regaled us with the usual pleasantries, his deep voice carrying easily over the clinking of glasses and idle conversation. His wife, young and sprightly, was nowhere to be seen, but Forster assured us she was engaged with friends. I had no doubt those “friends” included a gaggle of Meryton’s young ladies, no doubt discussing which officers would make the best suitors.
Dinner began with forced cordiality, as these things often do. Bingley, all smiles as usual, complimented Forster on the spread before us. I merely nodded in agreement, grateful I hadn’t been placed next to Wickham. Unfortunately, he was only two seats away, and the moment I sat down, my mood soured like week-old milk.
“Lovely evening for dinner,” Bingley said, grasping at the obvious. He kept sliding uncomfortable glances toward me as if waiting for me to embarrass him again. I prayed he would be wrong, just this once.
“Indeed,” Forster agreed. “Though we’re expecting the weather to turn before morning. I’ll have to keep a close watch on the clouds.”
Saunders, seated across from me, added with a smile, “Better than marching in the rain, sir. Though I daresay our boys wouldn’t mind a little fresh air.”
It was the kind of talk that lulled me into a sense of false security—the quiet before the storm. I should have known better.
Just as Colonel Forster stood to propose a toast, I felt a familiar presence at my side. Ewan, slouched casually near the fireplace, arms crossed, grinning like a cat who had found a particularly amusing mouse. I froze, my wine glass halfway to my lips.
“Aye, lad, look at them all. Bunch o’ proud roosters struttin’ aboot,” Ewan drawled. He cast a disdainful glance at the officers,particularly at Wickham. “I dinnae care fer redcoats, but ye knew that.”
I clenched my jaw, determined to ignore him. He had to know I couldn’t respond, not here, not in front of these men.
But Ewan wasn’t the type to take a hint. He waggled his eyebrows at me. “Clap yer eyes on this.”
Just as Saunders shifted in his chair, it jerked backwards out from under him, sending the poor man flailing. He went down in a heap, limbs flailing like a beached fish.
Wickham chuckled. “Perhaps too much wine already, Saunders?”
I nearly choked on my drink as Saunders scrambled back to his feet, glancing around as if searching for an explanation. The other officers laughed it off, but there was an unmistakable flicker of confusion in their eyes.
Ewan, of course, found it delightful. “Och, laddie, ye see that? Like a fish floppin’ out o’ water!”
I shot him a warning glance, but he only winked in response.
Dinner continued, with idle conversation turning to politics and the latest news from London. Bingley managed to steer the topic toward the local militia and their drills, much to Forster’s pleasure.
Wickham took every opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, spinning tales of his “adventures” and “heroism.” I had to grit my teeth through every insufferable word.
And then, of course, Ewan struck again.
Forster, mid-sentence about troop movements, reached for his wine glass—only to find it empty. His brow furrowed, clearly puzzled, as he looked down at the drained glass. He hadn’t taken more than a sip from it. With a grumble, he refilled it, casting a glance at his men as if one of them had somehow pilfered his drink.
I nearly laughed out loud but caught myself just in time. Ewan, however, was shaking with silent laughter beside me.
Forster cleared his throat, apparently deciding to move on from the strange occurrence, and turned to Bingley with a smile. “So, Mr. Bingley, I hear there’s to be another grand event at Netherfield soon. A yuletide ball, if the rumors are true?”
Bingley blinked, his smile faltering for just a moment. “A... ball?”
Forster chuckled heartily. “Yes, my wife and her friends have been talking of nothing else since they heard of the butcher’s delivery. Apparently, your cook placed quite the order.”
Bingley sent me a wide-eyed glance, and I shrugged slightly, just as mystified as he was. But true to Bingley’s polite nature, he recovered quickly.
“Ah, yes, well... perhaps the ladies are planning something,” he said with a laugh, although his eyes remained confused. “You know how they are. Always keeping us men in the dark.”
Forster laughed along, but I could see the wariness in his men. It wasn’t just the ball. It was the strange chair, the empty wine glass... and now, as Forster was speaking, his wig began to slip ever so slightly to the left.
I bit the inside of my cheek, trying desperately not to react. Forster did not appear to even notice as the wig shifted further and further, until it sat at a ridiculous angle on his head.
“Aye, he looks like a teapot aboot tae tip o’er,” Ewan snickered.
I couldn’t help it. I choked on my wine, sputtering in an uncharacteristic fit of laughter. Every eye at the table turned toward me.
