Page 95 of The Lost Prophecy

“Perhaps his illness affected his memory.”

“He appeared perfectly well.”

“Many disappointments do, Lydie.”

Lydia stared at the entrance as though Mr Wickham might recover through determination and return. Kitty agreed that his departure was very strange, then forgot the matter when Mr Denny requested the next set.

Mr Collins reappeared shortly afterwards. Mr Bingley’s shirt fitted passably, although the collar sat too high and Fletcher had tied the cravat with greater restraint than Mr Collins preferred. A grey stain was left on the edge of his black sleeve.

Mrs Bennet intercepted him before he reached Charlotte. “What have you done to yourself, Mr Collins?”

“I assisted with an unexpected indisposition, madam.”

“Oh, but you have ruined your cuffs. Did it involve the officer who became ill?”

“You must allow me some discretion.” Mr Collins addressed the ceiling, the carpet, and the door in turn.

Mr Hurst came to his aid. “Claret was involved.”

Mrs Bennet examined Mr Collins’s sleeve, puzzled. “That does not resemble claret.”

Mr Bennet had left the card room and joined them without announcing his presence. His gaze rested on the grey stain, moved to Mr Collins’s missing walking stick and landed on Mr Darcy, who had resumed his place next to Elizabeth.

“Netherfield serves a remarkably sombre vintage.”

Mr Collins opened his mouth. Charlotte caught his arm before truth, Lady Catherine, or providence could escape. “Mr Collins has had a shock. He should sit down,” she said.

Mr Bennet examined the hand she had placed against his sleeve. “Then by all means preserve him. Shocks are rare improvements and should not be wasted.”

Charlotte led Mr Collins into a cluster of chairs. He sat beside her instead of seeking another dance with Elizabeth, and she stayed close while his hands gradually ceased trembling. Their conversation could not be heard, but Mr Collins spoke without expansive gestures and Charlotte listened without correcting him. For the first time since his arrival, he was interested in a woman’s presence rather than her availability.

The punch bowl returned under Fletcher’s supervision and was placed on a sideboard. It had been polished and instructed to remain still. Every few minutes it attempted to roll towards Elizabeth until Fletcher returned it to its original position.

Mr Darcy turned to her when the next set ended.

“Will you walk with me?”

“This is a ball, sir. Where could we walk with privacy?”

“Only to the far side of the ballroom. Please.”

He offered his arm and Elizabeth accepted it. They moved around the dancers while every curious eye received the reassuring picture of a gentleman accompanying a lady through a crowded room. Mr Darcy maintained a proper distance, though she felt tension through the sleeve between them.

Mr Darcy guided her around two couples and stopped near the windows, far enough from the music to speak without being overheard by humans.

“I should never have permitted you to enter that room,” he said.

Elizabeth withdrew her hand from his arm. “You did not permit me. I chose.”

His face tightened. “The distinction offers little comfort when I imagine what might have happened.”

“Then do not confuse your discomfort with my incapacity. You cannot claim to respect my consent when I choose to help you and then treat the choice as invalid because it frightened you,” she reasoned.

“I felt him exert compulsion. I felt the bond break when Collins killed him, but until I reached the door, I did not know whether you were alive.”

Mr Darcy’s voice faltered on the final word. Elizabeth had attributed much of his authority to pride, habit, and the certainty of a man accustomed to obedience. Now she recognised fear inside it. He had not wanted command for the pleasure of directing her. He had wanted it because command promised an impossible world in which nothing could reach her before he did.

She softened without surrendering her argument. “Partnership cannot exist without risk.”