In Darcy's Dreams

by Gwendolyn Dash

  But she would not think of Mr. Darcy now.

  “Only that we have established that what is required for us to enjoy our evening is nothing more than your courage. Are you a lady who will stand by your conviction to make merry with me, despite there being several men about of better prospects and larger fortunes?”

  Elizabeth shook her head, laughing. “What nonsense you talk, Mr. Wickham. As if I could possibly care about something like that.”

  “Other ladies have.”

  “I would far prefer the company of a gentleman of sense and amiability, than a disagreeable one, even if he might own half of Derbyshire. I should have thought you knew.”

  “It is a great pleasure to hear you say it, that I will confess.”

  And yet he still did not ask her to dance. How very curious.

  “It is marvelous hot in here, is it not?” Mr. Wickham said, after a moment. “Mr. Bingley’s generous invitation to so much of the neighborhood ought to be commended, but it does make for rather a crush.”

  “Indeed,” said Elizabeth, making prodigious use of her fan.

  “Perhaps until the musicians begin again, we might find it more pleasant to get some air. Would you be so good as to accompany me out of doors?”

  Elizabeth hesitated. She was rather warm, it was true, but she had neither shawl nor wrap to protect herself from the November chill outside. And, she was certain the musicians would begin again at any minute. If they went outside, they would miss the next dance entirely.

  Seeing her uncertainty, Mr. Wickham leaned in. “I did come to this affair only to see you, as you commanded, Miss Elizabeth. Nothing here has been done that you have not wished. In light of that, do I ask so very great a boon?”

  Elizabeth supposed not. “A very quick stroll, perhaps,” she conceded. “I would not want to catch a chill.”

  “I shall ensure you stay tolerably warm,” Mr. Wickham replied, and offered her his arm. Together, they made for the doors that led from the ballroom to the great stone veranda. Elizabeth remembered from her previous stay at Netherfield that this veranda stretched the entire length of the back of the house and featured many wide stone staircases that led down into the gardens and the hedge maze. Elizabeth expected to see many guests of the Bingleys out and about under the moonlight, but there were only a few, and even those soon made for the ballroom when the first strains of music again began to drift out the windows and into the night. She felt quite impatient to return to the festivities herself.

  “Oh, the dancing has begun again,” she said to Mr. Wickham. “Do let us go inside.”

  “Can you really be in such a hurry?” he scoffed. “A crowded ballroom, with such a crowd of terrible dancers. Might not Mr. Collins claim you for another jig if we go inside?”

  Not if Elizabeth was dancing with Mr. Wickham.

  “Though if you wish to go and dance with Mr. Collins again…or Mr. Darcy,” he added, meaningfully. “I suppose I should not stop you, for all that I have risked on your behalf to present myself in this house.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “But you cannot wish to stand here, in all this chill, for too much longer?” Was she to spend the rest of the evening standing alone in the darkness, just to enjoy the presence of Mr. Wickham’s company?

  “I suppose not,” said Mr. Wickham. “Though it does seem a pity to waste all this beautiful moonlight. Your eyes look like stars in the moonlight, Miss Elizabeth. Has anyone ever told you so?”

  “No, indeed,” she said. “I probably would have laughed if they tried.”

  “Because you do not believe it?”

  “Because I think it is precisely the sort of thing a young man says to a lady to make sure she cannot see beyond such stars.”

  Mr. Wickham considered this for a moment. “But you know quite well I would never think so little of your powers of sense as to imagine you to be taken in by such meager flatteries.”

  “I should hope not, sir.”

  “And therefore, when I compare your eyes to the heavens, I must be utterly in earnest.”

  Elizabeth did not know quite what to make of it. It was true, indeed, that she had always thought her eyes to be her finest feature, in which opinion she was joined by Jane and her mother, when her mother deigned to describe the beauties possessed by any daughter other than Jane. In her vainer moments, when Elizabeth would examine her countenance in the glass, she would flatter herself that her eyes held flashes of fire and light that might, upon reflection, be compared to starlight by an admirer.

  Only, she was not entirely certain what Mr. Wickham was about, in that moment, making such a comparison. To express, she supposed, his violent admiration and regard.

  Except Elizabeth found she was not altogether affected by such declarations as she had anticipated, and certainly far less than she had hoped. Perhaps it was the chilly night air, which made her unable to devote her entire attention to Mr. Wickham’s sweet words. Or perhaps they were his words that were to blame.

  How very odd that the character she had once found so amiable and charming in the well-lit confines of a sitting room or the noisy crush of an assembly now seemed to lack qualities she had always claimed to value equally, such as wit.

  Elizabeth looked up into Mr. Wickham’s eyes, which, it must be said, had very little resemblance to stars or moon out here in the dark expanse of the veranda.

  “Shall we walk along, my dear?” Mr. Wickham asked. “I have such a powerful hunger to see the hedge maze this evening.” He began to guide her toward the broad stone steps.

  She drew back. “I—I think not. I believe I must return to the ballroom, sir. My mother will not approve of my traipsing about the grounds at night.”

  “Your mother!” He chuckled and did not pause in leading them down the stairs, farther and farther from the lights and sounds of the ball. “The same Mrs. Bennet who ensures a space is always at her table for every officer of the militia who calls at the house, who encourages you and your sisters at every moment to come into Meryton to track the redcoats like hounds after a scent?”

  Elizabeth stopped short on the stair, only a few steps above the path into the garden, and stared down at her companion in pure shock. “I beg your pardon!”

  Mr. Wickham merely laughed. “Come now, Miss Elizabeth, you are clever enough to know what is said about your family.”

  “That we are dogs, sir?” she asked angrily. “I have been most mistaken in accompanying you here. I must beg your leave.” She moved to curtsy, but found her arm quite trapped beneath his own, as he yanked her down the last few stairs. She stumbled into his arms and let out a cry.

  “Unhand her at once.” The voice came from above. A figure, silhouetted against the midnight blue of the night sky.

  Mr. Wickham’s grip slipped, just a bit, and Elizabeth shoved herself away from him.

  The figure on the stairs rapidly descended. “I said let her go, Wickham, or you will live to regret it.”

  “Darcy,” sneered Mr. Wickham.

  Darcy! Elizabeth’s hand went to her mouth in shock, but, yes, now she could see it was the gentleman himself. No one else at this ball was so tall, and possessed such shoulders and such a voice. He hurried past her, sparing her not even a glance, as he confronted his old enemy—and her new one.

  Elizabeth knew at once she should not linger. She turned to escape up the stairs again, but made it only a few steps before their conversation made her falter in her ascent.

  “I had not thought you would concern yourself with anyone so far beneath you.”

  “I had not thought you wretched enough to show your face in this house,” Mr. Darcy replied. “No, not even you, Wickham. This is the home of my intimate friend. You are not welcome here.”

  “The invitation was to every officer in the militia.” Mr. Wickham shrugged a shoulder. His teeth flashed in the night. “And I am an officer of the militia now, no thanks to you.”

  “It is entirely thanks to me that your corpse doesn’t lie at the base of the cliff
s in Ramsgate,” Mr. Darcy replied coldly. “That was my cousin’s suggestion.”

  Ramsgate? What did that have to do with old Mr. Darcy and the living in Derbyshire? At once, Elizabeth was struck with the realization of all she had misjudged. Mr. Wickham’s story could not be entire. It might not even be true. And Mr. Darcy’s warning, under the yew, came back to haunt her.

  Were either of them aware she stood there? Another moment’s attention to their conversation, however, proved they didn’t care.

  “At what hour did you fix upon your interest in my affairs?” Mr. Wickham asked now. “You never lifted a finger at Oxford.”

  “Indeed, I hoped for better from you, once upon a time,” the gentleman replied, his voice icy as the Arctic Sea. “But the scales have fallen from my eyes. I know the measure of you now, and I should not like to see another young lady taken in.”

  “Well, Fitz,” replied the soldier, with some dark degree of mirth. “You have little to concern yourself with there. That Bennet chit has nothing, and thus nothing that can tempt me to marriage. All I was after was a bit of fun.”

  It all happened so fast. One moment the two men were arguing at the base of the stone staircase. The next, they were locked together, their arms about each other, their fists slamming into each other’s bodies.

  Elizabeth pressed her knuckles to her lips, but could not hold back her shriek of alarm. “Stop! Oh, do stop!”

  But it was too dark. She could barely see them, could barely make out their movements against the lawn. She heard grunts and the sounds of fists hitting flesh and then—

  A gunshot rent the night. Birds flew from their nests. And Mr. Wickham seemed to slowly slip from Mr. Darcy’s arms and fall into the midnight grass, a spreading circle of darkness soaking his light breeches.

  For a moment, all was silent. And in that silence, Elizabeth heard a voice she knew was Mr. Darcy’s, but sounded so unlike him she almost would not have recognized it.

  “George,” he whispered. “Good God, what have you done?”

  There were voices above them on the parapet. Others had heard the gunshot and were coming out to investigate. Elizabeth let out a squeak of terror.

  Mr. Darcy turned and saw her. His eyes widened.

  How odd, thought Elizabeth. They truly do look like stars.

  “Run,” he stated. “Now.”

  Elizabeth gathered up her skirts and fled.

  Chapter 5

  They did not even end the ball.

  There was a bit of confusion, true—confusion which allowed Elizabeth to slip unseen back into Netherfield house. The music had stopped, and many of the servants and officers seemed in quite a rush, but soon enough, Mr. Bingley appeared at the head of the room.

  “It was a thief,” he explained to the assembled crowd. “A poacher. But my groundskeeper has run him off, and that is the end of it.”

  It was not the end of it, for then the entire ballroom was soon engaged in speculation about whose house the thief might approach next, or what they might have left in their carriages, or if their journeys home would be fraught with cutthroat highwaymen.

  Elizabeth stood against a wall, her eyes wide and unseeing, and let the murmur of the guests wash over her.

  Did she imagine it? Did she imagine it all? Here, surrounded by fans and feathers and brightly burning beeswax candles, it seemed impossible. Impossible that she’d stood in the darkness and watched Mr. Wickham’s blood puddle around his body.

  Were there fewer gentlemen about? Where was Sir William Lucas? Where were Captain Carter and Colonel Forster?

  Where was Mr. Darcy?

  Wickham shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have come, and he’d known it. He’d known it. Scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself. He’d tried to run away to London….and she’d stopped him.

  She’d stopped him.

  She’d laughed off his concerns. She’d told him that Mr. Darcy could not be a man to fear. She’d been the only reason he came to Netherfield at all.

  “Lizzy?” It was Jane, standing near, with a glass of ratafia in her hand. “Are you quite all right? You are not too warm, are you?”

  Elizabeth lifted her gaze to her sister’s face, struggling for composure. No. She was cold. So cold, she could not possibly imagine warmth. “I am quite well, thank you.”

  “You have not seen Mr. Bingley, have you?” Jane asked. “I have not seen him since he made his announcement about the poacher. Oh, dear, I do hope it is nothing more serious than that.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and looked away. “Jane, on second thought, I do believe I have become unwell. Might we not ask father to fetch the carriage?”

  “Of course!” Jane provided her arm. “We will see you home at once.”

  Elizabeth wondered if she ought to tell Jane that she should not cut her night short on Elizabeth’s behalf, but just as quickly realized that the chances that anyone would see their host again that night were slim indeed. She was astonished that the ball went on, that the music began again, that Miss Bingley was dancing with Mr. Hurst, that Mrs. Hurst was dancing with Mr. Goulding, that Lydia, too, was dancing, dancing, with some man in a bright red coat who was not Mr. Wickham.

  George. Good God. What have you done?

  Elizabeth allowed herself to be bundled off into a carriage, and since Mr. Bingley was still nowhere to be seen, Mrs. Bennet allowed Jane to go with her. Mr. Bennet, Mary, and Mr. Collins rounded out the party, and after the latter’s half-dozen efforts at conversation were met with little response from Mr. Bennet or the actual object of his interest, they were left in blissful silence. Elizabeth looked out the window at the darkness, as if it might provide her with any news, or any peace.

  It did neither.

  At home, as they undressed, Jane wanted to discuss the ball, the glories of Mr. Bingley and his dancing, his conversation, his sweetness. Elizabeth could not do more than listen in stony silence.

  “I am sorry, Lizzy,” Jane said. “You needn’t listen to my chatter if you are ill.”

  “No, Jane” Elizabeth managed. “Please, keep talking, even if I cannot answer.” Her sister’s voice, talking of normal things, might be all that tethered Elizabeth to this world.

  “Might I get you a draught of some sort? A cool cloth? Indeed, you look very ill.” Jane laid a hand against Elizabeth’s brow. “No fever—but I shall nurse you faithfully, as you did while I was lately sick at Netherfield.”

  Elizabeth felt gorge rising in her throat and turned as if to retch, but nothing came.

  Jane studied her with rising alarm. “Perhaps you ate something that did not agree with you. I shall fetch a basin, in case you are taken ill.”

  Elizabeth’s mind was all a jumble. How had it happened? One moment, she was flirting with Mr. Wickham, and then—then, they were on the stairs, and he had said something very rude indeed, and Mr. Darcy—

  But how came Mr. Darcy to have overheard them? What was he doing there, out in the garden? Had he followed Mr. Wickham to try to start some mischief? Did he always mean to challenge the soldier’s presence at the ball and was just waiting to get him in a private place so as not to cause a scene?

  It was all so very difficult to remember now. She had been too upset to even take the measure of their conversation, long before the first punch was thrown. Something about the cliffs of Ramsgate, something about—it was there, right at the edge of her mind, but every time Elizabeth attempted to bring the memory forth, she heard only the echo of a gunshot and saw only the stricken expression on Mr. Darcy’s face as he watched his old companion fall.

  In all honesty, she was not even certain she could recall what had led him to throw the first punch. Though she did know it had been Mr. Darcy who leapt upon Mr. Wickham. Mr. Darcy who had begun the fight. Who had threatened the soldier.

  Unhand her at once… or you shall live to regret it.

  Lord, but what if he hadn’t lived at all?

  And now Elizabeth did retch, and Jane—good, good Jane
, who had somehow known it was coming and stood at the ready—held forth the basin, a mute witness to Elizabeth’s suffering. At last, the fit subsided and everything that might have once been in her stomach was long gone. Jane covered the basin and carried it away, then came back with a mug of water and a cool cloth.

  “You must have eaten something that had gone off,” Jane said gently, helping Elizabeth to bed.

  Elizabeth clung to her sister’s arm. “Oh, Jane. Oh, Jane, whatever shall we do?”

  Jane smiled. “Or perhaps too many cups of wine at the ball? I should not blame you. Mr. Collins’s company might make any young woman forget how many times she has sought a refreshment.”

  Elizabeth shook her head miserably. “I did not drink too much wine.”

  Jane smiled indulgently. “He really is the most dreadful dancer. But, oh, Lizzy, I meant to tell you, I saw you dance with Mr. Darcy this evening. I was most surprised, for had not you promised you would never do so? However did he persuade you to join him?”

  That seemed an age ago. Elizabeth could scarcely remember it.

  As it happened, I took the same path you did into the village.

  He had followed her. She refused to allow him to see her home, so he had followed anyway, to ensure her safety. Perhaps, too, he had followed her tonight.

  “I cannot discuss it now,” she said miserably. She could not talk of Mr. Darcy at all.

  She tried to recall what Mr. Wickham had said to her, in those terrible moments before Mr. Darcy had attacked him. But her memory would not obey. Instead, all she could recall was the expression of shock and pain on his face as he fell to the ground, the way the darkness had spread across his breeches.

  Had he even now found his eternal repose? And if so, what did it matter what he might have said to her? Any offense he may have delivered was surely repaid a thousand times over.

  “Of course,” said Jane. “You must sleep, now, Lizzie. All will be right in the morning.”