Page 19

Story: A Lady’s Gambit

“I am glad to hear it,” he said, though his gaze lingered for a moment longer, as if weighing the sincerity of her response. “You seemed... thoughtful, as we waited to be seated. I hope the day has not brought you any unpleasantness.”

Charlotte hesitated—just a fraction too long. “Only a trifle, I assure you. Nothing to concern the dinner table.”

There was a flicker of understanding in Darcy’s expression, but he did not press her. “Then I hope the evening will serve as a pleasant distraction.”

Paying close attention to the conversation, Sir William added with a grin, ‘I believe I was the cause of our delay, Mr. Darcy. The prospect of such distinguished company made me quite unreasonably particular about my cravat.”

There was polite laughter. Mr. Hurst reached for his glass without comment and had already begun contemplating the cut of the pheasant.

Miss Bingley, sipping her wine with such delicacy that it seemed more for effect than enjoyment, turned toward Mr. Darcy with a languid smile.

“Netherfield is so fortunate in its neighbors,” she remarked airily. “Though I daresay, the distances feel longer than the miles suggest.” Her voice had a slight edge—too sweet, too arch to be pleasant.

Mr. Darcy offered no reply. His gaze drifted past her without acknowledgment and returned instead to Miss Lucas, whose quiet composure held more interest than all of Miss Bingley’s fluttering charm.

Mrs. Hurst leaned toward Lady Lucas with a whisper of perfume and idle curiosity. “Do you find country engagements as lively as those in Town?”

Always ready with cheerful diplomacy, Lady Lucas responded, “We make what we can of them. A good dinner, pleasant company—what more can one ask for?”

“A little less conversation, perhaps,” Mr. Hurst muttered into his plate as he signaled for another helping of ragout.

Mr. Bingley, whose ears had not missed the remark, laughed heartily but with a glance of warning at his brother-in-law. “You shall be served abundantly, Mr. Hurst, never fear—but we do hope our conversation can rise to meet your standards.”

“A standard not easily matched,” Darcy observed dryly, “though the pheasant appears willing to try.”

Only Charlotte caught the slight lift at the corner of his mouth.

Walter Lucas, seated proudly beside Miss Bingley, attempted polite engagement. “It is very good of you, sir,” he said to Bingley, “to receive us while the house is still in its final touches.”

“You are generous to say so,” Bingley replied. “We are not yet entirely rid of the scent of varnish, I fear.”

“It smells of new beginnings,” said Lady Lucas, to general approval.

Sir William cleared his throat with uncontainable pride as the footman replenished the glasses.

“If I may beg your indulgence for a moment,” he said, rising slightly from his seat and beaming at the company, “I should like to offer my heartfelt thanks to our gracious host. Mr. Bingley, we are truly honored by your presence in Hertfordshire. Your arrival—and that of your esteemed family and friends—has already brought a welcome air of refinement and animation to our modest neighborhood. May I express my sincerest hope that you will remain at Netherfield for a good long while. And I do assure you, sir, that at Lucas Lodge you will always find neighbors who are both dependable and sincerely appreciative.”

There was a pause, just long enough for glasses to be raised.

Mr. Bingley, clearly pleased, inclined his head with a bright smile. “Sir William, your kindness does me a great deal of honor. I can only hope to deserve such warmth—and I shall certainly rely on your friendship as I make Netherfield my home.”

Not to be outdone, Lady Lucas added with genuine emotion, “Indeed, we are quite fortunate in our neighbors already, and I trust this evening is but the beginning of many such happy occasions.”

Miss Bingley raised her glass with polished grace, though the curve of her smile stopped well short of sincerity. “Hertfordshire, I see, does not suffer a want of civility.”

Ignoring the faint sarcasm in her tone, Mr. Darcy murmured, “A sentiment well put, Sir William,” before returning to the quiet contemplation of his wine.

And Mr. Hurst, unmoved by either sentiment or fainting spells, grunted for more pheasant.

Charlotte’s attention shifted abruptly from the conversation as she noticed her brother’s pallor.

“Walter?” she asked in a low voice, leaning slightly toward him. “You look unwell—are you quite alright?”

Her brother attempted a wan smile. “It is warmer than I anticipated.”

But as he reached for his wineglass, his hand trembled visibly, and the slight sway of his posture betrayed the effort it took to remain upright.

Mr. Darcy, seated just beside her, narrowed his gaze and set down his glass.

“Mr. Lucas,” he said evenly, “I believe you ought to take some air.”

“I—no, I am—” Walter began, but his voice faltered.

Charlotte was already rising from her chair, her concern deepening.

“Walter, do not be foolish. You are clearly unwell.”

Walter pushed back from the table slightly and gripped the back of his chair for balance. Mr. Darcy was on his feet in an instant.

“Allow me,” he said, moving swiftly around Mr. Hurst’s chair to Charlotte’s side. Together, they reached Walter just as his knees gave slightly beneath him.

Charlotte caught her brother’s shoulders in a steadying embrace while Mr. Darcy leaned forward, quickly loosening Walter’s cravat.

“Some water,” he said over his shoulder, his voice calm but firm.

The footman, already alerted by the shift in tone, appeared with a glass. Charlotte helped her brother sip, steadying the glass as he drank. Darcy took it from her hand and splashed a small measure onto Walter’s forehead.

“I believe some air might help. Can you stand, Mr. Lucas?”

Walter nodded weakly.

Darcy placed a firm hand beneath the young man’s arm and helped him gently to his feet. Together, they guided him toward the balcony doors, which a servant opened without prompting. Cool air swept in as they stepped outside.

Behind them, Lady Lucas had half-risen from her seat in alarm, but Mr. Darcy turned briefly to reassure her.

“It appears to be only faintness, madam. The heat, perhaps. I will see to him—please do not be concerned.”

His voice carried the calm confidence of one accustomed to being obeyed. Lady Lucas sank back into her chair with a trembling nod, and Sir William leaned forward in his seat, squinting toward the balcony. “No need to worry, my dear,” he said softly to his wife. “Charlotte is with him.”

Mr. Bingley, clearly unsettled but determined not to alarm the others, offered a few genial words about the room’s warmth and directed the footman to fetch another decanter of claret—though it was plainly no fault of the wine.

Miss Bingley’s brows drew together in faint distaste, while Mrs. Hurst leaned closer to her husband and muttered, “Poor lad. Not built for wine, evidently.”

Outside, on the balcony, Mr. Darcy eased Walter into one of the wicker chairs and crouched beside him. Charlotte stood nearby, watching with deepening worry.

Darcy’s hand remained steady on Walter’s arm.

“Better now, young man?” he asked.

Walter nodded faintly. “Yes, thank you. I believe the air is helping.”

Charlotte gave a sigh of relief, though her eyes remained wary.

Darcy glanced up at her briefly and said in a low voice, “We shall stay until he feels steady. There is no cause for concern yet.”

Charlotte nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”

He inclined his head once, then turned his attention back to Walter, who was beginning to breathe more evenly.

The evening’s festive tone had shifted—but thanks to Mr. Darcy’s swift action and Charlotte’s care, it had not collapsed.

Inside, the company worked to recover the mood.

Outside, under the cool night air, a young man recovered slowly, and two observers found themselves caught in a shared silence more meaningful than conversation.

Charlotte reentered the dining room with a calm expression, offering her parents and the assembled guests a reassuring smile. “Walter is quite well,” she announced gently. “It was merely a momentary faintness. Mr. Darcy was very kind in assisting him. Walter is already much recovered.”

Lady Lucas exhaled in relief, her hand fluttering to her collar. Sir William looked visibly appeased. The dinner guests resumed conversation in low tones, and Charlotte slipped again from the room.

The air on the balcony was crisp and cool, contrasting with the warmth and flickering candlelight within. Walter now sat on a cushioned bench, a glass of water in hand, his color slowly returning. Mr. Darcy stood beside him, quietly attentive.

“Do not worry,” Darcy was saying. “Such spells can come from little more than the wrong sort of wine—or insufficient rest. You are quite young, Mr. Lucas. Your constitution will right itself before long.”

Walter offered a weak smile. “I thank you, sir. It was most embarrassing.”

“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” Darcy replied. “Such things happen to many. Better in good company than alone.”

Charlotte approached quietly. “Walter, are you quite well now?”

“Well enough, Charlotte. Do not fuss,” he replied in a low voice. After a glance toward Mr. Darcy, as if seeking his approval, he added, “You should go back inside, sister. I shall follow shortly.”

Charlotte gave him a look of gentle reproach. “I shall remain, for I have something important to discuss with Mr. Darcy. But first, I must ask you—please do not say anything to Mother or Father. Let them enjoy their evening. Will you promise me that?”

“I shall say nothing, Charlotte. I promise.”

“Good.”

She turned to Mr. Darcy, who had heard her intentions and had been observing the exchange with a composed, unreadable expression.

“Mr. Darcy,” she began after a short pause, “I hope you will not think me forward, but I chose to speak to you tonight because I am troubled by a delicate matter. Might I speak to you?”

“By all means.”