Page 14 of I Thee Wed (Pride And Prejudice Variation #2)

Elizabeth sat at the supper table in a quiet corner with Colonel Fitzwilliam. He had served her a plate and then drawn his chair near to hers so they might converse without being overheard.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said with an admiring smile, “how many years have you studied with a singing master? I have seldom heard a voice so lovely.”

She returned his smile. “You are extravagant in your praise, Colonel. I am unused to such lavish compliments. My voice is a gift. Had I depended upon a master, I would still be waiting. Mamma refused me years ago, saying lessons on the pianoforte were sufficient.”

“I believe I must thank your mother,” he replied, “for a temperament entirely free of vanity. I have spent years in ballrooms, both in London and upon the Continent while I was in service there, and I have learned that the more beautiful and accomplished a lady is, the more vain she may become, until she is almost unendurable.”

From his earnest look, she knew this was no idle observation, but experience. He went on. “I suspect, Miss Elizabeth, that your mother’s idolizing your sister’s fair beauty spared you an excess of compliments and left you pure and unspoiled.” He grinned.

She grinned back. “Colonel, my sister Jane has heard praise for her beauty all her life. One gentleman even wrote a poem to celebrate it, and yet she is the most humble person I know.”

He glanced toward the far end of the table, where Jane sat with Mr. Bingley, then back to Elizabeth. “You are correct, and I agree with you. Your sister is not vain either. You have no idea how refreshing it is, Miss Elizabeth, to meet a lady who is without guile and unaffected.”

She laughed. “Colonel, really, you must stop giving me these extravagant compliments, or you will spoil me for everyday life.”

His low chuckle broadened her own smile.

It was then that they both heard a melodic baritone voice behind them.

It was Mr. Darcy speaking, for she would know his voice anywhere.

She glanced behind her and saw him standing beside Sir Lawrence along the wall, conversing with no thought for privacy or for the pain such words might engender if the wrong person heard them.

“Yes,” Darcy said, “she is lovely and very genteel, but her mother is vulgar and loud. Any man who marries the daughter will be saddled with the mother. And from what I hear, the youngest is formed in the matron’s image.”

Sir Lawrence answered, “A man marries a wife, not the mother.”

“True,” Darcy returned, “but in this instance the estate is entailed away from the female line, and some poor sod will find himself shackled to that mother.”

“That is easily managed,” Sir Lawrence said. “One may lease a small house for the mother near her friends and settle her there. As for the youngest daughter, a respectable school would limit the mother’s influence.”

There could be no mistake: they spoke of her family.

The words struck like a blow. Heat rushed to Elizabeth’s face; tears stung, but she would not let them fall.

She kept her eyes lowered, swallowed the rising pain, and said, “Pray excuse me, Colonel.” She rose, turned away from Mr. Darcy, and walked, with as much composure as she could summon, out of the supper room.

On the balcony, the windows stood open, and a lovely breeze cooled her cheeks.

Elizabeth stood silently, looking up into the heavens, and began to examine the words not meant for her ears.

She had begun to think him a friend. How could he speak so of her family, and to a man newly introduced?

What must Sir Lawrence think of her now?

Shame pricked, then the hurt welled larger than shame.

She could not remain at the ball to face either gentleman.

She could not even face the Colonel, who knew she had heard the censure.

Elizabeth looked along the corridor. No one approached. She made her way to the entrance and addressed the footman. “Michael, my cloak, if you please.”

He brought it at once. She drew it about her shoulders. “When my family readies to leave, please tell my father that I developed the headache and have chosen to walk home. He is not to worry. The air will do me good. I shall take the Gladstone path along the creek.”

“Are you certain, Miss Elizabeth? I can call for the gig and have a boy drive you.”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “No. I prefer the walk, and it is not far. You remember when the Talbots lived here? I came nearly every day to visit Agnes and AnnMarie.”

He smiled faintly. “I do, miss. It is not the distance that concerns me, only the hour.”

“Have no concerns for me. There are no stray dogs upon the path, and no vagabonds either. I shall be safe, I promise.” Before he could argue further, she slipped out into the night.

Elizabeth kept a swift pace until she reached the head of the trail.

The sound of the brook comforted her. She paused to look up at the stars, which tonight shone bright and familiar.

She thought of the many evenings when her father had spread a blanket upon the lawn near the hermitage, and all five sisters had lain on their backs gazing at the constellations.

Even little Lydia had been allowed to stargaze, though she was so young that everyone knew she would soon fall asleep beneath the open sky.

The memory consoled her. Sheltered by the wood, she slowed from a run to a brisk walk, and her thoughts returned, unwelcome, to the supper room.

Men of wealth and consequence had spoken of her as if she were a problem to be solved.

Sir Lawrence had been reasonable, even kind.

If he loved a woman encumbered by relations, he would contrive a way.

And what was a vulgar mother when high-born families themselves were not without misbehaving kin.

She was grateful Mr. Darcy had not named her uncle from Cheapside.

Trade would weigh more heavily against her than a mother’s want of delicacy.

Nothing could soften the injury. He had called her genteel with one breath and condemned her family with the next.

The pain of it settled deep. She had been bewitched earlier that evening; now she felt foolish for it.

Caroline Bingley trailed behind Mr. Darcy and Sir Lawrence, hoping to be noticed by one of them.

She stopped just beyond the open door that led into the supper room and waited.

They had paused to talk, and before long her patience was fully rewarded.

Darcy’s voice carried easily across the hum of conversation, and Caroline caught every word he spoke.

He gave Pembroke a full, unvarnished account of Eliza’s vulgar mother, her unruly sister, and the family’s general want of propriety. Caroline’s heart leapt, and all her vexations melted away as though they had never been.

Her delight was complete. Here, at last, was abundant proof that Mr. Darcy saw Elizabeth and her family with clear eyes.

He was not blind to their follies. He had endured a dance with her; he had even shown her uncommon attention, but he knew her limitations and had judged her unworthy, as indeed she was. Caroline’s lips curved in satisfaction.

Then her eye lit upon Elizabeth herself.

She was seated not six feet from where the two men tore her family to shreds, and it was plain she had heard every word, every syllable of censure that dropped from Mr. Darcy’s mouth.

Caroline watched with pleasure as Elizabeth rose from her chair, excused herself to the colonel, and with flaming cheeks walked out of the room.

With any luck, she would not return. Perhaps she would even quit the ball altogether.

The thought that Mr. Darcy had driven his lady love from the room made Caroline titter behind her fan, and in that moment, she realized she was truly happy.

How she would crow over Miss Eliza the next time they met in Meryton, perhaps at the milliner’s, perhaps at the haberdashery, an accidental meeting, and Caroline would speak with silken condescension, reciting every detail of the conversation, while Elizabeth squirmed with the memory.

Caroline allowed herself a quiet laugh. She had fretted needlessly over Darcy’s attentions, had tormented herself that he might be ensnared by Elizabeth’s arch looks and rustic charms. Now she need fear nothing. He had spoken with brutal honesty, and Elizabeth Bennet had heard it with her own ears.

Caroline folded her fan with one final snap. How sweet it felt to triumph.

Colonel Fitzwilliam waited for Miss Elizabeth to return.

She had excused herself just as Darcy began airing his opinions in the ladies’ hearing.

She had not seemed angry, merely desirous of not listening further, and he expected she would soon come back to finish her plate.

It was most unfortunate that Darcy had chosen such a topic at a ball.

Perhaps Sir Lawrence had inquired after Miss Elizabeth.

Even so, it was no concern of Darcy’s to rehearse the family history.

It was ungentlemanly to gossip, and Richard meant to tell him so.

A quarter of an hour passed. She did not return.

He went in search of her. The maid who served the women’s retiring room reported she was not within. Neither the library, the drawing room, nor the salon where cards were being played afforded any sign. He was standing in the great hall, debating where next to look, when Darcy approached.

“Richard, Miss Elizabeth was with you not twenty minutes ago. I had hoped to ask for another dance, but you were both gone. Where is she?”

Richard was angry. “Darcy, I could take you outside and throw a few punches.”

Darcy stared. “What can you mean? Why are you angry with me?”

“Miss Elizabeth overheard you denigrating her mother, and the sister formed in her image. I am only thankful you did not add the Gardiners, for we both owe them a debt for sheltering Georgiana.”

Darcy flushed. “She heard me? How is that possible? I spoke privately with Pembroke.”

“Your voice carries. And this is a ball, not a private club. I dare say more than Miss Elizabeth heard you. Perhaps half the room has heard your opinion by now.” Richard’s frown deepened. “Why would such a subject arise at supper?”

Darcy’s color heightened. “Where is she? I must apologize.”

“If I knew, I should be with her. She did not return to the table, nor to the retiring room. I have searched all the principal rooms.”

Darcy glanced toward the terrace. “The balcony may be open, she wouldn’t have left on foot, would she?”

“You check with the footman at the front. She would have to pass that way,” Richard said. “I shall check the balcony.”

Darcy strode to the entrance. “Have you seen Miss Elizabeth Bennet within the past half hour?” he asked the footman.

“Yes, sir,” Michael replied. “Miss Elizabeth requested her cloak and left about twenty minutes since. She left a message for her father.”

“Have you delivered it?”

“No, sir. She said to give it when the family prepared to leave.”

“What was the message?”

“That she had a headache and would walk home for the air. I offered the gig and groom, but she refused. She said she would be perfectly safe.”

“Which way did she go?”

“She said she would take the Gladstone path along the creek, sir.” He gestured. “It lies that way. The servants use it to walk into Meryton. It is well kept and free of bramble, but it’s only a footpath.”

Darcy considered. A horse would be of little use. He could not carry her before him home, and the path would not take a gig. “Thank you. Tell Colonel Fitzwilliam I have gone by the creek path to escort Miss Bennet. Tell him at once. He is also searching for her.”

With that, he left the house and walked into the night.

His stride was long, and he covered ground quickly; at times, he ran.

The path was narrow, and his dance shoes were ill-suited; he thought with a flicker of humor of his valet’s dismay.

The sky above seemed pricked with an uncommon number of stars.

After what felt like an age, though it was scarcely half an hour, he saw her at last. She stood in the center of the path, head tipped back, looking up at the heavens. In the starlight, her skin had the sheen of pearls. He halted, struck for a moment by the sight, then shook himself to purpose.

What could he say to her now?