Page 6 of Chasing Shadows
Elizabeth arched a brow. “And what, pray, has emboldened you now?”
He hesitated, then said with a half-wry smile: “Tragedy, perhaps. It reminds one that chances ought not be wasted. And perhaps the good fortune of meeting you in a less crowded assembly.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved faintly. “You flatter me, Mr. Reeds. But I am glad you asked. It is a comfort to dance with a partner so composed.”
“You do me great honour,” he said, then after a pause, his tone sobered. “Yet my thoughts are not far from recent events. I understand you were… very near to them.”
Elizabeth’s expression grew thoughtful. “Yes. Too near, perhaps. I and Mr. Wickham argued with Mr. Darcy the night before—” her voice faltered—“Tell me, sir, were you present at the apothecary when Mr. Wickham was brought in?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “By the time Mr. Jones called me, the poor man had already passed.”
“I see,” Elizabeth murmured.
“A grievous affair,” he said. “I know I am but newly come to Meryton, yet I cannot think the town has ever known such unease. I can scarce imagine what it must be to live beneath such a shadow. Had I not found purpose in my work with Mr. Jones, in serving the people here and perhaps in time doing more, I might almost be tempted to depart altogether.”
They danced in silence for a turn.
“I am sorry you arrived at so unfortunate a season,” Elizabeth said at last. “Meryton is, in truth, a peaceful place. I am certain, once these matters are resolved, you will see it so.”
“I hope it is soon,” Mr. Reeds replied gravely. “I heard talk that the parish constable pursued the killer, but there was a narrow escape. I daresay none of us feels entirely secure.”
“No,” Elizabeth admitted. “We do not. Yet I believe we soon shall. Everyone, including Mr. Darcy and the militia, is doing all that can be done to bring this evil to an end.”
Mr. Reeds’ gaze followed hers toward Darcy before returning, softer now. “I hope the neighbourhood may come to see that he too is something of a victim in this business.” His expression gentled still further. “Please forgive me for bringingup the affair. I did not mean to add to your burdens. I only hope this evening affords you a measure of comfort.”
“It does,” Elizabeth said quietly. Her lips curved in the faintest smile. “Thank you, sir.”
The dance soon ended. The celebration, modest as it was, continued with the usual cheer of a village wedding. Toasts were made, and the bride and groom were congratulated. Yet through it all, Elizabeth could not wholly turn her mind from the tall figure who remained on the edge of the crowd—watching, silent, restrained. Neither could she forget that there was still a killer on the loose.
And so the day concluded. Charlotte Lucas was now Mrs. Collins, and the guests departed one by one, the hum of gossip already shifting from bride to gentleman. For all the vows spoken beneath the roof of Lucas Lodge, it was the presence of Fitzwilliam Darcy that lingered longest in the minds of many as they returned to their homes.
***
Darcy remained at the edge of the assembly, where the shadows of the room seemed a fitting refuge. He had not wished to attend, yet Mr. Collins had pressed upon him with great solemnity the necessity of his presence, invoking Lady Catherine’s name as though her august interest were bound up in the day. To have refused, after such pompous insistence, would only have provided further matter for gossip. And so he endured it, though every moment among that company felt like a test of his composure.
The air was thick with unease. He felt the weight of every glance, the murmur of every whisper that shifted the instant he arrived. Some eyes regarded him with open suspicion, others with guarded civility, but all seemed to mark his movements as though he bore contagion. Better, then,to hold himself apart. He engaged in no more than the plainest courtesies, sought no conversation, and touched no refreshment. If his conduct was called proud or cold, he would bear it. What he would not do was give the killer on the loose an excuse to strike again through his unwary speech or misplaced step.
Yet his resolve faltered when his gaze fell upon her. Elizabeth, all lightness and grace, moved through the figures of the dance. Her partner, Mr. Reeds, watched her with a look of earnest admiration that set Darcy’s jaw tight. She smiled at some remark, a fleeting expression that was more restrained than joyous, yet it pierced him nonetheless. If times were different, if suspicion did not hang upon him like a millstone, surely he would have gone to her, claimed her hand, and at last set aside the foolish anger and pride that had kept him from the request before.
How strange, he thought, that some quarrel or fresh calamity had marred every ball in Meryton since his arrival and prevented him from approaching her. And now, when every fibre of his being urged him to cross the room, he stood rooted, chained by circumstance.
Her eyes, those fine, dark eyes that had first unsettled his judgement at the Meryton assembly, were fixed on her partner, attentive, kind, and wholly beyond his reach. The sight stirred a pang he would not allow to show.
Yet stronger than jealousy was the pall that hung over them all. The killer still walked free, waiting unseen, and every moment of inaction felt like an invitation to tragedy. His cousin urged patience, insisting they must bide their time until the killer made a mistake. But to Darcy, patience meant another victim, another innocent life lost to serve as bait, and he could not reconcile himself to such cold necessity. If blood must bespilt again, let it be his own. Better the fiend come for him than make sport of others.
The dance ended, the company turned to their toasts, and Charlotte Lucas was announced as Mrs. Collins. Darcy watched the parson preen, inflated with consequence, while his bride bore her new station with quiet composure.
Darcy’s mind drifted back to Bingley’s casual confidence that Collins’s suit had first been directed toward Elizabeth. His gaze found her again across the room, and the thought arose: what if she had accepted? The notion jarred him. To see her bound to that pompous little man, condemned to a life of obsequious duty beneath Lady Catherine’s hand, seemed almost unthinkable.
A surprising flicker of relief stirred in him, quickly followed by perplexity. Why should it matter to him whom she refused? He knew so little of her, had shared only a handful of conversations. Yet even in those brief exchanges, he had discerned a lively intelligence that marked her unsuited to such a match. That, at least, was explanation enough. And yet…
Darcy pressed his lips together, unwilling to pursue the thought further. Better to school his mind to silence, as he schooled his countenance, and endure the evening with such composure as remained to him.
Chapter Four
The note came to Tobias Hatch folded twice and sealed with a smear of red wax. The errand boy said only that Mr. Jones had received a reply from London. Tobias broke the seal at once.
The letter was brief. The supplier had checked his ledger. A small quantity of ether had been sent into the county last month. One name had been recorded: Mr. Richard Doughty.
