Page 43 of Penned By Mr Darcy
Darcy’s jaw tightened.
“You would do well to keep a tighter rein on them, particularly when it comes to engaging in social contact with men that are not known to the family.”
He waited for her indignation - knew his remark bordered on inappropriate, even presumptuous.
But Elizabeth only nodded.
“You are right. I will speak with them.”
He gave a single, tight nod in return. He looked once more tot her sisters. Miss Lydia was laughing, her hand resting upon the red-clad arm of one of the militia. When the man turned, Darcy felt as though he had stumbled into a nightmare.
The air seemed to shift. Darcy’s chest constricted; the ground beneath him felt suddenly unstable.
It was Wickham.
Here, in Hertfordshire. How was it possible?! And the militia – was that his latest scheme? God knows the man possessed no loyalty or sense of duty to anything, much less His Majesty. It had to be a trick, a plot. Darcy could not think clearly, rage fillinghis body as he stared at Wickham. He did not have a care in the world as he spoke to Miss Lydia, his posture and face the same subtle seduction Darcy had seen him use countless times in their shared youth.
“Are you well, sir?” Elizabeth’s voice cut through the haze. “You look pale.”
“I… Yes. Thank you. I must return to Netherfield at once.”
“Mr Darcy?” Her voice followed him as he turned. “Whatever is the matter?”
“Excuse me.”
Without waiting for further questions, he turned sharply on his heel and left. He did not stop walking until he had left the town behind and was well on the way back to Netherfield. The miles it would take to walk there were of no consequence; he did not wish to see anyone, or speak another word.
He had to leave Hertfordshire at once.
Chapter Fourteen
Elizabeth
Elizabeth stared after Mr Darcy’s retreating figure, her brow furrowed in disbelief. Never in her life had she felt such utter confusion. Mr Darcy - so famously composed, so measured - had just departed in a flurry of disarray, his usual calm shattered in the most extraordinary fashion.
She had not the slightest notion what had provoked such a display.
A quick glance behind confirmed that no one else seemed to have noticed his abrupt exit. The assembly remained absorbed in their amusements, and Lydia, ever heedless, was flitting toward the militia with unrestrained glee. Elizabeth followed, though she had neither patience nor interest in watching her sister flirt shamelessly under their mother’s approving gaze.
“Lizzy!” Lydia sang out. “You must meet Mr Wickham!”
Elizabeth stopped mid-step. She must have misheard. Wickham? Surely a coincidence - Wickham could not be such an uncommon name. It was true she had never come across it before, but she was rather sheltered in her acquaintance. It was a coincidence, nothing more.
“Lizzy!” Lydia now tugged her eagerly by the arm, dragging her toward a cluster of red coats. Elizabeth slipped free of her sister’s grasp and approached with her chin held high.
“Lizzy, this is Mr Wickham and Mr Denny.”
“Lieutenant Wickham,” he corrected smoothly, bowing. “A pleasure, Miss Elizabeth. Miss Lydia has spoken warmly of you. I was sorry to hear you and your sister had been unwell.”
Elizabeth offered a polite, tight-lipped smile.How familiar they seem,she thought uneasily. Lydia gazed up at him with the kind of wide-eyed admiration she usually reserved for ribbons and balls.
“I do not believe I’ve heard your name before, sir.”
“You wouldn’t have,” Lydia interjected before he could respond. “He came with the militia - oh, you and Jane missed all the excitement! They looked so fine in their uniforms. It was glorious.”
“Indeed. And where are you from, Mr Wickham?”
“Derbyshire,” he said easily. “Though it’s been some time since I’ve seen it. I have been travelling for some time, even before I joined the militia. It does not feel like I have a home at all.”
