Page 151 of Companions of Their Youth
But could she betray the trust of the men who had raised her?
She rubbed her thumb along the edge of the desk, troubled. She could not decide alone. And thankfully, she did not have to.
Papa said I might come to him. That I could ask his counsel, always.
She straightened her shoulders, crossed the room, and opened the door. Her steps were quiet but certain as shedescended the stairs and turned toward the one room she knew would never be locked against her.
∞∞∞
Darcy woke with a groan.
His head ached faintly, not from drink, but from exhaustion. The light filtering through the curtains was pale and overcast—he could not tell the hour, but it felt too early and too late all at once. He pressed a hand to his forehead and lay back against the pillow.
Then it all returned.
The ball. Elizabeth in his arms on the dance floor, her eyes bright with mischief and mystery. Wickham’s sudden appearance. The shot. The poker. The kiss.
He blinked hard and let out a long breath. How had so much happened in one evening?
It felt both like a dream and something far more real than anything else in his life.
Upon returning to the ball, Darcy’s first task had been to seek out Mr. Bennet. He found the gentleman near the card tables, a glass of port in hand and a mild smirk hovering about his mouth, as if half the room’s chaos amused him.
“She is home,” Darcy had said quietly. “I saw her to the door myself. Your man Stephens took charge of her.”
Mr. Bennet’s brow lifted and a small smile touched his lips. “Stephens, was it? Well, then I have no concerns.”
Darcy hesitated. “Your man has… a forthrightness that exceeds his station. He blocked my entry quite directly.”
To Darcy’s surprise, Mr. Bennet chuckled softly into his glass. “Yes, he does that. Comes with age and long service. When someone has dressed your wounds, scolded you for climbing trees at twenty and thirty, and poured your brandy through every grief and joy, you tend to forgive a little impudence.”
Darcy nodded, subdued. It was a dynamic foreign to him—more intimate than any he had known with a servant. But it suited the Bennets.
After that, he offered polite nods and accepted congratulations from acquaintances and strangers alike. Most were gracious; a few merely civil. Miss Bingley’s attempts at icy commentary had no string. Many wondered where Elizabeth was, and the reply was that she had returned home with a megrim.
Darcy felt no desire to linger, especially without his betrothed at his side, so he begged leave of Bingley and excused himself from the remainder of the ball. He had done all that was expected of him in society’s eye, or so he hoped, and he was eager to find his bed.
Although he had fallen asleep quickly, rest had been difficult to attain—his dreams too full of images both thrilling and disturbing. Elizabeth in his arms, her lips on his. Elizabeth pressed against the wall, a pistol at her cheek. The whiplash of emotion kept him from finding peace.
Now it was morning, and further sleep was no longer forthcoming.
He dressed quickly, eager for news. There were too many loose ends. Though Elizabeth was safe and Wickham locked away, a restless tension still knotted in his chest. He needed to know it was truly over. Or at least that it had begun—the process of bringing Wickham to justice.
When he entered the breakfast room, he found Colonel Fitzwilliam already seated, fully dressed and nursing a cup of strong tea. He looked as though he had slept no better than Darcy had.
“You look dreadful,” Fitzwilliam said cheerfully, lifting his cup in salute.
“You are not far behind,” Darcy replied, pouring his own and sinking into the chair across from him. “How did everything go last night in getting Wickham settled?”
Fitzwilliam set his cup down. “It went smoothly. The gaol was empty—thank God for small mercies—and the bars are thick enough to satisfy even a Highland jailer. Wickham barely stirred. Between the blow to the head and whatever pain he was in lower down…”
Darcy arched a brow. “He did not speak?”
“Oh, he tried,” Fitzwilliam said with a grin. “But your lady struck him hard enough to break his jaw. When he did manage a sound, it was more whimper than word.”
Darcy blinked. “Truly?”
“Truly. Right at the hinge. He will be lucky if he can eat anything tougher than broth for a month. Your Miss Elizabethhas an admirable arm.” He lifted his cup again in admiration. “My compliments.”
