Elizabeth stopped in front of Charlotte, her brow arched.
Grinning, Charlotte said, “Lizzy, he has eyes for no one but you. He treats me with politeness, probably because he knows we are close, but no more, as you are well aware.”
Tapping her toe on the dirt road, Elizabeth said, “I need to verify Mr. Wickham’s claims before Mr. Darcy returns from London.”
Charlotte threw her hands into the air. “But that is just it, is it not? If he keeps to his pattern, he will not return. If he does, he is not the man Mr. Wickham claims him to be.”
“Exactly.” Elizabeth gathered her composure. “I will wait. I will think clearly. I will not condemn Mr. Darcy without proof. With that said, I will not ignore what Mr. Wickham has told me either.”
“That seems wise.”
“Does it?” Elizabeth’s laugh was bitter. “I feel anything but wise. I feel like a fool.”
Charlotte wrapped Elizabeth’s arm in hers. “Come. Let us walk slowly back to Longbourn. You need time to compose yourself before your mother sees you.”
They walked in silence for a while. Finally, Elizabeth spoke. “His details were specific, Charlotte. Why would he lie? What would he gain?”
“I do not know. Revenge against Mr. Darcy for some past grievance? A desire to hurt him by hurting you?” Charlotte glanced at her friend. “Or perhaps he is telling the truth as he understands it, though misinterpreting what he witnessed.”
Elizabeth desperately wanted to believe Charlotte’s observations. She whispered, the admission torn from her. “God help me, Charlotte, I love Fitzwilliam. And if Mr. Wickham is telling the truth, then I have given my heart to a man who will crush it for sport.
“And if Mr. Wickham is lying?”
“Then I have doubted the man I love based on the words of a charming stranger. That doubt may poison everything between us.” Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears.
Charlotte squeezed her arm gently. “Then you must discover the truth before you make any decisions. Do not condemn Mr. Darcy, but do not give him your future either until you are certain.”
Elizabeth drew a shaking breath. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “No, Charlotte. I misspoke. I willnotallow doubt to poison what I feel. I will not condemn Fitzwilliam in my mind beforeI have proof. He deserves better than that.” Her fists tightened. “We deserve better than that. And if Mr. Wickham is lying—if this is all some vicious game—then Fitzwilliam will need me to have faith in him.”
The days followingher introduction to Mr. Wickham passed in a state Elizabeth could only describe as restless uncertainty. The agony of waiting with eagerness to see Darcy again battled against the doubt that he was the man she considered him to be.
She had chosen not to return to Meryton, citing the inclement weather and preparations for the ball as her excuse. Jane accepted this without question; her mother, preoccupied with those same preparations, hardly noticed.
The very idea of accidentally meeting Mr. Wickham, of having to exchange pleasantries while her heart hammered with this dreadful knowledge, made her physically ill.
Yet neither could she find peace at home. The ball loomed before her like some unavoidable precipice—necessary, dreaded, and drawing ever closer with each passing hour. She needed to attend, to have this matter settled once and for all, to see with her own eyes what would transpire when Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham met again.
It was in this divided state of mind—eagerly anticipating resolution while simultaneously wishing she might avoid it forever—that Elizabeth set out for her walk on the afternoon before the ball, only to see a rider approaching. Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Her heart seized. This was her chance to know.
He caught sight of her and dismounted immediately, his face breaking into a warm smile. “Miss Bennet! What perfect timing. I only arrived an hour ago and was about to call at Longbourn.”
“Colonel,” She curtsied, her heart racing. “You have returned for the ball? Is Mr. Darcy with you?”
“Darcy was delayed in London by some business matter. He assured me that he would be here tomorrow.”
Delayed?A frisson of doubt shot through her. She tamped it down.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam.” She swallowed. Forced herself to continue with a question that surely resembled stepping off a cliff. “May I ask you about people you might know from Rosings Park?”
“Of course.” He was entirely at ease, unaware of the precipice she stood on. “Do you know my aunt?”
“I do not.” Her hands twisted together in the folds of her skirt. “Are you acquainted with Miss Olivia Mason, Miss Margaret Smythe, and Miss Constance Hampton?”
His brow furrowed in thought. “Mason…yes, I believe so. I often saw all three at Rosings during some of my visits there. Why do you ask?”
The world tilted beneath Elizabeth’s feet. Her vision began to narrow, black spots dancing at the edges.
