Miss Bingley circled the room, examining each creation with the air of a judge at a livestock fair. When she reached Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy's table, her smile went rigid.
“How... charming,” she said. “If simple.”
“I think it is lovely,” Jane offered from nearby.
“Quite the most elegant thing here,” Mr. Bingley agreed, beaming at everyone indiscriminately.
Miss Bingley looked for a moment like she had chewed on a lemon, peel and all.
During the refreshment interval, Elizabeth drifted toward the punch bowl, hoping to collect her scattered thoughts.
She did not get one.
Mr. Wickham came to her side, his smile warm and familiar. “Miss Elizabeth. I have been hoping for a private word.”
Elizabeth accepted a cup of punch she did not want. “Of course.”
“I could not help noticing your pairing with Mr. Darcy.” His voice dropped, becoming confidential. “I hope he was not too disagreeable. He can be... difficult in such intimate settings.”
“He was perfectly civil.”
“Civil.” Mr. Wickham's laugh held an edge. “Yes, Darcy can manage civility when it suits him. But you must not be fooled, Miss Elizabeth. Beneath that polished exterior lies a man capable of great cruelty.”
Elizabeth said nothing.
Mr. Wickham continued, warming to his theme. “Did I tell you about the living he denied me? His father, the late Mr. Darcy, a truly excellent man, promised me a valuable church living. But when the elder Mr. Darcy died, his son refused to honor the promise. Cast me out without a penny.”
“You mentioned something of the sort before.”
“I cannot help dwelling on it. The injustice haunts me still.”
Elizabeth listened with growing unease.
The story was the same and yet not quite. Details shifted. Emphasis changed. The living had been “valuable” before; now it was “modest but sufficient.” The elder Mr. Darcy had “promised” the living; now he had “all but guaranteed” it.
These were the sort of embellishments a practiced liar might offer when telling the same tale too many times. Or when he thought the original was not having the desired impact.
Elizabeth glanced across the room. Mr. Darcy stood near the fireplace, speaking with Jane and Mr. Bingley. His expression was calm—too calm, she now recognized—but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful control he maintained.
Mr. Wickham followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed. “Darcy does put on a fine show, does he not?” Mr. Wickham's voice had gone cold. “The noble gentleman, above reproach. But I know what he truly is.”
“And what is that?” Elizabeth asked.
Mr. Wickham’s expression grew suddenly grave. “I would not trouble you with the specifics. Not here. Not now.”
Not ever, she suspected. If Mr. Wickham had been so horribly wronged, why not simply state the problem instead of making insinuations?
But if there was nothing to it, why did Mr. Darcy endure Mr. Wickham's barbs in silence? The gentlemen clearly despised each other.
And Elizabeth did not like being stuck in the center of it.
“You must excuse me,” Elizabeth said abruptly. “I see my mother requires assistance.”
She left Mr. Wickham mid-sentence and did not look back.
Elizabeth found a quiet alcove near the back of the room—a small space half-hidden by a decorative screen. She pressed her back against the wall and closed her eyes, willing her racing heart to slow.
Footsteps approached. She opened her eyes to find Mr. Darcy stepping around the screen, his expression startled.
