His voice was cold, edged with disbelief, as if her knowledge itself was suddenly a threat.
Elizabeth stared at Mr. Darcy in bewilderment. Whatever was he on about? It was clear that mention of Mr. Wickham had roused some great anger. But, to accuse her of some deceit merely because she had spoken of Wickham could not be comprehended.
“Mr. Darcy! Please, sir, listen to me. Is not Georgiana your sister? How is it that she should know that man?”
“You would involve my sister in this?” Darcy shot back, mistrust etched across his face. “How do you even know her name? I have done everything to keep it unknown here in this backwater!” He turned abruptly and stalked away, determined to put distance between himself and the lady. That she would know Wickham, and even more, that she knew of Georgiana—what kind of scheme was this?
* * *
Elizabeth stood uncertain in the middle of the crowded dance floor. At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to her, his path to the other side of the room interrupted by the sight of her standing alone.
He paused, offered a courteous bow, and, with a kindness that made her smile despite herself, said, “Miss Elizabeth, may I have the pleasure of completing the set with you? I see that Mr. Darcy is indisposed, and you are without a partner.”
Without thinking, Elizabeth accepted his hand, grateful for his easy charm. Together, they moved up the line; his cheerful conversation and gentle jokes—especially his teasing about Mr. Collins’s sudden interest in Charlotte—lightened her mood, if only for a moment. The anxiety she had felt while dancing with Mr. Darcy faded, replaced by the familiar comfort of Sir William’s company. Still, a shadow lingered at the edge of her thoughts: Georgiana Darcy, Mr. Darcy’s sister, was surely travelling with Mr. Wickham. Another lady, Mrs. Younge, was in the carriage with them; mayhap, at the very least, the young girl was chaperoned.
But why had Mr. Darcy’s easy manner—seemingly, he had enjoyed her gentle teasing—so suddenly disappeared? She wished that men, upon first meeting her, did not become infatuated, no matter how quickly such attention passed. Ever since her gift—if she were to call it that—had appeared as a young girl, she had felt their eyes upon her. Most, like William Goulding, had expressed their admiration but then, recognising that their interest was not reciprocated, replaced infatuation with amity, desire with affection. Others, as in the case of her cousin Mr. Collins, soon redirected their interest towards another lady entirely; but a few—as Mr. Darcy now seemed—took offence, responding with a petulance that implied she was to blame for not returning their feelings; perhaps embarrassed by their infatuation.
The dance ended. Sir William released her hand with another bow and vanished into the throng. Elizabeth longed for a moment’s solitude, but the hall was too crowded—the air thick with warmth, laughter, and the fragrance of spilled punch and tallow candles. Yet the distress she felt was too strong—it was certain that Miss Darcy was in some danger. But from what? And why did it concern her so? She must find Colonel Fitzwilliam—Georgiana’s cousin and other guardian. Surely, he would listen to her—be able to explain why the young woman was travelling along the Great North Road. Perhaps to Pemberley, the Darcy estate in Derbyshire—but Elizabeth’s heart knew that was a lie. That Mr. Wickham’s intent was to cross the border into Scotland.
She scanned the ballroom, but neither the Colonel nor Mr. Darcy could be seen. Suddenly, she was accosted by Miss Bingley.
“You have caused quite a stir, Miss Eliza,” she whispered, fanning herself, “to have driven Mr. Darcy away. To think of your impertinence, a country miss forcing him to leave a ball where he was guest of honour.”
Elizabeth tried to laugh, to shrug it off as she so often did, but the sound caught awkwardly in her throat, betraying her. Her cheeks burned. She met Miss Bingley’s gaze with a look of cool disdain, unwilling to dignify the remark with a reply, and then, gathering her skirts, hurried from the dance floor.
She found Mr. Bennet by the card tables, although he was not playing. “Papa, I must leave. There is a great wrong which I must correct. ’Tis Miss Darcy… Oh, I do not know what to do!”
“Lizzy, surely child, it is not up to you. The hour is late; perhaps you best wait till morning, when what you fear now may appear less dire.” Mr. Bennet took her hands, for seldom had he seen Elizabeth so agitated.
“No, sir! I cannot leave it. For tomorrow will be too late.”
“Should I call for the carriage?” But she was gone. It was nearly midnight, and supper would soon begin—the familiar comfort of cold ham and chicken awaited. Mr. Bennet took pride in his quick wit and his sharp, sometimes acerbic humour, though it was tempered by a curious mix of reserve and unpredictability that often left him an observer within his own home. He recognised a certain selfishness in himself—a tendency to retreat at the slightest inconvenience, preferring the sanctuary of his library to the chaos of family life. Yet, despite his detachment, he had grown to rely on Elizabeth—her good sense, her steadiness, her remarkable talent for untangling even the knottiest problems—just as everyone else did. Since childhood, her judgement had been as reliable as sunrise, and in moments like this, he felt quietly reassured by that dependability. He reminded himself that Elizabeth was strong, that her gifts would protect her from harm. With that comforting thought, he turned and made his way to the supper room.
* * *
Elizabeth retrieved her pelisse from the footman in the vestibule, slipped off her dancing shoes in favour of her half-boots, and hurried into the night.
The cold air was bracing—a relief after the suffocating heat of the ballroom. Lanterns flickered along the drive, and the noise of the assembly faded into a distant hum, her mind racing ahead of her footsteps.
She paused just inside the ring of lantern light, her breath misting in the chill. For a moment, she tried to steady herself. The urgency in her chest was not anxiety, but certainty—a conviction she had learned to trust. Closing her eyes, she focused, searching for any trace of those she pursued.Wickham’s presence was elusive, as slippery as oil on water. Still, she caught the faint echo of Georgiana’s distress—a mix of fear and hope, the uncertain feelings of a child suddenly finding herself on an uncertain road.
There was no time to hesitate. Elizabeth hurried toward the stables, where the hired post-chaises waited, praying she might find a groom awake. As she rounded the corner, a tall figure emerged from the shadows, and she nearly collided with him.
“Miss Bennet!” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice was low and urgent. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. What’s happened?”
Relief swept through her. “Colonel, thank goodness. I must speak with you—privately. It is about Miss Darcy.”
His expression turned grave. Without question, he offered his arm and led her away from the lit windows, his manner brisk but restrained. “You’ve had news?”
“Not news—in the usual sense,” Elizabeth admitted, acutely aware of how strange her words would sound. “I believe Mr. Wickham has taken Miss Darcy north—perhaps to Scotland. I can’t explain how I know, only that I’m certain it’s true. Mrs. Younge is with them, but—Colonel, you must act. There’s no time to lose.”
He studied her, recognising the urgency in her eyes. “You’re sure?”
She nodded, her voice steady though her hands trembled. “I am. If we leave at once, we may catch them—perhaps at Baldock, on the Great North Road.”
For a moment, he was silent, and she feared he would dismiss her. Then his features hardened, and she saw the resolve of a colonel in the regulars taking command.
“Very well, Miss Bennet. I believe you.”
