She had stood up for one tolerable set, having had to content herself with merely speaking of Mr. Wickham to another officer rather than partnering the man himself.
The sets immediately before and after were each their own sort of hell. It was just as well that Mr. Collins's infernal hovering had prevented her from dancing for most of the night.
There had been plenty to capture her attention, after all. Her family, excepting Jane, had put on quite the display.
She included herself among those that behaved badly. She should never have been so insolent during her dance with Mr. Darcy. What must he think of her? But she had been so angry! She was still annoyed with the man. At least he had absented himself early and not been on the spot to see the Bennets embarrass themselves—well, the rest of the Bennets. Lydia's antics, Kitty's silliness, Mary's putting herself forward to no one's satisfaction but her own, Papa's callous words to his middle daughter, and Mama's endless boasting at supper all went unobserved by Mr. Bingley's exacting friend.
Elizabeth settled in between Jane and Kitty and turned away from the manor house. Across from her and on one side of their mother, Lydia rested her cheek on the cushion and appeared to be asleep already. Mr. Collins would sit in the box again, so Elizabeth could imagine for the duration of the ride home that he was back in Hunsford. If only he were! He, too, with his ridiculous speech, had played a part in the Bennet family farce. What had been the point of saying, in a voice loud enough for half the room to hear, that he would have exhibited for them if he had been blessed with the talent to do so? Elizabeth could only be happy her cousin had never learnt to play. Judging by his lack of rhythm in the dance, she did not have high expectations of his musical abilities.
Yes, it was fortunate Mr. Darcy had missed hearing that pompous windbag blathering on and on. She wished she could have missed it herself.
If only Mr. Wickham had come! He need not have concerned himself with encountering Mr. Darcy after all, considering how brief a time the latter had been among them. Mr. Darcy had barely stayed in the room long enough to have driven Mr. Wickham away.
Now why did something seem not quite right about that notion?
Elizabeth closed her eyes and thought of what the gentlemen had said, both tonight and at her aunt's card party. Mr. Darcy took offence when she brought up the subject of his former friend, but then he said Mr. Wickham's problem was not in making friends, but in keeping them. Mr. Denny blamed Mr. Wickham's absence on the man's desire to avoid Mr. Darcy. Mr. Wickham....
Mr. Wickham said he had no reason to avoid Mr. Darcy except what he might proclaim to all the world.
Then he said he would not proclaim it to all the world in honour of his godfather's memory.
But he must have spoken of it to Mr. Denny.
And, of course, he had spoken of it to herself.
So instead of boldly facing Mr. Darcy with his claims of ill usage—since he had, in fact, chosen not to keep silent about those claims—and instead of allowing Mr. Darcy to decide whether to tolerate his presence or not, Mr. Wickham avoided his enemy at what was probably their first opportunity to be in company since their unexpected meeting on the street in Meryton.
Elizabeth opened her eyes at that thought and looked about her.
Most of the occupants of the coach had allowed the motion to lull them into light sleep. Only Jane remained bright-eyed. Elizabeth closed her eyes again, but she was alert enough. She might have drifted off with the others if not for the paper concealed in her hand. She was unsure if anyone had noticed it. With Lydia so tired, Papa was the most likely to have caught her furtive movements, but he gave no indication of having done so.
She was tempted to curl her fingers more tightly around the paper, but she wished no tell-tale sound to escape and give her secret away. What was Mr. Darcy about? Did his note have anything to do with their argument?
Her wonder at his audacity in passing her a note—no, a letter, and it felt like a thick one, folded up in her hand as it was—quickly became overshadowed by her burning desire to discover its contents.
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