Page 135 of Companions of Their Youth
“I do not know,” Darcy said tightly. “But something is wrong. I feel it.”
And then—it hit him.
Wickham was gone as well.
Darcy’s breath turned shallow.
He spun back to the crowd, eyes sweeping every face. No red uniform adorning a familiar figure. No charming smile on a familiar face. No George Wickham.
“Richard,” he said, his voice low but fierce, “I do not see him. Wickham. He is not here.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face darkened. “And Miss Elizabeth is missing.”
Darcy’s entire body tensed like a drawn bowstring.
“I am going to locate her,” he said, already striding toward the doors. He looked at Mr. Bennet, who had been watching the conversation with concern on his face. “Stay here,” he mouthed to the older man, who nodded.
Darcy did not say what he feared.
But it pounded in his blood with every step.
He had to find her.
He had to get to her before Wickham did.
∞∞∞
The notes of the current set echoed faintly in Elizabeth’s ears as she slipped from the edge of the floor toward the refreshment table in search of another lemonade. Her last partner had been amiable enough, but her attention had wandered far from the conversation. She had scanned the crowd relentlessly for Mr. Darcy.
Not just for the next dance—but for what she must tell him.
Wickham. The letters. The look in his eyes.
She poured herself a small glass of punch, her hand trembling ever so slightly as she raised it to her lips.
Only one more dance until the supper dance.
Relieved to not have a partner so she could rest her aching feet, she took another sip from her cup. The sound reached her ears then—a low hiss, nearly drowned out by the strains of violins.
“Psst. Miss! Miss Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth turned, startled. A maid stood just beyond the arched entrance, her cap askew and cheeks pink with urgency.
Elizabeth stepped toward her. “Is something the matter?”
The maid bobbed a curtsy, her eyes wide. “Yes, miss—there’s girls from Longbourn, just arrived—I think they came on foot. One of ’em’s hurt bad, and they was asking for you, real urgent-like.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. “Who? Who was injured?”
“I think one said her name was Georgie—or maybe Liddy? Hard to say; she were crying. I put ’em in the music room, miss. It were empty.”
Elizabeth looked around frantically. No sign of Mr. Darcy. No sign of Mr. Bennet.
And—her heart jolted—no sign of Wickham.
A slow dread uncurled in her chest.
“Go,” she said quickly, her voice tight. “Find Mr. Darcy. Or my father. Tell them—tell them to come to the music room at once.”
