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It took Isabella the first hour of the ball to understand that many had assumed the flirtation she had shared with Mr. Kingston earlier in winter to precede a marriage proposal. When, instead, he had completely and abruptly turned his attentions solely to Grace Bingley and Isabella had become good acquaintances with Mr. Wellington, it had been assumed they had undergone a mishap in their 'love for each other.'
Their seeming avoidance of each other at this ball and events before this had given life to a ridiculous rumor that detailed Mr. Kingston and Mr. Wellington dueling over Isabella's regard, with Mr. Wellington emerging the victor. Also according to the rumor, Mr. Kingston had apparently decided to avenge himself and thus took Isabella's younger and innocent cousin, Grace Bingley, as a conquest.
Though Isabella had done her very best to erase all traces of the obnoxious and laughably foolish rumor from existence, she had found her efforts had mostly failed. Surprisingly, however, Grace was having none of it either, as she had danced only her first dance with Mr. Kingston and had avoided him the rest of the evening.
Actually, Isabella realized as she looked about herself, Grace had seemed to utterly disappear. Mr. Kingston stood alone by the door opening to the garden and seemed so dejected, Isabella decided it would be a perfect time to erase any vestiges of the rumor that had evaded her annoyed efforts to clear it.
Though she knew it a slight to propriety, she walked up to Mr. Kingston by herself, doing her best to ignore the startled exclamations that followed her path as the rumor was spun around into different lights and perspectives.
He straightened as she approached and fixed a rather desolate smile on his face. "Good evening, Miss Darcy."
"Good evening, Mr. Kingston. Is everything going well? You seem entirely out of spirits," she remarked cheerfully.
"I would ordinarily reply to the positive, Miss Darcy, but I must confess this ball has been unfairly trying," he replied with a vast change in his usual flamboyancy of manner.
"So it seems, Mr. Kingston. Perhaps you would rather a dance to lift so saddened an expression as you wear at present."
"I suppose it would not hurt, Miss Darcy. Would you do me the honor of a dance?" he replied doubtfully but despite his words, a slight degree of vigor returned to his countenance. Though Isabella did not wish to encourage a repeat of his fanciful flirtations—let Grace enjoy them while they came—she did not like this morose state of his and the rumor involving them all was a true headache to deal with. A dance would be sure to clear his unusually sullen attitude and dispel the rumor along with it.
They took their place as the music began again and Isabella felt quite proud as she saw color return to his cheeks and a joie-de-vivre light his eyes, while surprised gazes of many of the women she had been conversing with remained entranced by the pairing they had thought impossible.
"I do not suppose you have seen Miss Grace Bingley, have you, Miss Darcy?" he asked hopefully as they danced.
"Not since the beginning of the evening, Mr. Kingston. My cousin, Miss Wickham, however, was in her company for a time I believe. I would recommend asking her following the dance," replied Isabella.
"Wild one, Miss Grace. Always flitting off from one man to the other. I must say, when Wellington first proposed the idea of pursuing Miss Grace, I had not any idea of the difficulty in completing such a task."
So great was Isabella's confusion upon hearing this that she stopped in the middle of a spin.
"Miss Darcy? Are you well?" asked Mr. Kingston.
"Would you repeat your previous statement, Mr. Kingston?" asked Isabella, voice thin, face pale.
"That concerning your cousin? I apologize profusely, Miss Darcy, if I offended your family loyalty. To be sure, Miss Grace is indeed as lovely and bright as I hoped. Indeed, we fit together quite well, as Wellington had predicted, but—" Mr. Kingston suddenly stopped, an odd expression stealing over his face.
"I ought not have mentioned his name. He quite specifically ordered me to never speak of his part in the—well, never mind then."
They continued in silence as an astonished Isabella filed through Mr. Kingston's words until she had assembled them in a manner that produced a sudden, jolting clarity.
Of course! The very ball Mr. Wellington had made his debut appearance was the last instance in which Mr. Kingston had shown such pronounced favor toward Isabella. No doubt, the newcomer had drawn aside his gullible friend and assured him that he would go nowhere with his infatuation for Miss Darcy, that he was much better off chasing after Miss Grace.
Prickling anger, so little felt by Isabella Darcy of mild and merciful temperament, who had an ability to forgive that had astonished her family numerous times, was well and properly settled in her thoughts.
How dare Mr. Wellington? How dare he return after six years of no contact, leaving only a lingering sense of abandonment and freshly painful memories for a young Isabella to cling to herself in the depths of the night, and expect her to welcome him back with a loving embrace? She was not his property, to claim when he wished. He could not forbid men like Mr. Kingston to consort with her just so he could have her all to himself without competition!
Isabella was so distressed, she withdrew her hands from Mr. Kingston and stepped out of the dance.
"Miss Darcy?" he asked in a worried voice, following her uncertainly. In that moment, Isabella felt a rush of pity for the man, who would be doomed to spend the rest of his life under the selfish guidance of Mr. Wellington. But not Isabella; she would not wallow in the shadow of Mr. Wellington's control any long.
"Excuse my incivility, Mr. Kingston, but I am urgently needed elsewhere. Perhaps you could find Grace in the garden." With a quick curtsy, Isabella hurried off in the direction of Mr. Wellington, whom she could see gesticulating and laughing amiably from some several meters away. She knew her hasty escape from Mr. Kingston and the dance floor—not to mention what she intended to do next—would incur rumors beyond the like of which she had ever faced but there was far more to occupy her at the moment.
"Mr. Wellington," she snapped as she arrived in his company. The two lovely young women adoringly resting on his arms glared at her vehemently. Let them glare; in few minutes she would return him to them indefinitely.
"Yes, my dear Miss Darcy?" he asked, puzzlement ruffling the velvet of his tone as he beheld her flushed cheeks and shiny eyes. Isabella flinched at his term for her for she was no one's dear, least of all his.
"I desire a word with you," she said and then, noting the two women's pointed refusal to move from his side, added, "A personal word, if you please."
"Miss Darcy, your tone rings with such commanding insistence, I would not dare refuse. Miss Fairfax, Miss Frances, if you would excuse me," he said, voice light but eyes dark with confusion as the sisters relinquished their hold on each respective arm.
He waited patiently until they had wandered off then asked, "Miss Darcy, may I know the reason for this surprise? You seem…aggrieved."
"I would much rather conduct this conversation somewhere more isolated. The front entrance will do as all have since moved to the ballroom," replied Isabella shortly.
Now in obvious confusion, Mr. Wellington followed Isabella into the entrance hall but stopped when she continued deeper into the hall, which seemed dim compared to the bright lights in the adjoining ballroom. "My dear Miss Darcy, would it not be more in accordance to propriety if we talked in the view of others within the ballroom? We would not want society formulating nonsensical ideas as to our 'secret' meeting."
"You are one to talk of propriety, Mr. Wellington," hissed Isabella contemptuously. "And neither have you ever minded what society thought concerning you."
Injury and surprise evident upon his face, Mr. Wellington followed Isabella in the darker recesses of the hall near the front door.
"What has happened, Miss Darcy?" he asked.
"I discovered a highly interesting piece of information this evening, Mr. Wellington. You would be mortified if you knew how easily your friends share your secrets."
"Isabella…I do not understand." But despite his innocent words, Isabella saw the beginnings of a horrified understanding rise in his eyes. She bristled at the use of her Christian name. She had never given him right to use it, especially in so familiar a manner.
"Oh, but you do, Mr. Wellington. You know you have subjected me to the rumors and oftentimes scorn of London's worst circles of gossip by ruining the relationship between Mr. Kingston and me." Isabella waited for the accusation to sink in before she surged on, emboldened by the power of her words and the force of her rage.
"And all that…trouble in convincing Mr. Kingston of the fruitlessness of pursuing me and instead persuading him that my cousin was most compatible with him. You did all that to claim me yours as you did when I was nineteen. Six years wrought many changes on us all, Mr. Wellington, and I believed they had ripened you as well, brought you wisdom and gentility. It is evident they only feigned to do so, for beneath this new exterior you have proven yourself to be as ever the master of manipulation."
Isabella's accusations, every word reinforced with a stone block forming the wall of her will, shattered in the thick air. Dimly, she registered the sound of a young woman's slapping footsteps as she blindly ran past the two of them.
The shock on Mr. Wellington's face had melted into a genuine expression of pain and shame.
"Isabella, that is, Miss Darcy, I am mortified you discovered the details of my plan in such a way. But if you would, give me leave to describe my reasoning," he murmured, voice breaking as he spoke.
Isabella felt the insult of this whole episode being described as his plan so strongly she was unable to respond before he continued.
"I left you at nineteen, when I boasted my supposedly mature age of two and twenty years, because I was a selfish young man with no sense of propriety or manners. I saw only the privileged side of life, the one lit by the falsity of wealth and high birth. From a young age, my elder brother and heir to the viscountcy—Baron Combermere—was my model for behavior. He was, and still is, a gambler, a drunkard and a man who shames my family repeatedly.
By the time I reached my fateful twenty-second year, I had adopted his character; it was this form of my brother, cast through me, you suffered through six years ago. I left abruptly that winter due to my elder brother's riding accident, which was hidden as much as possible from the scrutiny of society. Drunk and riding at dawn, he had mistook a branch for a bridge and fell into a rapid river. Only by the quick thinking and good will of a farmer on his estate, who witnessed the accident, was my brother saved. The farmer never received a shilling in return.
The fortnight I spent at my brother's while he recovered, away from London, was the fortnight I fell in love with you though you were there only in spirit. I realized that for you, young and innocent Miss Darcy, I would change my wild ways, taught to me at a young age by my elder brother. Thus I furthered my education, petitioned my reluctant father for an estate of my own and not until this winter did I feel myself ready enough to win you back for I felt sure now that I was as deserving of you as I would ever manage to be.
Imagine my position, Isabella, when I arrived at my close friend's, Mr. Kingston, ball only to find you utterly captivated with Mr. Kingston himself, to find that perhaps the work of almost six years would be inadvertently ruined by one of my greatest friends. I admit to engaging in sly deeds, for I met with James after the ball and helped him see that he would never win you, that the younger Miss Bingley was better suited to his tastes. You must admit, Isabella, the truth of such a statement for you never intended to allow Mr. Kingston to court you. Whether or not it was justifiable, you tolerated the relationship between you and Mr. Kingston merely as a diverting acquaintance and flamboyant flirtation.
But I loved you, Miss Isabella Darcy, and I still do. I am only very sorry you suffered for so long and again this evening, at your unfortunate discovery."
It took at least a minute for Isabella to stand in silence, sorting through the plethora of facts that took root in her mind. She tried to make sense of it all but her mind pounded and her heart beat too fast in her chest. She took a step back and sucked in a deep, shaky breath, the warmth of his close company too much for her overwrought senses to manage.
At last, she felt the confusion surrounding the incident fade but though her heart yearned to be stirred with pity, her anger flared as she surveyed his words in an emotion-afflicted perspective.
"And would you never have told me of your dealings with Mr. Kingston? Of your attempts to control my heart and me once again, Mr. Wellington?" she finally asked, voice shaking with suppressed tears and pain.
Mr. Wellington looked startled by the question, as if he could not understand why the Kingston affair was so central in her accusations.
"It is probable I would have shared the story of my dealings with the drama surrounding the relationship between you and Mr. Kingston once we were married. It was—and is—my hope that you and I would share such a connection that we would easily discuss all manners of things. And, Isabella, you must not believe me wishing to control you."
"Probable, Mr. Wellington? You might have shared with me your subterfuge or you might not have. There are very few things I cannot stand, Mr. Wellington, and they are falsity, lies, and masks. You are guilty of them all." Her words were chosen to wound and so they did.
"Isabella…please…don't…" Mr. Wellington broke off, unable to finish.
"Do not what, Mr. Wellington? Run away? Break out of the chains you have placed on me? I am no one's to control, Mr. Wellington. You were a fool to try," she hissed.
There was a terrible silence and then the man drew himself up. "Do not worry of my not feeling the impact of your opinions. You have made your thoughts poignantly clear. I bid you a good evening and a good life."
With such a parting statement he left and with him left the last remnant of Isabella's sanity.
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Dorothy was still shivering, though she had entered from the garden at least an hour ago and been besieged by Miss Knightley for the rest. As she glanced about the room, she was struck with the absence of most of her cousins.
Catherine, Gemma, Grace, and Isabella were all disappeared. Jane sat in her mother's shadow, gaze trained on the floor, mouth opening not even to answer simple civilities from her confused mother and aunt. Mrs. Darcy was completely confused as to her daughters' whereabouts but knew herself unable to search for them without calling more unwanted attention to their absences than had already been incurred.
And now, when all Dorothy wanted to do was sit still and ignored to observe William, whom was involved in the evening's most infamous love triangle, she was approached by a rather awkward, worried Colonel Kerrigan.
"Good evening, Miss Wickham. Have you chanced upon Miss Catherine?"
"I have not, Colonel Kerrigan. She seems to have disappeared halfway through the evening."
"A pity, as I believe I promised her a dance."
A simple silence filled the gap between them, at last broken by a hesitant Colonel Kerrigan.
"Miss Wickham, I have observed you extensively and find you to be a most unusual young woman. You take part in no rumors and ignore gossip in a way so fervent it seems almost religious in manner. Thus I entertain strong hope in confessing to you what I have confessed to no other, so that I may learn your opinion of it."
Now Dorothy quit her discreet searching for the evasive William and glanced at Colonel Kerrigan, her interest piqued.
"I assure you of utmost secrecy in anything you wish to share with me," she replied evenly, her curiosity on the matter cleverly restrained.
"Yes, well, I am not…experienced in the most personal of women's opinions of things such as marriage," he admitted, face flushing profusely as the words slipped from his lips.
Dorothy felt the strangeness of him referring to so private matter and, with a rush of emotions she could not discern, realized he must be thinking of it much to have gathered the courage to ask the opposite sex of it. Indeed, he must be in the process of readying for a proposal!
"No, the general man is not, Colonel Kerrigan," she replied with a twitch of her lips.
"You see, Miss Wickham, I specifically wondered at Miss—Catherine's opinions on the matter. My thoughts were that of all save her sisters, you as one of her particularly close cousins would be able to apprise me of what you know."
A dread engulfed Dorothy such as that she had never felt before. It collapsed over her like a great wave in the ocean she had never seen but had heard much of. She was startled at the enormity of the emotion and had difficulty fighting for breath as the room blurred slightly around the edges.
"Ah, Colonel Kerrigan, I believe I understand the direction of your thoughts," she managed thickly. "But I am horribly apologetic to admit that while my cousin and I have formed an intimate connection, I have only been acquainted with her since few days before our arrival in London. Thus, I have learned little of her opinion on civil union besides that of it being based on the deepest and most profound of lo—r-respect."
Dorothy could not bring herself to utter the word love, could not tell Colonel Kerrigan of Catherine's numerous other classifications for future husbands that she had ranted to Dorothy over and over again among annoyed accounts of the many men who had asked her to dance merely for the promise of wealth. She could not give him more confidence than he had; her traitorous heart did not let her.
"Of course, Miss Wickham. But you are flushed. Had you not better step into the garden a moment, breathe fresh air?" he asked, voice creased with worry.
Though Dorothy had had enough of that garden to last her a lifetime, he had already steered her to the doors before she could murmur a response to the negative.
The air was colder than it had been when she and Grace had ventured outside earlier, though Dorothy could hardly believe it possible. The thin silk of her dove gray gown, newly made, fluttered in the air and exposed Dorothy's bare skin.
Colonel Kerrigan led her off the main path to a pretty fountain, where she sat uncertainly on the rim of the fountain and he leaned against the statue above. She craned her neck up to look at him, framed by the large full moon.
"You mentioned Miss Catherine as wishing a marriage based on respect, Miss Wickham?" he asked, voice as faraway as his gaze.
Dorothy felt herself begin to shake from far more than the chill and had to wrench her gaze from the Colonel to the statue. In a moment though, she had recognized the statue as Cupid in the process of drawing back a dreadful arrow of instant love. What irony the heavens had decided to drown Dorothy in this evening!
"I did, Colonel Kerrigan," she said faintly and clutched the rim of the fountain to keep herself from swaying.
"If you would forgive me asking so many personal questions—and please refrain from answering if it gives you distress—would you tell me if you believe Miss Catherine to respect…me?"
It was too much for Dorothy's mind, plagued with swirling thoughts and wrenching confusion. She felt the world go blacker still and sensed herself falling backward into the fountain before she was caught at the last moment and then, with warm hands lifting her upward, she fell completely into black. But even in her state of unconsciousness, she heard two words repeating in her mind, over and over in a haunting pattern: Run away, Run away, Run away…
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Dawn was just beginning to crack upon the horizon when people began to leave the Vicksburg manor at last. With them came her mother, aunt, siblings and cousins. They all entered and immediately Gemma was struck with the silence that had descended.
Tension ran taut in the air. Isabella had clenched fists and upper teeth clamped violently upon her trembling lower lip. Catherine's hands shook, her eyes swollen and red with tears. Dorothy was paler than Gemma had ever seen her and looked about to faint away. Grace was as still as stone, her eyes blank and devoid of any life while Jane, shoulders tight with fury, curled in a corner of the carriage and stared blindly out the window. William glared at his hands, kneading them with brute strength over and over again.
Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy were in complete confusion, heightened tenfold as they saw Gemma's stricken face, cheeks raw with tears and her isolation in the nest of blankets.
"Gemma?" Mrs. Darcy whispered but no answer was forthcoming and no further inquiry exhaustively made.
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