Darcy pushed through the crowd, but more had joined the ball, and he lost sight of Philippa and her partner. When Darcy reached the area of the room where they had been, the couple was gone.
A pair of young ladies walked into Darcy. One was dressed as a milkmaid and the other, Darcy presumed, as an ostrich, judging by the feathers on her mask and headdress and the rich navy of her gown. The milkmaid giggled.
Darcy, ever polite, gave his apologies though the pair had jostled into him.
"It is we who should apologize," the woman in the ostrich mask said, fluttering her ostrich feather fan over her bosom, which strained in her low-cut gown. “Are you long in town? My sister and I could not help admiring your costume.” She looked Darcy over from head to hip, a brazen analysis having little to do with Darcy’s clothing, which he knew to be unremarkable.
Darcy said, “I am looking for my wife.”
“Oh!” the lady ostrich said.
The milkmaid had the grace to blush. “We wish you the best of luck in finding her. What was her costume?”
“Aphrodite,” Darcy said. And what a magnificent goddess she had made. While he had once considered the waltz forward, with the right partner, it was a delight, both on the floor and, later, beneath the duvet.
“Your wife is a fortunate woman,” the ostrich said, turning her chin from him.
“If you will excuse me.” Darcy stepped back, or attempted to, knocking into a gentleman. Darcy froze. The gentleman loomed over him, clad in white from head to toe, his face and beard lightened, a tall, white hat towering like a snowy peak on his head.
The gentleman smiled and said, “No matter, old man,” his pink tongue a startling contrast to his whitened visage.
Behind him, climbing the short flight of stairs to the closest entrance, was Elizabeth.
Why had she not stayed where he had placed her, as he had asked her to do?
Why had she not stayed at Pemberley as he, or any man, would have expected?
Darcy sighed. If he had wished for a predictable wife, he would have married Miss Caroline Bingley. The horror.
Once again, Darcy pushed through the crowd. Her gaze passed over him, and he waved, but she showed no sign of noticing him. Or perhaps she was ignoring him. Did she really believe he had a mistress in London?
Who had filled her head with such nonsense? Her mother? No, if anyone was likely to have, and be excused for keeping, a mistress it was Mr. Bennet, and he showed no signs of straying from his vows. Perhaps Lydia has suggested it? She sent Elizabeth the occasional letter, which Elizabeth read and responded to with a certain distinct exasperation.
Elizabeth was not foolish enough to trust Lydia’s judgment. Someone had planted this suspicion in his wife’s mind. Elizabeth was not naturally suspicious. She said what she thought and showed what she felt with little artifice. Or so he had believed.
How long had Elizabeth suspected Darcy of wrongdoing?
When Darcy reached the stairs, his wife was gone. The gardens are out that door and down the hallway. Maybe Elizabeth had needed air. She was three months with child, all the more reason for her not to tax herself.
Darcy had wanted to protect Elizabeth, but he should have told her about Philippa. He had assumed her reticence was the fatigue of being with child. All the more reason he didn't wish to trouble her. Instead, she had invented a mistress for him, and followed him to town to reveal her truth.
Whatever her reasoning, they could discuss it later. For now, he did not like her wandering from the ball alone. Bad enough he had lost Philippa. He would not lose his wife.
Darcy stepped into the hall. It was cooler outside the crowded ballroom. The hallway extended on his left to the front entrance to the house and on his right to the gardens. If Elizabeth had wanted air, she would walk towards the gardens.
Darcy walked. He was alone in the hallway, which surprised him considering the crowding in the ballroom. Elizabeth generally walked quickly, unless reading, so it did not surprise Darcy she had already reached the gardens. Darcy picked up his pace.
Behind him, there was a muffled shout.
Darcy froze.
A woman screamed.
Darcy whipped around. Every six feet was a curtained alcove. Darcy ran to the first, throwing the curtain aside. Empty. He pulled the curtain aside on the second.
“Quiet!” It was a man’s voice. Darcy ran towards it, six strides, and threw the curtain aside.
A man’s large back obscured Darcy’s view, but he saw his wife, smelled whiskey, and watched as the man in dark priest’s robes stalked towards her.
Darcy grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him back. The man twisted in Darcy’s grip. Darcy let go, allowing the man’s momentum to unbalance him enough for Darcy to shove him against the wall.
The drunken man drew one hand into a fist and swung. Darcy ducked, as Richard had taught him, and using his forearm, slammed it into the man's neck, holding him against the wall. The man struggled as Darcy pressed his weight against the man's throat. “Be still.”
The man—Darcy refused to think of him as a gentleman—struggled, and Darcy leaned harder on the man’s throat until his skin flushed and he stilled.
Darcy took a breath and eased the pressure enough to allow the wretch to take a breath. He was old enough to be Darcy's late father, though he appeared in good health—shoulders broad, hands large, straining inside gloves a size too small—and he wore a black a mask over his eyes.
Darcy asked, “What business do you have with my wife?”
“He meant to assault this young lady,” Elizabeth cut in.
Darcy glanced towards his wife, and his anger, already white hot, somehow rose. Elizabeth held Philippa’s hand. The girl was crying, smearing the paint on her face as she shook.
"No business," the man wheezed. "Which lady is your wife?"
"I do not see how this is your concern." Darcy leaned on the man’s throat again, cutting off his air. "You may consider every lady here my wife and keep your attentions from all of them. Have I made myself clear?"
The man tried to speak, but he could not pull in a breath. Finally, he managed a nod. Darcy let him choke a moment longer before stepping back. "Go," he said, pointing towards the curtain.
The man staggered, gasping and clutching his throat.
Darcy said, "Now!"
The man stumbled out, tangling himself in the curtain before he pulled himself free and took off down the hall.
Philippa, still sobbing, ran to Darcy and threw her arms around his waist.
Wide eyed, Elizabeth leaned against the wall and stared.
Darcy said, "Philippa, this is my wife, Elizabeth. Elizabeth, this is my cousin Cyrus’s ward, Philippa."
Elizabeth's bosom rose as she breathed in and let air out in a slow exhalation. She said, "Your cousin’s ward?"
Darcy said, "Later. I believe we have had our fill of costumed dancing this evening, am I right?"
Both Elizabeth and Philippa nodded.
Philippa sobbed, "I am so sorry. I did not—"
Darcy sighed. He could only master so much anger towards a sobbing child. Elizabeth came up behind Philippa and put an arm around her shoulders. "Come along, Philippa. Come along."
Philippa pulled away from Mr. Darcy and rested her cheek in the crook of Elizabeth's shoulder. Darcy handed the pair a handkerchief from his pocket, which Elizabeth used to dab the girl’s cheeks. She put the handkerchief in Philippa’s hand, and she clutched it. They left.
In the carriage, Philippa huddled in on herself, wiping tears from her face as her nose ran. She had removed the mask. Elizabeth, too, had removed her mask, though the wig remained.
Darcy asked, "Why, Philippa?"
The girl sobbed again.
Elizabeth said, "Just breathe. He looks fearsome, but it is a mask."
Philippa glanced over at Darcy and leaned closer to Elizabeth, who asked, "Do you miss your mama?"
Philippa sobbed again. "I have been alone. Mama said Papa would come for me when she was gone. He sent funds, but he never came. Mama said he loved her, but she was not his wife."
"Oh, you poor dear," Elizabeth said, squeezing the girl closer.
"I am a bastard. That is what they say at the school Papa sent me to. "The other girls, and the teachers, they—" She closed her eyes. "I cannot go back there. I thought, like my mama, I could find a benefactor, but…"
Elizabeth looked across to Darcy, catching his eye. She said, "No, we cannot send you back to that school."
"I thought if I could make— But— I should not have gone."
Philippa should not have gone, but Darcy could not stand the girl’s abject misery, and Elizabeth had taken to her. Elizabeth asked, "How old are you, Philippa?"
"Almost 15."
Elizabeth glanced at Darcy again. "So young to be on your own."
Darcy's stomach sank. He knew his wife well enough to know how her mind worked. She would ask to bring the girl to Pemberley with them. Darcy did not wish to have the young lady underfoot.
Darcy said, "We will find you a better school. One with teachers who—"
Elizabeth said, "Or, we can make other arrangements. You will stay with us this evening, at our home."
Philippa gave them a tremulous smile. "Mr. Darcy will have me?"
"We will have you. The daughter of my husband’s cousin is family."