A lingering inclement weather descended upon the county, enveloping the land in a chill mist that often resolved itself into rain. Miss Bingley decried its tiresome arrival, looking upon its unwelcome stay as a daily personal affront. Her brother regarded it with some trepidation, fearful of its effect on attendance at the ball, but Darcy’s satisfaction with their enforced isolation mystified his companions. The days before the ball passed as he and Bingley worked on plans for the improvement of Netherfield and, when the weather allowed, on their expertise out in the game fields. Several evenings were spent abroad at influential houses in the shire, and a few afternoons were devoted to discovering the reliability of tales concerning legendary local breeding stock. As he intended, to all outward appearances Darcy seemed unconcerned with the approaching ball. But in truth, he was preparing for it assiduously.
His strategy was elegant in its simplicity: pique Elizabeth’s curiosity by his absence from all venues of intercourse with her and then, at the ball, make her the unmistakable object of his attention. The surprise and confusion engendered by such action would, he hoped, allow him to claim her hand for at least one set, during which he would offer a well-crafted apology for his lamentable manners at their first meeting. He trusted in Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s unpredictable wit to inspire their conversation from there on. Surprise…the complete suddenness and partiality of his address! Darcy smiled to himself as he imagined her flustering prettily. She would be fairly caught and without resources. Then, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, we shall begin again.
Therefore, when invited to accompany the Bingleys on their call upon the Bennets to issue the invitation to the much-anticipated ball, he solemnly declined and instead occupied himself in correspondence with his man of business, then spent a profitable hour or so with Trafalgar out in the fields. He carefully avoided anyplace where he might meet Elizabeth Bennet, his only glimpse of her before the ball occurring at Meryton Church on Sunday, and even then, no more passed between them than an acknowledging nod on his part, matched by its cool reception on hers.
It was now Tuesday morning, the Day itself. Darcy gave a last tug at his coat as Fletcher, carefully cradling his dancing pumps, returned from a search for the appropriate vintage of champagne with which to give them a faultless shine. Earlier, Fletcher had sent to Erewile House, Darcy’s London home, for his best black coat and breeches, which now hung at the ready. The valet had scoured the local establishments for an acceptably snowy pair of stockings but, in the end, had been forced to send to London for these as well. Darcy noted that his shirt was starched and pressed, a supply of neckcloths was in similar condition, and his watch, links, emerald stickpin, and fobs lay on the dresser, gleaming as richly as the smile of satisfaction on Fletcher’s face as he emerged from the dressing room, pumps in hand.
“There, sir.” His valet waved the shoes before him for his inspection. “Polished up as nice as if I’d found the ’98 instead of having to use the ’02.” Darcy nodded, his mind occupied with the intricate niceties of the apology he was still attempting to compose.
“Ahem.” Fletcher cleared his throat and waited for his employer’s eyes to alight upon him. “Mr. Darcy…about your waistcoat for this evening,” he ventured carefully.
Darcy shot him a suspicious frown. “Yes, what about my waistcoat? It is the black silk made to match the breeches, is it not?”
“Yes, sir, but I was thinking…” Fletcher paused as Darcy’s eyes narrowed further, and then he finished hurriedly, “the emerald green and gold shot silk.”
“Fletcher!”
“Merely a suggestion, sir. Nothing more. The plain black it shall be.” The valet put the pumps down beside the chair on which the suit was carefully laid. “Although” — he sighed — “why you should wish to disappear into the woodwork, overshadowed by flashy young men in their vulgar dress uniforms, I cannot pretend to know.”
“I do not intend to ‘disappear into the woodwork’ tonight, Fletcher!”
“Just so, sir.”
“Meaning what?”
“As you say, sir, you do not intend to become invisible tonight.”
“But you believe that in the plain black waistcoat, and in spite of my intentions, I will?” Darcy challenged.
“Mr. Darcy,” Fletcher replied patiently, drawing from his wealth of sartorial experience, “I am convinced that you are noticed in whatever place you grace with your attendance. But I have observed, sir, that a room filled with red coats tends to distract certain persons, primarily the female portion of the race. The ladies, God bless them, seem to require something upon which to focus.”
Dubious at first, Darcy pondered the idea as Fletcher retrieved the debated waistcoat from the packing box from London. A small voice in the back of his mind expressed amazement that he was even considering such nonsense, but when Fletcher rejoined him, he found his own attention caught by the soft glitter of the emerald and gold threads, which created a rich paisley pattern on the black silk background. Perhaps…it could not hurt!
“As you wish, Fletcher. Take the plain one away and leave that.” Darcy knew that he had better leave before Fletcher talked him into something he would regret. “Be ready for me at seven o’clock,” he ordered briskly.
“Very good, sir.”
Darcy found that, once again, he was leaving his rooms mistrusting the bland expression on the valet’s face and wondered whatever had become of his biddable man. He had certainly begun to behave in a most peculiar manner.
As he entered the breakfast room, Darcy found Bingley just sitting down and quizzed him on such an early appearance as he poured his coffee. “Oh, the anticipation of the ball, I suppose,” Bingley replied. “I have hosted small, private parties in Town, of course, but this!” He waved his own cup in an arc before gulping half of it down. “This is a fence quite beyond my height. I could hardly sleep last night for wondering whether I had forgotten something or whether what I had remembered was properly done.”
“Miss Bingley is satisfied with your efforts, no doubt.”
“On the contrary, Miss Bingley is satisfied with little about this entire affair. Her serenity, I beg to inform you, sir, is for your pleasure alone. If it were not for the enjoyment I expect in a certain lady’s company, I would not have wished to embark on this interminable odyssey at all!”
“Come, come, Bingley. It is expected that a man of your position and in possession of a country house will host such occasions yearly and” — he added at Bingley’s grimace — “various smaller social gatherings throughout the year. It is so at Pemberley and Erewile House; you know that.”
“Everything runs so smoothly there; I am sure you are not troubled in the least! Everything here is at sixes and sevens and…and this food is cold! Where are the servants?” Bingley threw down his napkin and made to rise.
“Bingley! Be easy, sir.” Darcy put a restraining hand on his arm. “A gentleman does not berate his servants, and you are quite in danger of breaching that wise maxim.” Darcy met the distinctly mulish expression that Bingley turned upon him with an arched brow.
“Oh, blast it all; I know you are right, Darcy.” Bingley collapsed back into his chair. “I will behave myself, so you may pack away that imperious look and help me deal with this infernal ball.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration and then flashed Darcy the ingenuous grin his friend knew so well. “At least one thing has turned out well, quite providential in fact.”
“Pray tell me your one thing, Charles, so we may rejoice together.” Darcy laughed.
“That fellow you wished not to see. Wickham.”
“Yes?” Darcy’s jaw flexed unconsciously.
“Went to see Colonel Forster about him but met Mr. Denny before I could speak to him. Good thing, that. Denny desired me to tell Caroline the number of officers who would be able to accept the invitation, and he mentioned Wickham specifically.”
“Mentioned him how, Bingley?”
“Won’t be coming! Cannot come. He suddenly recollected some affairs in London he must attend to and left yesterday. Not expected to return for several days. So,” Bingley ended triumphantly, “you need have no concern about him.”
A theretofore unrealized tenseness in Darcy’s chest began to uncoil as he nodded in agreement with Bingley’s happy assessment. He chose to interpret it as relief that Bingley had not been required to make Wickham’s exclusion from the ball embarrassingly official. But quick upon its heels, the evening and all its possibilities opened up before him, and the smile that played irrepressibly upon his features he allowed Bingley to read as he wished.
“Apology be hanged!” The bar of soap hit the foot of the bath with a sharp whack and sank with ne’er a whimper to the bottom as Darcy leaned back against the copper head, frustration writ large upon his features. “Give me a syllogism to solve, a Greek epic to translate, or an unruly horse to school, but do not require of me an infernal pretty speech!” The exact wording of this essential apology had plagued him the entire day. Each time he thought he might have it, it died a quick, ignominious death in his imagined delivery.
Darcy groaned as the chamber clock informed him that time was running forward. His lack of talent in matters of address had been problematic in the past, but now it was become ruinous to something he highly desired. He must get it right; everything hinged upon it! Reaching for the bell, he rang for Fletcher and hunched forward as the valet emptied a pitcher of water over his head. A warmed towel was pressed into his hand, and with it he wiped the water and soap out of his eyes. Rising into his dressing gown, he stepped out of the bath and over to more warmed towels to complete drying before Fletcher returned with his small clothes and the shaving kit.
“Miss Bennet, you must allow…must excuse…My dear Miss Elizabeth, you may recall our first meeting — no, I would rather you didn’t recall it, precisely — I beg to be permitted to — no, not beg — Miss Eliza, pray forgive…
“Arrrrrrgh! Forgive me for behaving like a perfect ass.” Darcy threw the towel across the room, nearly hitting the returning Fletcher.
“Certainly, sir. Say no more, sir,” Fletcher said.
Darcy eyed the man dangerously for a moment, a sharp retort nearly bridging his lips before his valet’s unruffled mien brought home to him the humor of it. He could not laugh, the problem was too imminent, but he could step back from the precipice of ill temper he was perilously close to plunging down.
“I was not addressing you, Fletcher,” he growled in a much subdued tone as he turned to divest himself of the damp dressing gown. “Although I do apologize for the towel. I was not shying it at you apurpose.”
Fletcher passed Darcy his small clothes and then shook out the fine linen shirt, ready to slip it up his arms. “It is I, Mr. Darcy, who must apologize for my levity. It was inexcusable, sir, and I will take steps —”
“No, no Fletcher, it is quite all right. I stood in need of just such a diversion. Notwithstanding” — he paused and caught Fletcher’s eye in the mirror before him — “such displays should be indulged in judiciously.”
“Yes, sir.” Fletcher bent over his task of unrolling the silk stockings and, in a carefully preserved silence, handed them to his master. They were soon followed by the black silk garters. The entire process of dressing became a blur to Darcy, his mind fixed upon his ill-preparedness for his coming meeting with Elizabeth Bennet and his dislike of large social gatherings. In point of fact, his stomach was already beginning to knot, and a chill moisture was forming at his brow. What shall I say to her? he silently asked his reflection in the mirror as he buttoned his collar.
Fletcher hovered quietly about him, assisting him with this and that, all the while evidencing a hesitant, sympathetic concern that only served to heighten his disquiet. For a few insane moments, Darcy was sorely tempted to unburden himself. To lay the problem before another and ask for advice seemed sweet relief. But, of course, he could not. Not since his sire had died had he entrusted his cares to anyone in even the smallest detail. No, it was a ridiculous notion!
He made no pretense of trying to tie his neckcloth and motioned Fletcher to the task. With deft movements, the valet knotted an exquisite fall and, after placing the emerald stickpin in its snowy folds, retrieved the shimmering waistcoat, holding it out for Darcy to shoulder. As he rose from the chair, their eyes met. Fletcher opened his mouth, almost speaking but, at the look of firm refusal in Darcy’s face, resumed his place. In silence, he slipped the waistcoat up over Darcy’s shoulders and then picked up the coat.
“Your coat, sir.”
“Thank you, Fletcher,” Darcy acknowledged quietly. He finished the last button on the waistcoat and then eased into the black evening coat. The valet tugged at the lapels, straightening the seams, and checked the fall of the tails. “How does it look, then?”
“Excellent, sir. Were you making an appearance at Court, none could find fault.”
“No one, Fletcher?” He snorted, then added under his breath, “You are wrong there, my good man. There is one, I fear.”
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
“What?” Darcy rounded on him, startled by the valet’s audacity.
“Shakespeare, sir. Hamlet.”
“I know it is Hamlet, but what do you mean by it?”
“Mean, sir? Why nothing, Mr. Darcy. One of many memorable lines from the play, don’t you agree?” Fletcher bent over and began collecting the discarded items from his master’s bath. “Although Hamlet is not my favorite play, sir.”
Darcy had a distinct premonition that he should not pursue where his valet teased him to follow, but he could not seem to help it. “And that would be…?”
Fletcher paused in his task and looked at him intently. “The Comedy of Errors, Mr. Darcy, The Comedy of Errors.”
The sound of tuning instruments and the rushing of servants broke upon Darcy immediately when Fletcher opened the chamber door. He took a step toward the portal but then stopped and looked back to his desk in indecision.
“Mr. Darcy?” the valet inquired.
“A moment, Fletcher.” Darcy walked over to his desk and opened the drawer for his personal correspondence, extracting a folded sheet, which he opened and began to read. A slight smile graced his features as he refolded the letter and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. Patting his breast at the letter’s resting place, he stepped determinedly to the door. “Good evening, then, Fletcher. I will ring for you around two, I expect.”
“Very good, sir. My best wishes for the evening, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy nodded his reception of his valet’s regard and turned to the steps. The musicians now fell silent, and Darcy, pausing at the top of the stairs, could almost feel the entirety of Netherfield draw in its breath, straining for the signal to begin. The sound of an approaching carriage broke the stillness, and as servants scrambled to receive the first of the guests, the musicians struck their notes. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Darcy pulled on his gloves as he slowly descended the stairs and slipped into the glittering swirl of Hertfordshire society. The ball, it seemed, was begun.
The music had been playing a full three-quarters of an hour, and still they had not come. Darcy pulled at his gloves again, smoothing them over his hands as he nodded in response to several greetings cast his way. The lateness of the Bennet family surprised him, for if he had been a wagering man, he would have laid odds that Mrs. Bennet would be among the first to arrive at a ball given virtually at the behest of her daughters. As it was, he had filled his time doing his duty by Bingley, but he took care to do so circumspectly, skirting the fringes of the ever-burgeoning company as he tensely awaited Elizabeth Bennet’s arrival.
Not all the guests were unwelcome, of course. Darcy’s greeting of Colonel Forster and several of his senior officers was returned politely if not with actual warmth. If there was any lack of that, it was well supplied by Squire Justin, whose response to Darcy’s salutation was marked by an intimate litany of sly but affectionate observations of his neighbors and punctuated with infectious chortles of laughter. Darcy did not succeed in avoiding Mrs. Long and her hopeful niece and was saved from being forced to give them a setdown only by the timely intervention of the vicar and his lady.
Excusing himself with gratitude for their rescue, Darcy retreated to the window overlooking the drive and peered into the night. Could something have happened? He lifted his chin and tugged discreetly at the knot of his neckcloth. If she does not come soon…A carriage swung into view, its lanterns bobbing madly as the horses were pulled to a stop at the torches that lit the foot of the stairs. The stable lads sprang forward and grabbed the harness of the leader while an underfootman opened the carriage door and flipped down its folding steps. Darcy leaned closer to the window, squinting against the flickering of the torches. She has come!
He backed away from the window and plunged into the crowded room, making his way toward the hall and its receiving line of the Bingleys and Hursts. His progress was not fortunate. By the time he had gained the door, Elizabeth and her family had already been handed down the line and had dispersed into a gathering that continued to swell. He turned back, hoping to discover her in the gallery to the ballroom. His progress again was slow, and he was silently cursing the success of Bingley’s little country ball when he saw her.
She was talking to one of the officers as they made their way to the ballroom before him. He could not see her face, but her form was unmistakable to him. Her hair was caught up with delicate ribbons entwined with the daintiest of flowers, leaving three delightful curls to swing enticingly about her neck. He quickened his steps, only to be blocked by some callow youths who, looking distinctly uncomfortable in their dress uniforms, stopped and gawked about them as if they had never been in polite society before. Darcy maneuvered around them, determined to reach Elizabeth before she was once again swallowed up in the crowd. She had not gone far. She was, in fact, only a few yards away, apparently listening to the officer, a Mr. Denny, most earnestly.
The young officers he had overtaken pushed past him, all now holding the hands of females whom Darcy was able to identify as Elizabeth’s younger sisters. They encircled her and Denny and, one of them pulling on that officer, bore him away to the ballroom. Elizabeth turned, waving them off with a wistful smile. As she did, Darcy finally saw her complete. The sight utterly ravished him. It was, suddenly, painful to breathe. The roaring of the blood through his veins caused the world about him to go silent.
Where had he read that? He mused as he stood unmoving, mesmerized by the vision before him. “Part of my soul…” He commanded his limbs to move. He took a step toward those marvelous eyes alight with so much life. “I seek thee…” Another step and he thought their eyes met, but it could not have been, for she was turning away. “My soul…”
“Miss Elizabeth!” Darcy called in a voice that was at once low and carrying. She had heard him, for she stopped, and after the briefest hesitation, she turned back.
“Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth made him her curtsy as he did her his bow, but the countenance she then raised to him was nothing like that which had filled his senses only moments before. The coolness he found in the tilt of her chin contrasted bewilderingly with the snap in her eyes. Miss Bennet was not best pleased, that was certain; but the cause eluded him, as did all of the little speeches he had composed in the hope of gaining her favor. In confusion, Darcy retreated to a safe inquiry after her health.
“I am quite well, sir.”
“And your sister Miss Bennet has suffered no relapse?”
“I am happy to say that Jane enjoys as good a health as myself, Mr. Darcy.”
“Ah, I am glad of it.” Darcy fell silent, the contemplation of her charming features rendering his mental faculties nigh useless. One of her delicate brows lifted at his lack of further words.
“My sister’s joy in this evening, then, will be complete.” She curtsied again. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, and left him standing in the gallery. Her cool abruptness surprised him, but the pleasure of watching her figure as she walked away was compensation enough for the present. He lightly brushed the front of his coat, listening for the rustle of paper.
Milton! The source of the phrases came to him in a rush. The book she had been reading in the library! He smiled to himself as he sauntered toward the ballroom. Adam’s paean upon first seeing Eve. How fitting! He entered the ballroom and stationed himself where he could obtain the best view of the dancing. Elizabeth was to one side, already deep in conversation with her friend Miss Lucas. “To have thee by my side…” A sigh escaped him as he shifted his weight and clasped his gloved hands behind his back. How fitting. How very true!
The musicians struck a chord announcing that the dancing was to begin. Bingley, Darcy observed, had already claimed the hand of Miss Bennet and was even now escorting her to the head of the line, a singular honor that would escape no one. Caroline Bingley followed on the arm of Sir William, her sister and brother-in-law in her wake. He slanted a glance at Elizabeth, who was still engaged with Miss Lucas, only to have his view of her obscured by a gentleman of vague familiarity and decidedly odd parts. Darcy frowned to himself as the man bowed over Elizabeth’s hand and the lady cast her friend a helpless look. They took their place in the set, and Darcy circled round to satisfy himself as to the man’s identity.
Ah yes. Her cousin from Kent…the clergyman. He laughed quietly to himself at the pursed lips and set chin of his fair tormentor as she struggled to acquiesce gracefully in standing up with her cousin. The music began, and in only seconds Darcy had to look away to prevent it from causing him to break into an unseemly display of mirth. The man truly was no dancer! Darcy’s less admirable self drew his eyes back to Elizabeth’s misery. At the next turn in the dance, the man went in the wrong direction, then compounded the confusion he had created by profuse apologies where only his attention to the steps was wanted. He next very nearly bowled over a large, stately dame when, head down, he launched prematurely into the weaving of the hey, causing Elizabeth to hiss him instructions while she flushed crimson in mortification. Then, possessing himself of her hands, he wheeled her about with such enthusiasm that Darcy almost feared for her safety and that of those about them.
It can only be his clerical garb, he surmised as he watched in amused fascination, that keeps the indulgent smiles upon the faces of the others in the set. All, that was, save Elizabeth. Her face offered no such charity to her cousin. Humiliation suffused her being, and when Darcy unwittingly caught her eye in a turn, the force of it rocked him. His responding impulse to go to her aid was so strong that only his doubt of her welcome of his intervention prevented his taking more than one step in her direction. That step was subtly redirected, and Darcy strolled down the line of dancers, feigning a nonchalance that he rather wished he truly did feel. The emotions Elizabeth Bennet had stirred within him this night were unfamiliar and supremely unsettling in their power. Distance was called for.
He reached the other end of the room and turned round just in time to witness another faux pas of Elizabeth’s absurd relative. The dance ended, he abandoned his partner and proceeded to present his apologies to the other members of the set, leaving her without escort off the floor. The look she directed to his back would have singed his clerical collar to a ring of ash were it possible. And you would deserve it, stupid man!
Darcy considered his plan of surprising her into accepting his hand and despite his uncertainty, still found it, the most likely to answer his objective, but not yet. He would only draw her fire. Let her recover from the clergyman. Then…One of Forster’s lieutenants brushed past him and advanced upon Elizabeth with determined strides. Darcy waited long enough to watch her accept him for the next dance before beginning a search for Bingley amid the swirling gowns, polished brass, and competing waistcoats.
“I believe you may safely rate your ball a success, Bingley,” he told him, upon finding his friend between dances. “Mayhap too successful!”
“Too successful? A crush is what you really mean.” Bingley laughed back at him. “To be honest, I could do with a few less officers who seem to have nothing better to do than dance attendance upon women with whom I wish to converse!”
“Women? Bingley.” Darcy swept a speaking glance about them. “From the look of it, you are well supplied with any number of women who would gladly —”
“Woman, Darcy! Confound you; do not pretend to misunderstand me!”
“Bingley, I understand too well.” Darcy dropped his voice. “You opened the ball with her and danced the entire set together. Anything more will be remarked upon to such a degree that the whole shire will expect to hear the banns announced on Sunday.”
“Well, at least I have danced — and I expect to do quite a bit more — while you have done nothing but stalk about being civil or stare at Elizabeth Bennet.” Bingley paused to nod and smile a return of a greeting from a newcomer. “And do not poker up at me, for it won’t wash. I know you too well, my friend.”
“Slings and arrows, Bingley, slings and arrows quite misflung. I do, indeed, mean to dance this evening, when the time is right.”
“When the time…Darcy!”
“Ask me no questions —”
“And you’ll tell me no lies.” Bingley shook his head despairingly. “When will the time be right? At the twelfth stroke of midnight? What are you planning, Darcy?”
“A surprise attack, Bingley, and more I will not divulge.” Darcy moved off before his host pried too closely into his plans. The music was almost ended for the country dance that separated the sets, and he would need to reach Elizabeth before another red coat whisked her off. A shiver of apprehension traveled down his spine as Darcy remembered his valet’s fears and predictions for the evening, and he looked briefly at the waistcoat Fletcher had pressed upon him. Well, we shall see, shall we not, my man.
When he reached her, Elizabeth was once again engaged with Miss Lucas and not aware of his approach. At Miss Lucas’s discreet “ahem,” Elizabeth whirled about, almost into his chest.
“Miss Bennet.” He bowed quickly and, barely waiting for her curtsy, pressed an advantage that was all he could have wished for. “Would you do me the honor of standing up with me for the next set?”
Elizabeth’s mouth opened and then shut, her discomposure satisfyingly evident in her every aspect. She stared at him, then looked to her friend. Darcy waited patiently.
“I did not…that is, I was going…sitting…” She looked up into his eyes. He lifted an inquiring brow. “Yes,” she assented in a tight, little voice. Darcy bowed his appreciation and strode away, savoring the wonderful confusion of her mind and the impending realization of all his planning. Just before attaining his former post at the edge of the floor, he chanced a backward glance, and with it all satisfaction fled. She was clearly agitated. In growing apprehension, Darcy watched her from under hooded eyes as she spoke furiously to Miss Lucas, a high flush on her face, her eyes darting about the room. The sight continued to baffle him as he approached to claim her hand for their set, driving his weeklong anticipation of pleasure to the edges of his consciousness. He bowed stiffly; she curtsied. He extended his hand; she placed hers in it but would not look him in the face. Any ease he had ever felt in her company deserted him as he led her to their places.
The murmur of surprise that swept the room as they faced each other, while expected under the circumstances, only served to impress upon him what a fool he was making of himself over a woman who was, even now, regarding him with indifference. He had imagined her flustered; he had imagined her piqued. But in all his imaginings she had quickly and prettily turned into an engaging partner. The creature before him exhibited no such dulcet inclinations. What had happened to the lovely, beguiling Eve?
Darcy favored Elizabeth with the most formal of bows, bending deeply. As he rose, he trained his eyes past her left cheek, but not before flicking over her a surreptitious glance. “To have thee by my side…” He stifled the thought. There was not a hint of pliancy from the stone maiden before him. Come, fool, complete your folly! he growled to himself, feeling the familiar coldness grip his chest. They joined hands and turned, facing the near end of the ballroom. Her tension, communicated to him through their conjoined fingers, increased perceptibly as they stepped forward into the pattern of the dance. Though he dared not look, Darcy could sense that she was peeping up at him. With what object, he could not guess and, until he knew something of her mind, decided that silence was his best course. Whatever solace he might derive from her company would, it appeared, be found only in the heady touch, release, and cradling of her gloved fingers. It must needs suffice.
Elizabeth’s hand stirred slightly in his grasp. “This choice of dance must seem rather out of fashion to one accustomed to St. James’s, Mr. Darcy.” In equal parts encouraged and alerted by her sudden bid for conversation, he looked down upon his partner. Whatever had caused her complaint of him she now seemed willing to overlook, but knowing her as he did, he was not confident of her true intent.
“As I told Sir William, I do not dance at St. James’s and, therefore, do not know what is considered dernier cri,” he replied cautiously. “The choice is well enough, in my opinion.” The pattern separated them for a few moments, but the respite afforded Darcy no inspiration. He rejoined her in silence.
“It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy,” she advised him pertly. “I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”
Darcy peered down into her face with relief. Here, now, was the Elizabeth he knew. “Miss Bennet, pray instruct me! Whatever you wish me to say shall, on my honor, be said.”
Elizabeth acknowledged the gallantry of his remark with a curl of her lips into a reluctant little smile. “Very well; that reply will do for the present.” Darcy braved her devastating eyes until the last second as she circled him in the figure. When she reappeared on his other side, it was she who looked him a challenge. “Perhaps, by and by, I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones.” He reached for her hand as they both turned again to face the end of the room. “But now we may be silent.” The tension in her fingers was abated; they rested more easily now in his palm.
Darcy fully realized her condescension to silence was, in truth, a command to him to pick up the threads of the conversation. “Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?” he countered, indulgence in her little conceit being, surely, the safest response.
Her brows arched at that, and Darcy thought he detected a glint in her eyes that belied the return of severity to her lips. “Sometimes.” His instructress paused as Darcy circled her. “One must speak a little, you know.” This time it was her hand that sought the clasp of the next figure. “It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together.” She regarded him as if considering a point of logic. “And yet, for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”
There was the sting of half-truth in that one! “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case,” he parried, smoothly if not with grace, “or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?” The sharp little intake of breath by his partner told him the sally had found its mark, but a response was rendered impossible as the pattern separated them once more.
“Both,” she replied, to his complete surprise, when they were joined again. His astonishment was to increase. “For I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”
Darcy could not tell whether she was trying to provoke him to laughter or to ire. Again, he parried and feinted. “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure.” He offered her the requisite demibow of the pattern, then waited, motionless, as she circled him. “How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”
She returned to her place and took his outstretched hand. “I must not decide on my own performance.”
But I must decide upon it! Darcy thought to himself as they went down the dance, silent now by mutual consent. How strangely she behaves! Why? He glanced at her repeatedly as they worked their way through the figures, looking for some indication of her temper. Does she, in truth, think me such a curmudgeon? Or does she give offense merely for amusement? The more he considered her comportment toward him, the more he found his irritation growing. Is this, then, your vengeance for Meryton! Tit for tat!
With some acrimony, he moved toward his partner to regain her hand from the gentleman on his right, causing the paper in his breast pocket to rustle gently. Georgiana’s letter! All but forgotten, its contents now forcefully recommended themselves to his conscience, and for the sake of his sister’s regard for him, Darcy resolved to try once more to bridge the torrent of Elizabeth’s ill-use of him.
“Miss Bennet,” he began when she was secure in his possession for the next figure, “Bingley and I were on our way to Longbourn when we had the felicity of meeting you in the village last week. Do you and your sisters very often walk to Meryton?”
“Indeed, sir, we do.” She looked up at him closely. “When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”
Wickham! The anger he had felt upon seeing that face on the streets of Meryton returned in full measure: the insolence of his bow, the smirk on his lips, the knowing look in his eyes! Darcy’s jaws clamped tightly, and he looked fixedly ahead for some moments, unwilling to betray his disconcertment. At length, when sufficiently in command of himself to venture a response, he looked down into her countenance.
“Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends — whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”
“He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” she answered him heatedly, “and in a manner he is likely to suffer from all his life.”
Darcy’s mind reeled at her charge. Unlucky to lose his friendship! What could he possibly have to say for his infamous conduct? What monstrous falsehood was he peddling? Helpless to stop the roiling anger that again smote him, Darcy could give her no reply. The rest of their dance might have been conducted in silence if Sir William had not intruded on their separate reveries with fulsome admiration of their dancing.
“It is evident that you belong to the first circles, Mr. Darcy,” he complimented. “Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza, shall take place.” Darcy followed Sir William’s nod and found himself apprehending Bingley and Miss Bennet dancing together once again. His eyes narrowed in displeasure at Bingley’s complete disregard of his warning. “I appeal to Mr. Darcy — but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”
At the mention of his partner’s eyes, Darcy recovered himself and turned to her, determined to take back the ground he had lost at Wickham’s hand, whatever the lies the blackguard had propounded. Perhaps, with prodding, Elizabeth would reveal them. He opened himself to attack. “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking of,” he confessed with a tight smile.
“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for themselves,” she returned dismissively. “We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”
She declines to continue the subject. What now? He cast about for some promising topic upon which to engage her attention toward himself and away from Wickham.
“Part of my soul, I seek thee…”
“What think you of books?” he asked quickly, smiling at the memory of the shared library that day.
“Books — oh! No. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”
He almost laughed outright at her hasty denial. “I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions,” he pressed her.
“No — I cannot talk of books in a ballroom,” she insisted shakily. “My head is always full of something else.”
“The present always occupies you in such scenes — does it?” He allowed the doubt to seep into his voice.
“Yes, always,” she affirmed, her attention distracted by some thoughts of her own. And then, suddenly, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.”
What is this? Darcy’s suspicion was immediately alerted. A reply was required if he was to discover her meaning.
“I am,” he avowed firmly.
“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?” she pursued.
“I hope not.” His alarm at the direction of her questions increased.
“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.” Elizabeth’s look as she parted from him to salute the lady to her left was piercing. Darcy stiffened, sensing a trap, but of what nature and to what end he was at a complete loss. Of only one thing was he sure: Wickham was in this. In some way, this was his doing.
“May I ask to what these questions tend?” he demanded icily when they were again hand in hand.
“Merely to the illustration of your character,” she said with a small, forced laugh. “I am trying to make it out.” They broke, presented their demibows, and joined hands again, moving around each other in a complete circle.
“And what is your success?” Darcy inquired, tight-lipped.
“I do not get on at all.” She shook her head and tried to disarm him with a smile. “I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”
Definitely Wickham!
“I can readily believe that reports may vary greatly with respect to me,” he responded, summoning all his reserve to quell the tumult of emotions that threatened his composure, “and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.”
Her color was high as he turned to her and took her fingers into his grasp. Whether this was from anger at his words or the embarrassment she should have felt for her own, Darcy could not discern. To his amazement, she persisted.
“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.”
Did she seriously think he would bandy about his character on a ballroom floor? Darcy’s willingness to indulge her questioning ended abruptly. Determined to have this avenue of conversation closed, he turned to her a countenance of deep hauteur and replied in freezing tones, “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours, Miss Bennet.”
There could be no doubt that his manner had finally abashed her. She missed the next move in the figure, nearly tripping over the demitrain of her dress. Darcy moved quickly to rescue her from a certain fall. Elizabeth moved away from his clasp as quickly as possible, murmuring a disjointed thanks.
“It is my pleasure to be of service, Miss Bennet,” he told her quietly. She said no more, and they finished the set in silence and in silence parted after Darcy escorted her to a group of her friends. He could not prevent his gaze from searching her out after he took up a position across the room. She had left her friends and seemed engaged in a minute examination of one of the bouquets of flowers that graced the area. Her pensive air communicated itself to him clearly, and he wondered, with growing sympathy, what Wickham had told her that was robbing her of peace.
More devilry to lay to his account, the wretch! What tales can he be spreading to cause her to so trespass the bounds of propriety? And Forster! This could explain his coolness tonight when I greeted him. Wickham! Not here, yet here all the same. An evil imp, come between me and…He stopped this line of thought. Come to cut up my peace!
Darcy suddenly felt the need for some fresh air and solitude. With a last glance at Elizabeth, he turned, made his way through the gay line of dancers, and sought the first egress to the outside. The chill air hit his face and, as he anticipated, began to clear his head. The threads of emerald and gold in his waistcoat shimmered and blinked, catching Darcy’s eye as he paced the veranda in the light of an unforgiving moon. He snorted as he remembered Fletcher’s admonishment that his problem with “the lady” was no more than a comedy of errors.
If this be comedy, Fletcher, your tragedy I could not bear. He stopped and looked up at Lady Moon. I am not angry with her. She is not blameworthy, she is…It was the cold, surely, that caused him to shiver. My other half? Darcy shook his head and, wrapping his arms about him, clapped his hands against his sides and stamped his feet. Your foolishness seems to have followed you out-of-doors. So, why are you out here freezing? You can be just as much a fool warm as cold.