Page 7 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Meryton Assembly

Elizabeth

Elizabeth Bennet chuckled at the jest Charlotte Lucas had whispered in her ear, one that left both young ladies stifling their laughter behind carefully folded fans.

Charlotte, with her wit and calm observance of human folly, was infinitely better company than any of Elizabeth’s sisters—excluding Jane, of course, whose presence was always a balm.

Unfortunately, Jane was otherwise occupied, their mother having tethered her to her side in an unrelenting campaign to parade her before any eligible gentleman with the poor judgment to linger near the Bennet family for longer than a minute.

Mrs. Bennet, flushed with purpose and entirely in her element, had declared this assembly a hunting ground, and Jane, docile and obliging, had been chosen as her shining arrow.

Elizabeth sighed inwardly. If only her father were present.

Mr. Bennet’s quiet sarcasm and bemused disdain for all forms of artificial display would have served as a perfect counterbalance to the evening’s festivities.

But he had declined the invitation, declaring assemblies to be little more than a theatre of false smiles and poor ventilation, and choosing instead the solitary pleasure of his library.

It was thanks to the good nature of Sir William Lucas, her father’s old friend and neighbour, that their mother’s introductions had proceeded at all.

His sense of social responsibility and pride in his modest knighthood made him an ideal master of ceremonies.

That he enjoyed introducing the local ladies to new arrivals with the air of one presenting debutantes to royalty only added to his enthusiasm.

Charlotte had just begun a scathing but not wholly untrue observation about Kitty and Lydia’s excessive attention to the scarlet-clad militia officers when a murmur rippled through the crowd. All heads turned toward the door.

“The Netherfield party,” someone whispered, rather unnecessarily.

Elizabeth looked up, mildly curious.

Five figures entered the assembly room: three gentlemen and two ladies. The women’s gowns were fashionably cut, though worn with an air of stiff dissatisfaction. The elder of the two clung possessively to a large-bellied gentleman who looked rather too pleased by the proximity of the wine table.

“That is Mr. Bingley,” Charlotte said, her eyes drawn to him with open interest.

Elizabeth examined the man as he smiled and greeted Sir William. He was fair-haired and pleasant-looking, with a good-natured air and a bright expression that immediately won favour with those around him.

But it was the man just behind him who truly drew attention.

Tall and imposing, with dark curls and a countenance carved of restrained composure, the second gentleman entered with the bearing of one who would rather be elsewhere. He did not smile. His gaze swept across the room once, and though he said nothing, the entire assembly seemed to shift under it.

“And who is the other gentleman?” Elizabeth asked, her voice lowered, not from shyness but intrigue.

“I believe that must be Mr. Darcy,” Charlotte answered. “Papa mentioned he might be joining Mr. Bingley, though he had not yet arrived when my father paid his call on Netherfield.”

Elizabeth looked again.

There was something in Mr. Darcy’s countenance that stirred Elizabeth’s curiosity. He was not merely reserved; he bore the expression of a man walking upon cracked ice, afraid his next step might bring the whole floor crashing down.

Before she could further study his demeanour, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy were making their way toward them.

Sir William introduced the gentlemen without delay, perhaps prompted more by the presence of his own daughter standing beside her.

It would hardly have been proper for him to present them to Miss Bennet directly in the absence of a chaperone, unless he intended to fulfil that role, which, under the circumstances, appeared to be the case.

Mr. Bingley, all warm smiles and eager civility, bowed and exchanged pleasantries in a manner that left no doubt of his friendly disposition.

Mr. Darcy, though less effusive, managed a bow.

His eyes, as they met Elizabeth’s, held for one charged moment.

There was a flicker of something, not quite admiration, not quite fear, but a focus so intent that it felt as though the entire room had fallen away.

Then, just as suddenly, the expression was gone.

Not faded, but dismissed, as if he had willed it so.

For a fleeting instant, Elizabeth believed he might ask her to dance. Instead, he turned without much excuse and removed himself to a far corner of the room, where he stood with his back to the wall and his thoughts entirely inscrutable.

She watched him go, not entirely sure whether to be amused or insulted.

But the moment passed quickly as Mr. Bingley and Sir William moved on toward her mother.

Elizabeth followed at a more sedate pace, arriving just in time to see Mrs. Bennet give Jane a none-too-gentle nudge forward in Mr. Bingley’s direction.

She had declared, only hours before, that Jane must secure Mr. Bingley for at least one set, and now she stood triumphant as the gentleman did indeed ask her sister to dance.

Jane accepted with grace, and the two made their way to the floor, their shared smiles making it clear to all that they were well pleased with their partners.

“Oh, what a charming young man,” Mrs. Bennet gushed. “So affable, so genteel.” She turned, her tone shifting as her eyes sought out Mr. Darcy. “His friend, however, is quite another matter. The proudest, most disagreeable creature I have ever seen. He would not even condescend to an introduction.”

“Perhaps he is shy,” Elizabeth offered, not from conviction, but a desire to temper her mother’s volume.

“Shyness is no excuse for incivility,” Mrs. Bennet replied with a sniff. “Mark my words, Lizzy, no good will come of such a man.”

Before Elizabeth could offer any further defence, if defence it could be called, she was approached by Mr. Kingsley, a polite young man recently returned from his studies in Cambridge.

His bow was correct, and his request to stand up with her so unassuming that she could not in good conscience refuse.

Though she had no particular inclination to dance, it was, after all, only one set.

As they joined the figures on the floor, Elizabeth’s eyes were drawn again to Mr. Darcy.

He remained in his place, still and watchful, his gaze shifting between Jane and Mr. Bingley with something close to intensity.

On occasion, his eyes drifted in her direction as well, though each time Elizabeth noticed, she turned away.

When the dance concluded, Elizabeth declined any further offers. The number of gentlemen was insufficient for the ladies present, and she saw no harm in sitting out a few sets. Her mother, of course, found this intolerable.

“You must not sulk in corners, Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet scolded. “It makes you appear standoffish. How do you expect to find a husband if you will not make yourself agreeable?”

Elizabeth bore the reprimand with equanimity and retreated to a seat near the refreshment table, helping herself to a cup of punch.

From her vantage, she could observe the room at leisure.

Mr. Bingley, now partnered with Charlotte, danced with a cheerful step, while Jane had taken the floor again, this time with Mr. Elliott, the solemn librarian.

Kitty and Lydia whirled by with militia companions, their laughter echoing above the music.

Mary had abandoned the dance altogether and was now seated near the musicians, her book open but largely unread.

And Mr. Darcy, he had not stirred. He stood alone until Miss Bingley glided toward him, all affected grace and syrupy smiles. Whatever overture she made, however, was swiftly rebuffed. Within moments, she had retreated, her expression one of wounded pride thinly concealed.

Elizabeth sipped her punch and turned her gaze away, unsure whether to feel vindicated or concerned.

After the third set concluded, Elizabeth observed Mr. Bingley retreat to his friend, who had remained fixed in one corner for the better part of the evening.

At that same moment, Mrs. Long, who had been fanning herself vigorously for the past ten minutes, murmured something about feeling faint.

Elizabeth rose at once and offered her seat.

It was the work of but a few moments to find another, and as fortune—or perhaps fate—would have it, the nearest empty chair stood just behind the very spot where Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley now conversed.

Though the violins continued to play, Elizabeth found herself able to hear their exchange with uncomfortable clarity. Mr. Bingley, unsurprisingly, was attempting to coax his friend into joining the festivities. His voice was light and persuasive, gently teasing.

Darcy’s response came in a tone of restrained civility.

He paid a compliment to Jane’s beauty, which Elizabeth accepted without surprise.

She had long grown accustomed to hearing such admiration directed at her sister.

What did catch her attention was the warmth in Mr. Bingley’s reply—his sincere expression that Jane Bennet was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

That, at least, confirmed Elizabeth’s earlier suspicion regarding the mutual interest she had detected between them.

But then the conversation turned. Bingley, evidently emboldened, turned his friend’s attention toward her.