Page 16 of Companions of Their Youth (Pride and Prejudice “What if?” Variations #9)

D arcy stood against the wall of the crowded assembly room, spine straight, arms crossed behind his back, and expression carved in stone.

The ceiling was too low. The music too loud. The dancers far too energetic for such a provincial floor.

And yet Bingley was positively glowing.

How does he manage to actually enjoy this sort of activity?

A private ball in London was bad enough, but a public one in a small county?

It is insupportable .

But the alternative was to remain at Netherfield with only Miss Bingley for company, as she had graciously offered to stay behind with him “so he would not feel neglected.”

He repressed a shudder and schooled his face more tightly.

Bingley had vanished into the crowd almost immediately upon arrival, swept away by a warm welcome and a man he had apparently known at school.

Introductions were made to the man’s family, and Bingley had taken an especial liking to the eldest daughter.

Darcy had only caught a glimpse of her from afar—light hair, large blue eyes—and then Bingley was gone, lost in a swirl of country smiles and chatter.

Darcy sighed.

All the weight he had left behind in London now pressed on his shoulders again.

For one glorious afternoon, he had been free. Racing across the fields beside Bingley, wind in his coat, sun in his face. The whoops and laughter from his friend had coaxed a rare grin from him, and he had let himself go. Just for a moment.

Then came the guilt. The whispered rebuke of his father’s voice in the back of his mind. Decorum, Fitzwilliam. Dignity. Remember your place.

So now he stood doubly rigid, punishing himself with propriety.

He worried about Georgiana—was she improving under Richard’s watch? Was she still furious with him? Was she even safe?

And Pemberley—would the harvest be managed properly? His steward was excellent, but Darcy had never been away this late in the season.

He had just begun debating whether he could slip away onto a balcony unnoticed when Bingley reappeared, all exuberant cheer.

“You must dance,” Bingley said, clapping him on the shoulder. “There are many pretty girls here, and everyone is terribly kind.”

A young man—Bingley’s friend from school—materialized at Bingley’s shoulder, his features strongly resembling the Bennet girl Bingley had taken such a shine to.

What was his name? Matthew? Moses? It was a Bible name; Darcy was sure of it.

“I see both of your sisters are already engaged,” Darcy said tightly. “It would be insupportable to stand up with anyone else in a place like this.”

Bingley blinked. “What? Nonsense. This is a charming assembly.” He gestured across the room. “Look there—what about that girl?”

Darcy did not even look.

He scowled and muttered, “Tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”

There was a pause.

Bingley’s mouth dropped open. “Darcy!”

Darcy frowned, then followed the direction of Bingley’s gesture.

The young woman standing only a few feet away had flushed cheeks and bright eyes—eyes which were now narrowed into a glower.

Mark’s jaw was tight.

“She is my sister,” he said flatly. “I ought to call you out for that, would it not upset my mother.”

Darcy blinked. “I—what?”

“Elizabeth. The girl you insulted. She is my sister—my twin sister, and quite lovely if I do say so myself.”

“I did not even look at her,” Darcy said, mortified. “I was trying to be left alone. I spoke without thought.”

Mark’s voice was like a blade sheathed in civility. “Then perhaps you should have remained at Netherfield instead of attending a public ball.”

Darcy’s eyes flicked toward Miss Bingley, who sat stiffly along the wall.

Bingley winced. “He tried. But Caroline insisted she remain behind him with… alone.”

Mark grimaced, and the edge of his expression softened into reluctant sympathy. “I quite understand your dilemma, sir. Be that as it may, it could excuse some discomfort, but it does not excuse rudeness.”

Darcy turned again to the girl—Elizabeth—and for the first time, truly looked at her.

She was attractive. More than attractive. Her features were fine, her expression intelligent, and she wore her anger like a crown.

She had overheard every word.

Darcy felt the heat creep up the back of his neck.

“I apologize,” he said quietly. “That was poorly done.”

Mark did not smile. “It is not me who deserves an apology.”

Darcy hesitated, then squared his shoulders.

“Would you do me the honor of introducing me to your sister?”

Mark gave him a long, unreadable look, then turned and led him across the floor.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth saw her brother from the corner of her eye the moment he and Mr. Bingley approached the tall man by the wall.

She had known exactly where Mark was the entire evening, just as he always knew where she was.

Such was the bond between them; an invisible thread tugged gently, persistently, from across even the most crowded room.

Her feet ached from so many turns about the floor, and she had gratefully taken one of the few empty chairs lining the room—just a few paces from the tall, unsmiling gentleman who had not moved from his station all evening.

With so many young men away at war, there were never quite enough partners for every lady who wished to dance.

She and her friends had long ago adopted an unspoken system: each would sit out at least one set to give others a fair chance.

On occasion, when the imbalance was especially bad, they would even pair with one another, cheerfully switching roles for the sake of the music.

She had not spoken to him, nor had she tried to. But she had watched him—quietly, sidelong—ever since their arrival. He stood still as a statue, his expression unmoved, his mouth a tight line of apparent disapproval.

Mr. Bingley, by contrast, had been as amiable as he was eager. Elizabeth had liked him at once, especially given the warmth with which he treated her brother. And if Mark held a man in esteem, it was reason enough for her to grant him her good opinion.

Still, it was the taller gentleman who drew her attention. He was more handsome of the two; that much she could admit.

Not that she would ever say so aloud, but she had always preferred dark eyes and darker hair.

So when Mr. Bingley gestured in her direction and the tall man uttered, “She is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me”—

—there was a dull roar in her ears.

It was not the insult alone. It was the thoughtlessness. The cruelty of dismissing her so completely when she had done nothing to deserve it.

She stared down at her hands, resting in her lap, and tried to force her expression into stillness.

No flicker of hurt. No flare of embarrassment. Nothing to betray the sudden pounding of her heart.

She did not want to see Mark’s face.

She already knew what it would look like.

He had always been protective—moral and upright, yes, but also impulsive when wounded on behalf of those he loved.

She still remembered the day that John Lucas called her a freckled scarecrow, which had wounded her ten-year-old heart.

Mark had bloodied the boy’s nose within seconds of seeing his sister’s tears.

But he could not do that now. Not at twenty. Not in a crowded ballroom.

And not in front of half the county.

So she forced herself to breathe, to school her features into polite detachment, and to count the stitches on her glove to keep from crying.

You would think I would be used to it by now , she thought . I have been compared to Jane my entire life .

Her mother’s occasional words did not bother her—not very much, that is.

There was a plethora of people in Meryton, as well as her aunt and uncle Gardiner in London, that had told her she was pretty, time and again.

She knew no one could surpass Jane’s serene beauty, but to hear a complete stranger utter such similar words as her mother did on occasion.

My friends love me and judge my appearance with my disposition as a factor. This stranger knows nothing about me, so he does not have my character to aid his assessment .

After all, Charlotte Lucas was very plain—some might even say ugly—but being Elizabeth’s best friend made the older girl beautiful in her eyes.

Thinking of her friend caused Elizabeth to raise her head in search of her, but suddenly, her field of vision was blocked by someone.

She looked up… and he was there.

The tall, haughty stranger. Standing directly in front of her.

Mark and Mr. Bingley flanked him like twin pillars, though Bingley looked markedly more nervous.

Mark gave her a slight bow. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said with too much cheer. “May I present Mr. Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire.” He flicked his eyes to the tall man. “Darcy, my much older sister. Five minutes makes a tremendous difference in wisdom—or so she tells me.”

Mr. Bingley let out a startled chortle. Mr. Darcy, by contrast, stiffened.

Elizabeth lifted her chin and glared up at him, daring him to speak.

“It is a pleasure, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said with a bow.

“Is it?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

The man winced, and his voice was quiet—thought a bit formal—as he said, “I owe you an apology,” he said. “I spoke out of turn, and I regret that you heard my unjust words.”

She raised a single brow. “Do you regret saying it, or simply that I overheard?”

Bingley coughed into his fist.

Mark said mildly, “Now, now, Lizzy. You know that some of us prefer the corners to the dance floor.”

Darcy latched on to the lifeline like a man at sea.

“Precisely. I had no intention of dancing this evening. It has been… a trying few weeks. We only just arrived in the neighborhood, and I was not prepared for the crush. I said what I did only to rid myself of Bingley, who can be like an overexcited spaniel when he is determined to see everyone in the room well paired.”

“Say now,” cried Bingley, “I resent that remark!”