Page 1 of Mistress of Pemberley

Until Elizabeth stepped into the ballroom at Netherfield and realised, to her disappointment, that Mr Wickham was not among the cluster of red-coated officers, it had never crossed her mind that he might not be there. The evening, which had promised amusement, now seemed utterly ruined. Looking about the room with some annoyance, she spotted Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, and she approached her friend in haste, speaking well before arriving at her side. “Do you think Mr Wickham has been excluded to please Mr Darcy?”

“Lizzy!” murmured Charlotte, a hint of reproach in her tone, glancing about them with concern. However, her unease subsided when she noticed that no one was paying any attention to their conversation. In the distance, Jane was already engaged in discourse with Mr Bingley, well away from his sisters and Mr Darcy, who had, as was their habit, retreated to a corner. This aloof positioning made it abundantly clear that they still considered themselves apart from those assembled around them.

Elizabeth followed Charlotte’s gaze and sighed. Nothing had changed in the weeks since the assembly in Meryton; the same haughty glances from Mr Darcy and his companions made her wonder anew what they gained by remaining amongst them. Her heart ached with indignation and confusion, her mind unable to comprehend their actions.

“I had not thought Mr Darcy capable of contriving to exclude Mr Wickham from this ball,” Elizabeth continued, her hands clenched into fists, speaking loudly enough to raise Charlotte’s concern again.

“You do not know for sure,” Charlotte replied, attempting to soothe her friend. “You heard Mr Denny explain that Mr Wickham was called to London on business yesterday and has not yet returned.”

“So it seems. Yet Mr Denny also added, with a knowing smile, that he doubted Mr Wickham would have gone at this moment were he not attempting to avoid a certain gentleman here.”

No name had been spoken, but it had been sufficient to understand who the culprit was. Her indignation deepened; even Mr Bingley appeared culpable for indulging his friend’s caprice.

“Do not be absurd, Lizzy. Of course Mr Bingley would do this favour for his friend,” Charlotte replied, emphasising the word ‘friend’. Elizabeth merely shrugged, her ire undiminished.

“Are you saying you would not grant me such a request or indulge such a whim ?”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth admitted with a faint smile.

At this, they both turned their attention to Mr Darcy, who was pacing towards them, wondering what he could possibly want.

The question was soon answered when, with the utmost politeness, the gentleman asked after their well-being. Elizabeth could scarcely muster the civility to respond. To engage with Mr Darcy felt, in her mind, like a betrayal of Mr Wickham. Determined not to prolong the excruciating moment, she obliged Charlotte with her ostentatious silence to carry on the conversation alone, prompting Mr Darcy to withdraw quickly. Nevertheless, he cast a questioning glance in her direction as he departed. She pretended not to notice, though his intense gaze made her quiver. What this man, whose whims had spoilt her evening, wanted from her was impossible to know.

Elizabeth did not dwell long on anger or frustration. Although her prospects for amusement seemed almost dashed, she turned to Charlotte, moving their discussion to lighter topics, particularly the oddities of her cousin Mr Collins, who had proved to be insufferable.

“I doubt your judgment, Lizzy,” Charlotte replied with a soft laugh. “You have a tendency to see only the worst in people.”

“I assure you that is not the case. You will see there is little good to say of Mr—” Elizabeth stopped abruptly, her words catching in her throat as the subject of their conversation approached with an awkward bow and extended an invitation to dance. Her evening, which had begun poorly, had now become utterly unbearable.

The first two dances brought nothing but mortification. In Mr Collins’s company, they were exercises in humiliation. Awkward and solemn, he apologised incessantly instead of attending to the steps, frequently moving incorrectly, ignorant of his errors. Elizabeth endured all the shame and misery that an unsuitable partner could inflict. When, at last, she was released from his company, the sensation was one of sheer relief.

Her next partner, an officer, provided some solace, and she took comfort in discussing Mr Wickham, hearing that he was liked by all his comrades. Once the dances concluded, she returned to Charlotte, only to be startled by the approach of Mr Darcy, who asked her to dance. Taken by surprise, she accepted without thought. As he walked away, she berated herself for agreeing to stand up with the man who had made it clear that he did not find her handsome enough to tempt him and lately had refused Mr Wickham the joy of participating in the ball.

“I am sure you will find him quite agreeable,” Charlotte murmured to console her.

“Heaven forbid!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her angry countenance clearly showing her state of mind. “That would be the greatest misfortune of all—to like a man who has given me every reason to dislike him. Do not wish such a calamity upon me!”

“My goodness, Lizzy, you cannot think so ill of a gentleman like Mr Darcy. Look about you—everyone has flaws, great or small, but there must be one whose imperfections you can overlook and whom you can give your affection to without hesitation.”

“Is that what you dream of doing?” Elizabeth asked, surprised, for this sentiment was far removed from their earlier youthful ideals of a man without faults who could grant them unblemished love.

“Me?” Charlotte hesitated, glancing about as though searching for evidence of her theory among the gathered gentlemen. “I shall likely do whatever my father decides.”

Elizabeth had no time to reflect on this unexpected response, for the music began again, and Mr Darcy approached to claim her hand. Charlotte leant close, whispering a warning not to let her feelings for Mr Wickham make her appear rude to a man of such superior status. Elizabeth said nothing and took her place opposite Mr Darcy in the set. She noted the astonishment in the faces around them, mirroring her own disbelief that this conceited gentleman would ever invite her to dance.

For a time, they moved in silence, and Elizabeth wondered whether it would persist for the entire set. Initially, she resolved not to break it, but she soon decided that compelling Mr Darcy to speak would be a more satisfying punishment.

“I had imagined you did not care much for this futile activity of dancing,” she remarked, her tone laced with sarcasm.

“I dare say your imagination was mistaken,” he replied, and silence again descended between them.

After another pause, Elizabeth tried again. “It is your turn to say something now, Mr Darcy. I have mentioned the dance—perhaps you might explain how it is possible to enjoy dancing when you have danced so rarely since you arrived in Hertfordshire.”

She wished to add that he likely found the society of Meryton neither elegant nor distinguished enough to tempt him to dance, but she restrained herself. They turned away from each other then, the steps carrying them around the couple below them in the line, and when she found herself before him once more, her expression conveyed nothing but a slight curiosity and an unspoken invitation for him to offer an explanation.

“Very well, Miss Elizabeth,” he said with an unexpected smile. “Perhaps I consider that private balls are far more enjoyable than public ones. As you probably remember, I invited you to dance at Sir William’s dinner, but you refused.”

Fortunately, they were obliged to part again, giving her time to regain her composure and summon a cold smile.

“Do you follow certain rules about talking while dancing?” he asked, looking intently into her eyes as the dance brought them closer.

“Sometimes. One must say something, after all. It would seem odd to stay completely silent for half an hour. Still, for the benefit of some, the conversation should be arranged so that they have to say as little as possible,” she answered.

“Are you speaking from your own feelings now, or are you referring to mine?”

“Both,” Elizabeth replied with a playful smile. “I have always thought our minds to be quite similar. We both share a proud nature, unwilling to speak unless we expect to astonish everyone in the room and have our words remembered.”

“That is an accurate reflection of your character, I am sure,” he replied. “How closely it resembles mine, I cannot say. But you think it is a perfect likeness.”

“I suppose you are quite accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed,” she said.

“Orders?” he asked, somewhat perplexed. “Orders are for servants. In no other circumstance would I presume to shape my thoughts as commands.”

“Are you certain?” she replied, with an impertinence so sharp that he immediately noticed it. It caused him to pause mid-step, unsure of what she intended to convey.

He said nothing, and they continued the dance in silence until nearly the end of the set.

“I am not certain I understood what you meant,” he finally remarked, his tone measured.

Elizabeth regarded him with an unexpected intensity, her gaze lingering a few moments before looking towards Mr Bingley, who danced nearby. With a faint smile, which would have been a clear sign of impending mischief to those who knew her well, she replied, “Perhaps not orders, but rather desires expressed with great determination to the detriment of a relative or a friend—”

“Such as?” he pressed, his curiosity clearly piqued.

Elizabeth allowed her eyes to wander the room as though searching for someone in particular before replying at last, “There are certain individuals who have neither had the honour nor the pleasure of being invited to this ball. When you saw us the other day, we had just made a new acquaintance…”

The effect was immediate. A visible expression of displeasure settled on his face, but he remained silent. Although she congratulated herself for her frankness, Elizabeth was unable to continue.

At last, he spoke in a restrained tone, “If you are referring to Mr Wickham, indeed, his absence is far from troubling me.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Elizabeth, surprised by his sincerity, though his response displeased her profoundly. “He has been unfortunate enough to lose your friendship in a way that will likely affect him for the rest of his life.”

“Mr Wickham possesses such charming manners that he is sure to make friends easily—”

“Are you referring to us?” she interrupted him, her eyes filling with fury.

“No, Miss Bennet, I am speaking in general. Whether he is equally skilled at keeping them is far less certain.”

Mr Darcy remained silent after that, evidently eager to redirect the conversation. Luckily for him, the dance came to an end. At Elizabeth’s suggestion, he escorted her to Charlotte, who, engaged in conversation with an officer, broke off as Elizabeth approached, and the officer took his leave.

“Elizabeth, what has happened?” asked her friend, mystified as she had been observing their last few steps in the dance and the tense expressions on their faces.

“I suggested to Mr Darcy that he was the one who gave the order to prevent Mr Wickham from attending,” Elizabeth replied, her tone still heated.

“I cannot believe it! It is plainly uncivil to make such direct accusations,” Charlotte protested.

“I think it is far more uncivil to bar someone from attending a ball after already wronging him,” Elizabeth countered.

“But what about Mr Wickham compels you to defend him with such fervour?” Charlotte asked, curiosity mingling with a slight concern, fearing that her friend exhibited her inclination towards that gentleman too explicitly.

“He struck me as remarkably sincere, and that is a rare quality in a person,” Elizabeth replied, attempting to explain, even to herself, why she had so firmly taken Mr Wickham’s side. One thing was certain: she had been disappointed not to find him at the ball. Yet that disappointment alone was insufficient to justify her uncivil behaviour, as Charlotte had called it.

“ People might think that you…like Mr Wickham,” Charlotte said.

“I would have liked him to be here, to invite me to dance, to make the evening generally more pleasant,” Elizabeth admitted.

“But it is not just that, is it?” Charlotte pressed, knowing her friend better than most, perhaps even better than Jane at times.

There was indeed something more, and that ‘something’ had to do with Mr Darcy. She enjoyed vexing him, unsettling him, seeing an expression on his face that was not his usual mask of arrogance.

“You enjoy Mr Wickham’s admiration, sometimes expressed too openly for my taste, admit it—but you would wish for Mr Darcy to occasionally appear as if he admires you too,” Charlotte said at last, almost as if echoing Elizabeth’s own thoughts—though not entirely, for while Elizabeth merely wished to provoke or unnerve him, Charlotte believed she sought admiration. And suddenly, Elizabeth was unsure who was closer to the truth, and the uncertainty irritated her.

The evening became even more unpleasant when Miss Bingley approached them, her disdain barely concealed. “So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite taken with George Wickham! Miss Lydia has spoken all evening about him and asked me endless questions. I am sure he conveniently forgot to mention that he is the son of old Mr Wickham, the late Mr Darcy’s steward. Let me offer you some friendly advice—not to believe everything he says. His proclamations about Mr Darcy mistreating him are completely false. On the contrary, Mr Darcy has always been exceptionally kind to him, despite Mr Wickham’s disgraceful behaviour towards him. I do not know all the details, but I do know Mr Darcy is entirely blameless.”

Elizabeth was furious, but she measured her tone and hid her anger by smiling, saying, “It seems that you do not know what Mr Wickham has done to Mr Darcy. By your account, you accuse him of nothing worse than being Mr Darcy’s steward’s son—a fact which, I assure you, he told me himself,” Elizabeth replied sharply, even though it was not true.

“Oh! Of course, he had no reason to hide from you the fact that he is Mr Darcy’s steward’s son,” Miss Bingley retorted with such venomous sarcasm that Elizabeth flushed. Turning to leave, Miss Bingley cast her gaze towards her brother and Jane, who were dancing again. “Oh, I see your sister is short of partners, expecting my brother to save her every time.”

“What was that?” Charlotte asked, equally shocked and displeased by Miss Bingley’s tone.

But Elizabeth remained silent, for to share her thoughts with Charlotte would mean confronting the fear that had been gnawing at her for days—a fear that arose each time one of the Bingley sisters directed their attention towards Jane.