Page 22 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
W hen Elizabeth reached Longbourn, she wished to go straight to her room, to think about everything that had happened between herself and Mr Darcy, to consider that final moment of farewell. Something within her wished to hold every memory up, examine each of them carefully, to be remembered and preserved forever. Instead, a serious-faced Jane waylaid her on the way to her chamber, pulling her into the empty music room to convey the message Elizabeth had missed by avoiding her callers.
“There is to be a ball at Netherfield,” Jane told her.
“A ball! That is exciting news,” Elizabeth said, pasting a smile upon her face and pretending that dancing was the only thing on her mind. But she finally noticed the furrow in Jane’s brow. “Are not you happy for it?”
“Mr Bingley has been here, and he asked me for a set, after he opens the ball with his sister. I felt I had to agree?—”
“Of course you had to agree. You could hardly accept his invitation to the ball and then refuse to dance with him.”
Jane still appeared troubled. “Mr Collins has been searching for you. He wishes to ask you for the first set.”
This news, at least, had the power to pull her mind away from her interlude with Mr Darcy. “Oh, Jane, I do not wish to encourage him! I do not wish to dance with him at all!”
A small voice interrupted their tête-à-tête. “I do.”
They whirled, to see what they had hitherto missed: Mary, huddled in the corner, her nose reddened and her face marked with tears.
“I do not see why Mama insists Mr Collins is for you, Lizzy,” she said with a sniff. “I am the only one who likes him, and I am almost eighteen.”
Both Elizabeth and Jane were bewildered by the notion, and spent a good deal of time speaking to her of issues both practical and romantic. “Are you absolutely certain, Mary?” Elizabeth asked at length.
It seemed she was, and so, Elizabeth left the music room to do something she had never before considered doing—seek out her cousin.
It was not difficult to find him, and immediately, he started in on what was certain to be a lengthy, convoluted invitation.
“Mr Collins,” Elizabeth managed to interrupt. “I must not accept your kind offer of the first set at Netherfield’s coming ball. To consent would break the heart of my younger sister, Mary, and I cannot bear to hurt her.”
Naturally, it took much longer for him to understand than it ought to have, but at last he seemed to comprehend that at least one of the Bennet sisters was in love with him, although not one he had ever before considered. Elizabeth left him to work out in his mind what he wished to do about it.
It was not until hours later that she was alone in her chamber, that she was free to think, to remember, to wonder at her own foolishness. Why could she not have cared for Mr Bingley? Why was it his friend alone who sparked any sort of feelings? What were these sentiments for Mr Darcy—fleeting desire? Why did it feel deeper?
Well, it did not matter what her stupid feelings had decided to do. He had offered an apology, not a proposal.
So why did she torture herself by remembering those kisses, over and over again? “Grandmama,” she whispered in despair, “what have you done to me?”
The dancing had begun before the Bennets entered the ballroom at Netherfield—her sisters, all sharing a single maid, had not been able to leave Longbourn in any sort of timely fashion. Elizabeth watched Mary joining a set on the arm of Mr Collins and wondered at the vagaries and variance of feeling which inspired love.
She felt the oddest sort of detachment; she knew that she must put herself in the general vicinity of Mr Bingley in the hopes of courting his attention, and that it was necessary to force her feelings in his direction. She told herself it was for Mr Bingley’s sake that she had spent hours on her dress for the event, even arranging her difficult hair into something approaching perfection, in hopes of fulfilling her future. Yet she avoided thinking about the details of it, of him—as if she would be unable to dance a single step if she did.
Charlotte Lucas was the first to greet them. “I just spoke to Pen Harrington,” she confided. “Mr Wickham will not attend, Mr Denny says.”
Lydia made a face. “It is too bad it could not have been an uglier officer who is hounded by his creditors, but Harriet says some of them pounced upon Colonel Forster yesterday—all searching for poor Mr Wickham. He is gone now, and I do not know whether we shall ever see him again. The colonel thinks not. It is such a shame.”
Elizabeth smiled to herself, looking around at the pretty decorations, the finery of her neighbours, the elegance of the ballroom, and finding nothing to criticise. Mr Darcy had acted quickly, it seemed, to rid Meryton—and his sister—of a menace.
A pleasant-faced officer of her acquaintance asked her for the first set, and Elizabeth agreed willingly enough. Across the room, she saw Mr Bingley smiling and chatting with Jane and her dance partner, even though Mrs Hurst stood by his side, waiting for him to escort her onto the floor. Nearby stood the tall figure of Mr Darcy, Miss Bingley upon his arm.
She told herself it could not be envy, this twisting of emotion she felt; Miss Bingley was their hostess, and it was hardly more than politeness that he should open the entertainment with her. Of course, that lady appeared ecstatic, her eagerness on ready display; in contrast, he did not mirror her regard. He looked as he usually did, sober, unaffected, solemn. She wondered if he worried over his sister, who was probably spending the evening alone in her chamber, for Miss Darcy seemed to be nowhere amongst the younger ladies who could not yet participate in the dancing.
As the music began, Elizabeth diverted her preoccupation with the Darcys by attentiveness to her own partner, and occasionally to helping Mary with poor Mr Collins, guiding him to move in the proper direction. She admired Mary’s patience; she seemed pleased with her partner, instead of mortified by his apologies and awkwardness.
It was bewildering. How can love paint the dullest partner in such exquisite colours? How can the often ridiculous, empty-headed Mr Collins be Mary’s sun, her moon, and her stars? It seemed impossible. Yet, she saw how Mary’s obvious admiration warmed him, how eager he seemed to please her. Her sister’s influence could be nothing except good for him, for his manners, perhaps even his intellect; it was impossible not to hope for improvement.
Elizabeth had no partner for the next, but she and Charlotte caught up on the business of the neighbourhood, watching together as Mr Bingley danced with his younger sister and Mrs Hurst partnered with Mr Darcy. I have no expectation of a set with him , she reminded herself. I must hope that Mr Darcy will ask Jane to dance . The thought nearly made her ill. She actually comforted herself with the memory that Jane had promised the next set to Mr Bingley.
But there was not much comfort to be found. Mr Darcy shall likely secure the supper set with Jane , she decided, resolutely forcing her mind towards acceptance. Watching him dance with Miss Bingley, for whom he had admitted to feeling nothing, had been absurdly painful. How would it be to watch him with Jane?
It was only the horror of feeling a slashing stab of jealousy towards her most beloved sister which prodded Elizabeth to act. What she had already done with Mr Darcy was disgraceful and wrong. She must brutally crush out of existence any feelings for Jane’s sole potential suitor. Purposefully, she instead tried to work up some enthusiasm for Mr Bingley, to turn her mind towards the future…and her fate.
“It is a very nice waistcoat Mr Bingley wears,” Elizabeth said.
Charlotte looked at her strangely; they had not been discussing Mr Bingley, or waistcoats. “Yes,” she agreed, glancing over at him. “He looks very fine.”
“He is attractive, even if he is a bit on the lean side,” Elizabeth doggedly continued; every young lady who was in love seemed to obsessively wish to discuss the gentleman. It is not that I am not in love with Mr Bingley , she told herself. It was that she was not in love yet .
“I think he is very handsome,” Charlotte agreed, still eyeing her friend with something like concern.
“He dances beautifully,” Elizabeth added, searching for something else complimentary to say.
“Very graceful, yes. Eliza, I must ask you—have you given up your, er, interest in Mr Bingley?”
Elizabeth stared, open-mouthed, at her friend. Had Charlotte read her thoughts? Were her feelings for Mr Darcy too obvious? “Why w-would I?” she stuttered.
Charlotte appeared pained. “We have not spoken since you spent time at Netherfield. I thought it possible that as you came to know Mr Bingley better, your own interest faded. That he is perhaps not the man your grandmother predicted.”
“I do not know why you ask that,” Elizabeth declared, as a terrible brew of resentment and guilt flooded her. “Grandmama Gardiner was never wrong. Do you think I ought to wait for another Charles to happen along? It only took what…eight years for this one to appear.”
Instead of coming to Elizabeth’s defence and expressing her support, however, Charlotte bit her lip. “Oh,” she said at last. “I thought perhaps you had changed your mind. I do not think that everyone—um, anyone—realises you have any interest in him.”
Public opinion can assist in pointing a reluctant gentleman in the right direction; she ought to be helping sway it in my favour! “Well, they may realise it now,” she declared, knowing she sounded more defiant than adoring.
Charlotte took a deep breath, as if this was somehow remarkable. Why should it be? She had known Elizabeth’s hopes for weeks! Why should they have changed? He was an eligible male, and Elizabeth was a very eligible bride. Why should she have to point out that her birth was better than Mr Bingley’s?
“Has he…has he asked you for a set?” Charlotte enquired, her tone gentle.
The pity in her voice was beyond annoying. Elizabeth began explaining that she had been out when Mr Bingley had called, and that it was likely he would have asked for one at the same time as he asked Jane—but then she stopped herself, afraid Charlotte might ask just where she had been. She certainly did not wish to lie. “Not yet,” she answered sullenly.
It was Mr Darcy who saved her from a conversation she suddenly hated.
“Miss Elizabeth, may I have the next set, if you have not promised it elsewhere?”
She turned to face him, smiling in her reprieve, in her sorrow, in her guilt, in the esteem which she had just promised elsewhere—all of which she must refuse to acknowledge. “Thank you, Mr Darcy, I have not.”
He stared at her for a long moment, as if she had spoken in some sort of foreign tongue. Then he nodded, bowed, and walked away.
“Well, this is something! Mr Darcy, asking you! Do not be a simpleton and refuse to see the honour of it!” Charlotte prattled on with such amazement at his attention and the depth of honour she must feel at Mr Darcy’s consideration, that Elizabeth was annoyed all over again.