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CHAPTER FIVE

Darcy

O n the evening of the Netherfield ball, as my valet held out my white satin waistcoat, I noticed a strange expression on his face.

Having known the man for half my life and believing I had never met a more discrete individual, I was on the verge of a testy inquiry as to the reason for his smirking when I realised I had been whistling a jaunty tune.

I am not and have never been a whistler.

I straightened my lips into a slash across my face and wondered no longer why he was stifling a chuckle.

“Apparently, I am in high spirits this evening, Carsten,” I said, intending to minimise my embarrassment with a dignified statement.

“Apparently so, sir.” His eyes met mine for just an instant.

When I was turned out to my valet’s satisfaction, I examined myself in the mirror and thought perhaps he had done a little more than his usual polish.

“Very good, Carsten,” I said. “I think I shall do. Is it safe?”

He stepped out into the hall and looked up and down to make sure Miss Bingley was not loitering in a doorway hoping to latch on to me for the evening, and when I received his nod of assurance, I went down the stairs.

We had timed our course of action to the second.

Just as I arrived in the foyer, the Bingleys and Hursts came out of the salon and stood ready to receive the guests who arrived in a steady stream.

I do not care for country society overmuch, but I shall own to their excellence in one thing: they arrive at a ball on time. None of the fashionable hour and a half late entrance for these people. They valued their entertainments too much to be cavalier.

I relied on Mrs Bennet to be one of the first to arrive and indeed she was, dressed like a draper’s display, stacked from head to toe with lace, flounces, feathers, and a fan.

Behind her stood Mr Bennet, who after extending a weary bow, wandered off to the billiards room.

While the matron of the family held up the progress of half the neighbourhood by prattling at Bingley, her youngest girls dipped their curtseys and swarmed into the ballroom.

Her middle daughter drifted towards the musicians with an expression of long-suffering, and Bingley, oblivious to the obligations of a good host, swept the eldest Miss Bennet off to ask her opinion of the ballroom’s decoration.

All of these movements left Elizabeth to fend for herself, and I went straight down the stairs to her and offered my arm.

“But where is your beau, Miss Elizabeth? I would have thought he would lend you his arm at least.”

“Oh, he is quite put out with me, sir. I am being punished, I believe.”

“I am sure you deserve it for your antics of yesterday,” I said with false severity.

Striving to appear unamused by my teasing, she replied, “That may be, Mr Darcy, but I have caused a new offence.”

“Oh? My word, were you a—what did he call you? A naughty puss, I believe.”

She looked genuinely annoyed to be reminded of Mr Collins’s demeaning scold but obliged me by explaining why I had her company to myself.

“I am incapable of dancing the first set with him, Mr Darcy.”

“Then I can sympathise, for I have been similarly disappointed in you. Is he sulking in a corner?”

She looked up at me with a sudden smile. “He ran off to find my friend Charlotte Lucas in hopes that she will do for him what I will not.”

“Poor lady. But how is your fetlock? You are limping less than I expected.”

She lowered her voice as we headed for the edge of the room at a stately pace. “If you must know, it hurts very much. For the sake of all our vanity, Mama insisted I take off Mr Jones’s ugly bandage which leaves the joint unsupported. But I am too proud to wince and hobble in front of my friends.”

“Well, if it is any consolation, you look perfectly tolerable tonight, Miss Bennet.”

“Do I indeed? It seems I have been elevated from merely tolerable to perfectly tolerable. How fortunate I am!”

She chuckled that low and honeyed sound of seduction, and I felt sure of an enjoyable evening. But just when I was about to settle her in a satin upholstered Queen Anne chair and begin to flirt in earnest, Miss Bingley appeared.

She had upon her face an expression of fixed brightness and a keen, almost martial light in her eye. “Mr Darcy,” she said sweetly before turning a wee bit forced. “Oh, and Eliza Bennet too. Goodness! I did not see you there. I understand you are injured and will not be dancing tonight.”

“I shall not have that pleasure, Miss Bingley.”

“Well, you had best settle yourself there, I think. I shall have a footman bring you a cup of punch.”

Having dismissed her rival, she turned to me and said, “The musicians will start up for the opening dance any minute now.”

“Will they?” I asked blandly.

“Yes. We open with the cotillion, as most elegant balls usually do. You dance the cotillion very creditably, Mr Darcy.”

“Interesting. I have never cared for that dance.” The violinists began to scrape their bows across the strings of their instruments to tune them, requiring I speak a little louder. “You are kind to attend to Miss Bennet, but surely your partner is looking for you?”

I turned from her and helped Miss Bennet sit, which gave Bingley’s sister little choice but to flounce away in high colour.

Mrs Bennet instantly filled the void left by Miss Bingley. “Lizzie, where is Jane? I do not yet know who will lead her out for the supper set.” Her voice trembled with high drama. “I do not want her to throw away that dance on the likes of John Lucas.”

“She is poised to begin the cotillion, Mama. You will have to wait to speak to her.”

Mrs Bennet let out a huff of impatience before she bustled towards the seats at the head of the dance where the matrons were perched like crows on a fence. Miss Elizabeth looked upon me with theatrical innocence and opened her mouth to say something witty when we were again interrupted.

“Why, Charlotte, I am very happy to see you,” Miss Elizabeth said.

“I would be happier to see you partnered for the dance, Eliza. Does your ankle cause you much pain?”

“My ankle is perfectly tolerable, Charlotte,” she said, slanting an amused glance at me, “but I believe Mr Collins may be looking for you.”

“For me?”

“He means to dance with you if you are free. He cannot trample me tonight, you see, and has singled out your toes for his attentions.”

She laughed but scanned the crowd, saw Mr Collins, and went directly to stand in his way. We were alone at last.

“Lizzy,” cried my partner’s youngest sister from ten paces away, “Wickham did not come!”

I stiffened and stared at the set that was forming.

“But Mr Denny is here and ready to dance with you, Lydia. You had better not leave him standing alone. Is everyone partnered?”

“Yes,” she called over her shoulder, “even Mary who is to dance with poor John.”

After a moment of silence, Miss Elizabeth said, “I wonder who next will appear to speak to us, Mr Darcy. We have yet to hear of how a ball is conducted at St James’s Palace or give Mr Hurst directions to the refreshments.”

I would have cast out a rejoinder were I not willing my heartbeat to return to a normal cadence. The mere mention of George Wickham would always cause my body to arm itself for war.

The magic had gone out of the evening for me. I floundered and could think of nothing innocuous to say. Meanwhile, Elizabeth Bennet gave me a thoroughly intrusive examination with her perceptive eyes before settling back to watch the dancers.

Eventually, I cleared my throat and hoped that inspiration would come, but I was at a loss.

Finally, Miss Elizabeth took up the challenge. “I believe we must have some conversation, else I shall drift off to sleep where I sit.”

“Very well. Do you read, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Indeed, I do!” she replied brightly. “I have even learnt my ABC’s!”

My reply, which should have been to laugh, was stiff. “I did not mean to insult you. I only inquired as a means to spark a conversation. I for example, am reading a work by John Ritter on the confluence of ethical and scientific inquiry.”

Both her eyebrows rose at once. “If you are determined to pursue that topic, you had best fetch me a pillow. My eyelids are becoming quite heavy just now, but my sister Mary would be delighted to hear your observations on Mr Ritter.”

Perhaps because I was discomposed by the mention of Wickham, or perhaps because I was suddenly aware of my deficiencies in the art of casual flirtation, her words stung me.

“Very well,” I replied sharply, “tell me what I am to say, and I shall say it, Miss Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth

I took in a breath, surprised—dismayed—by the biting tone of Mr Darcy’s challenge.

We were settled next to a fern and far enough away from the musicians at the top of the room to speak conversationally, and if I could not dance, I had sincerely hoped for another round of his challenging repartee.

What I was treated to, however, was the attention of a mostly mute and glowering statue who, when roused, decided we should speak of Ritter! When I balked at that, he barked at me.

“Tell me what I am to say, and I shall say it, Miss Elizabeth.” Mr Darcy’s mouth was tight and obstinate as he spoke, rendering him irresistible to my provoking nature.

“Oh, if you leave it to me?—”

“I do.”

“Well then, let us get down to essentials, shall we? I have been trying to puzzle you out, and I find I am not getting on at all. Are you a harsh man, Mr Darcy?”

He uncrossed his arms and turned to look at me. “I certainly hope I am not.”

“But you can be harsh in your opinions.”

He frowned ever so slightly. “ You , I believe, are an excellent judge of harsh opinions.”

I smiled. How I love to be tested! “True, true,” I mused, “but if you were to ask me if I am a harsh woman, I would have to own it directly you see.”

He looked uncomfortable and replied in irritable distraction. “To what end is this questioning, may I ask?”