Page 3 of Such Persuasions as These (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

CHAPTER TWO

E lizabeth was in her best looks for tonight’s assembly. She had taken special care with her appearance, as had each of her sisters. She would never, as her mother often reminded her, be as beautiful as her sister Jane, but even Mrs Bennet had to admit she was quite pretty this evening.

She was looking forward to making the acquaintance of the Netherfield party. Mr Bingley’s sisters, Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst, as Elizabeth had heard, were everything fashionable and elegant, and she looked forward to much intelligent conversation with them.

Upon arriving, she noted that, once again, there was a dearth of eligible dancing partners.

Many of Hertfordshire’s young men were off fighting Napoleon on the battlefields of France and Spain, so this was not unexpected.

Elizabeth was well-respected in the area, however, so she chose not to be discouraged.

She was convinced she would dance this evening, whether her partner be a young banker or a greying squire.

Or perhaps even a gentleman of five thousand a year .

Upon spying her closest friend, Charlotte Lucas, she waved, and Charlotte made her way towards the gaggle of Bennet ladies.

Their greetings were interrupted by an abrupt suspension of the music.

Silence spread throughout the crowd, and dancers seemed to instinctively part down the middle, all eyes turning towards the two handsomely dressed gentlemen and one clearly unimpressed young lady.

She wondered which of Mr Bingley’s two sisters she was and hoped the absent sister was not unwell.

The two gentlemen must be none other than Mr Bingley and his brother, Mr Hurst. A niggling disappointment arose in her chest, for they were both fine-looking men; it would be far better for the married gentleman to be plain and podgy.

Instead, standing framed in the entranceway, was a fair-haired young man with smiling eyes and an easy bearing, well-favoured by any standards, and a taller, striking gentleman with dark curls and a severe expression upon his fiercely handsome mien.

As she had heard of Mr Bingley’s affable nature, Elizabeth deduced that the more attractive man was his married brother.

A shame , she mused, for there was something in his countenance that caused her stomach to tighten when his gaze alighted upon her.

It may have been the brooding brow, the square jaw, or the smoky green of his eyes—all features that could not but please—but Elizabeth thought she saw something deeper in his visage.

Along with his forbidding glare and arrogant stance, she recognised a certain careworn air.

And a definite wish to be anywhere but here.

Elizabeth shifted her attention to Mr Bingley’s sister and not only perceived the sneer on the fine lady’s face, but accidentally overheard her snide aside to the taller of the men.

“How miserable you look, Mr Darcy. And understandably so. To be forced to spend an evening in such tedious company, hunted by every country maiden and money-hungry mama.”

“Nothing of the sort,” the man replied. “I am happy to render whatever service I can to your brother, and if this is what is required of me…”

Mr Darcy? So, this was not Mr Bingley’s brother at all. None of the local gentlemen had mentioned Mr Bingley having invited a friend to Netherfield. Who can he be?

As the trio walked further into the room, their voices grew too faint for Elizabeth to comprehend, though the character of at least one of them she understood readily. She would certainly not be sharing much intelligent conversation with this young lady.

She watched them as they made their way to an effusive Sir William Lucas, whose position as a knight and magistrate made him the master of ceremonies by default for assemblies such as this.

No doubt Mr Bingley was requesting that he introduce them about, as otherwise they could not dance with those outside their own party.

While the two genial gentlemen spoke, Elizabeth noticed that the silent Mr Darcy was walking stiffly.

His jaw was clenched, and a slight wince betrayed a measure of torment when the older man addressed him.

Was their presence so vexatious to him that he could only endure it with such rigid tension? Was he so above his company? Or might there be another reason for his evident agitation?

Elizabeth did not get to ponder long over this, for her large group was approached directly by Sir William, who presented all six Bennet ladies and two of his own daughters to the Netherfield party as if reading off a washing bill.

“Mrs Bennet,” shirts , “Miss Bennet,” cravats , “Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” stockings , and so on .

To Sir William, it appears, we are so much laundry. Elizabeth laughed inwardly at the absurdity, confident that their family’s oldest friend regarded them with no such indifference.

Mr Darcy’s gaze swept over the ladies as Sir William gestured to each without seeming to take notice of any one of them.

Mr Bingley, however, paid rapt attention and, as might be expected, requested Jane’s hand for his first set.

As Jane was being spirited away, Elizabeth felt keenly the scarcity of partners.

Young Philip Lucas, barely eighteen, had the audacity to request the hand of Miss Bingley, and she had the good breeding not to refuse.

One by one, their little crowd dispersed.

Which leaves Mr Darcy…

The handsome, taciturn man was standing an arm’s length from Elizabeth, and she wondered if he fancied himself a spectator in some badly costumed carnival.

Mothers and fathers were prancing their families before him, some introducing their offspring, some simply parading them.

Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that Miss Bingley’s earlier accusations held some truth.

As she regarded the tableau before her, she began to see him, not as a spectator, but as the strong man in this circus, forced to fend off the fawning felines and their flirting fillies.

She could envision him spitting fire at them all.

Indeed, he looked as if he wished he had a sword to swallow. Or fall upon.

Poor man .

Mr Darcy truly was miserable, as his companion had surmised. But not just because of the fluttering of eyelashes and swishing of gowns passing before him.

His grimace seemed to be one of pain .

Moments passed, and when conversation between herself and the gentleman did not materialise, Elizabeth asked, “Are you not inclined to dance, Mr Darcy?” If he truly was so sore, he could not be expected to do so, but Elizabeth hoped her gambit might induce him into some semblance of conversation.

To be sure, even standing seemed almost too much to bear.

She wondered if she ought to point out to him a comfortable seat.

To do so, of course, would require further discourse.

“I rather detest dancing,” he growled. “Unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner,” he added more gently, evidently realising she had not said anything out of the ordinary; they were at a ball after all.

“I see. I am sorry to hear it,” she offered, conceding the field. It was plain he did not wish to be disturbed. “Excuse me.” She smiled sweetly and curtseyed her leave, taking her seat on a nearby bench. It was not long, however, before she heard Mr Bingley’s voice behind her.

“Come now, she is an angel,” he cried.

“She smiles too much,” Mr Darcy groused. They were speaking of Jane, and Elizabeth laughed inwardly that Mr Darcy had to reach so far to find something negative to say of her saintly sister.

“I cannot have you standing about in this stupid manner. Why do you not get acquainted with some of the local ladies? Look, there is one of her sisters, and I dare say she is very pretty.” Elizabeth’s face immediately flushed as she darted her eyes to her lap, understanding that she herself was now the subject of their speech.

“She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me. Go. Go back to your partner and her smiles. You are wasting your time with me.”

Elizabeth’s first inclination was to be deeply offended.

‘ Tolerable?’ How dare he! To say such a thing in a public assembly room where anyone, including herself, could hear him?

Before she could become too ruffled, however, she heard a groan reverberating from Mr Darcy’s direction.

Glancing up at him, she noted that the gentleman was now wincing and bending his head in clear discomfort, his knuckles again tightening around the ivory knob of his walking stick as he made his way towards the card room.

No wonder he had deflected his friend’s enthusiastic entreaties; Mr Darcy was not simply ‘sore’, but in agony.

Mr Bennet, being almost as eager as his lady to see his daughters well-settled, had attended the assembly in hopes of making the acquaintance of his new neighbours.

Young Bingley, he found to be cheerful and inviting, quick to smile and satisfied with everything about him.

He and his friend, a great tall fellow, could not have been more dissimilar.

This intrigued Bennet to the point that, when he noticed Mr Darcy slipping into the card room, he followed him, bringing himself to that man’s side.

It soon became clear that the gentleman was not wont to engage in conversation. Naturally, Bennet felt it would be a shame not to force him.

“So, Mr Darcy, is it? You and Mr Bingley are friends of long standing, I gather.”

The self-important man deigned to nod.

“And are you as satisfied with the neighbourhood as your companion?” Mr Bennet asked, seeing the answer plainly written on the younger man’s face.

“I find it perfectly agreeable,” said Mr Darcy, not bothering to move his gaze.

Bennet’s compulsion to tease the man momentarily overcame his desire to see his daughters well-married, and he could not stop himself from replying, “Is that so? I could not tell it from your expression. You do not look particularly overwhelmed with excitement to be amidst our society.” If there was such a term as under whelmed, he would dare say Mr Darcy would embody it.

Mr Darcy looked him directly in the eyes. “Excuse me?”

His disturbed response delighted Bennet to no end, compelling him to continue in the same vein.

“I have noted that Mr Bingley is everything affable and accommodating—a very gentlemanly man, I should say, collecting friends everywhere he turns. Perhaps you are just more reserved, observing his open manners and taking lessons, I am sure.”

Bennet was sure Mr Darcy was decidedly not taking lessons from his friend.

The insinuation seemed to irritate the fellow even further, thus hitting exactly the mark Bennet had intended.

Before the gentleman could form an answer, or truly even digest the statement, it seemed, Mr Bennet bowed and, with a quick waggle of his eyebrows, said, “I shall leave you to your studies.” He then moved on to speak to Sir William, suppressing the chuckle that threatened to escape at the fine young man’s affronted and somewhat dumbfounded expression.