Page 42 of Such Persuasions as These (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

CHAPTER FORTY

E lizabeth retired early on Monday evening, leaving her family to their shoe-roses and speculations.

Alongside her usual excitement to be dancing under the lights of an elegantly appointed ballroom, she felt something cold warring with that thrill.

It was the constant voice telling her that the last time she spoke to the only man she truly wished to dance with, he was accusing her of double-hearted trickery.

The set of her shoulders, which she had worked to maintain as this battle had raged inside her throughout the day, finally gave way as she stared unseeing into the flames of her bedroom hearth.

Had he not sent the dress? She was sure he had; Caroline Bingley would never have shown such generosity.

Even with her abundant pin money, this gown would have cost her dearly.

Miss Bingley was not Elizabeth’s gracious benefactor.

But then, a gown so elegant would have taken many days to complete; he must have commissioned it before he found her out .

No, she could not take this gift as evidence of his forgiveness or his good opinion.

At least it had given her an excuse to tell him how she felt.

Elizabeth knew that such claims of friendship would bring forth vile insults from Miss Bingley, which she would be unable to keep to herself.

Even if he did not actually see the letter, she was sure Miss Bingley would quote it, for no other reason than to prove Elizabeth the impertinent chit she had always thought her.

He would hear it or he would see it, and he would know that she treasured his friendship—that she treasured him.

A tear escaped her eye at this thought—adding to the many that had fallen whilst penning her missive. After everything, after every condemnation, even after his testing her integrity in such a humiliating way, she loved him.

‘ For ten thousand a year… ’

Her mind flew back to the deserted road near the market.

She had hated him for accusing her, for thinking so meanly of her.

He had been cold, his air distant and his words bitter.

Then, in the midst of their interview, something had shifted.

Their conversation had turned, and he had become fervent, his voice low and breathy.

‘Sparkling and charming and handsome,’ he had called her. ‘Standing there so brazenly…your lips parted…inviting me to… And to think, I was about to go against my family, society, everyone. You must have seen how close I was…’

She was still blushing at the intensity of her longing when a thought struck her: Fitzwilliam Darcy, Master of Pemberley, a man of unimaginable wealth and rank, had been about to give it all to her with a kiss.

His passion had been so strong that he was willing to accept her with all her supposed avarice, believing that she did not love him, believing her to be playing a part to him the whole while.

Simply because they were out of earshot of the crowds departing Meryton did not mean they were beyond their sight.

He had been a breath away from sealing his fate and engaging himself to her with an open and ardent display of affection.

Why?

Could it be that he truly did feel something for her?

That he was willing to marry her with unequal affections simply because his own attachment was so strong?

Could he be so enamoured that he was prepared to consign himself to a life with someone whom he would always believe had deceived and rooked him into the union?

Or maybe, Elizabeth hoped against all hope, maybe some part of him knew that she was no deceiver. He knew she was not false. And maybe—could it be?—

Could Mr Darcy feel for me what I feel for him?

Was that why he had sent the gown? A man in love, unable to openly undo the spiteful actions of another, sought to provide solace, the comfort only a husband could give, by what means he was able.

The thought brought her hands to her face, which she rubbed briskly before shifting her gaze from the fireplace to the mirror across from her.

Her eyes peeked through her fingers at her own reflection, sliding down over her mouth, and stayed there for many minutes.

Her mind kept playing those words in a loop, in an argument, in a logical breakdown, in a drumbeat that thrummed them into her heart.

Why else would he behave so irrationally? Why else would he have felt so betrayed? Why else would he have been so hurt?

He must be in love with me too .

As was to be expected, Longbourn on the day of a ball was a flurry of disordered activity.

Stockings were matched, hair jewels fought over, and stays tightened to an unnatural degree.

The giggling from the room of the youngest sisters wafted down the stairs, and it imbued the entire house with a spirit of giddiness.

Jane and Elizabeth were cloistered in front of their dressing table to prepare for the party together.

Though there was much to say between them, neither sister volunteered any questions or thoughts.

They simply assisted one another with their stays and petticoats and styled their hair, each one the other’s.

Jane’s blonde locks were rolled down the side over her ears and pulled back into a soft, low chignon beset with pale pink glass beads throughout.

Elizabeth’s chestnut curls were piled atop her head in loose braids pinned about one another and interwoven with apricot and ivory ribbon.

Instead of jewels, Jane artistically placed the six willow pins criss-crossed over one another in what became a vine trailing up one side of Elizabeth’s head and ending in a tuft over her right ear.

In the mirror, each sister smiled at how lovely the other was before espying herself and becoming rather wistful.

Mary, in an effort to make a show of how little importance she placed on such occasions, did not join in the merriment of her sisters, but stayed below stairs to read and walk with Mr Collins until late in the afternoon.

It was only when Bessie, the upstairs maid, interrupted them to inform her that she was wanted by Jane and Elizabeth that she finally bid him adieu and left him to ready herself.

Awaiting her, her two eldest sisters were fully made up and coiffed, lacking only their gowns to make their preparation complete.

They sat Mary in front of their dressing table mirror, and Bessie went to work pulling out her low, practical—although softer than usual—bun and brushing her long curls.

Jane reached into a velvet pouch and produced four shining silver and pearl hairpins, while Elizabeth clasped about her neck a silver chain with a large pearl pendant.

Before long, all five sisters were downstairs and ready to be handed into the carriages.

Mr and Mrs Bennet would be carried to the ball in a borrowed coach, which now waited behind their own.

Mr Collins claimed the honour of handing his cousins into the larger equipage, carrying out this sacred duty with alacrity and voicing no little elation at being surrounded by such a bevy of outstanding beauties.

When Mary, last in line, reached out to be helped into the coach, his amorous gaze bespoke how utterly taken he was with her.

As his hand grasped hers, he bowed deeply over it and bestowed upon it a kiss that left both parties unable to move for a moment.

Soon, however, the group was happily settled in and bobbing along to their destination.

Once inside the park, they sat in the queue while the parties ahead of them were received from their conveyances.

Before they knew it, however, the family were reunited and entering through the grand double doors of Netherfield and into a wonderland of candlelight and lace.

The whole county, it seemed, had turned out for Mr Bingley’s inaugural ball, every one of them in their finest. A melange of fragrances—boughs of fir, melting wax, and hothouse roses—permeated the air, mingling together into a unique sensation which added to the transformation of Netherfield House into a grand ballroom.

The receiving line was surprisingly short—only Mr Bingley.

Mr Bennet did not waste time congratulating the gentleman overmuch, whilst Mrs Bennet kept her own compliments to a minimum so that Jane might step forwards just those few seconds sooner.

Their host’s eyes lit up upon seeing his cherished one, and hers flicked between his gaze and the floor.

“Miss Bennet, how lovely you look. You are very welcome,” Bingley said cheerfully, taking and holding her proffered hand.

“You are very kind, sir,” Jane replied, evidently unsure whether to believe Mr Bingley’s display of favour. After looking about her, she added, “Is Miss Bingley unwell? I do not see her.”

“Ah, no, my sisters have removed to town, to the comfort of my brother’s home.”

“Oh,” she said, her brows knit in confusion. “I was under the impression that you would all travel to London together after the ball.”

“No, Miss Bennet. I have no plans to leave Netherfield,” he assured her, his voice low and his gaze warm, “for nothing gives me as much pleasure as my present company .”

Elizabeth smiled brightly at this exchange, having been pushed closer than she would have chosen by the crush entering behind her.

Holding out her hand in an effort to force the couple into propriety, she interrupted, “We are very glad to hear it, Mr Bingley. Thank you for your gracious invitation—on behalf of all my sisters.” This was fitting, as it obliged Bingley to release Jane’s hand, and it relieved him of having to suffer the three younger Bennets and their cousin.

With that, the whole group passed into the great hall, each one dazzled by a thousand glittering flames.

Elizabeth, who had been oscillating between excitement and anxiety over the expectations of this day, now felt an unexpected peace come over her.

She was among friends, she was well-liked and respected by all about her, she was in her best looks, and she truly had said her piece to the keeper of her heart.

And maybe, just maybe, he longed for her as she did him.