“I am not,” Darcy replied stiffly. He danced rather well; his aunt the countess had seen to that.
He enjoyed the exercise for what it was, but his partners generally had other motives.
He had been away from society for two seasons as he both mourned his father and learned to shoulder the burden of his early inheritance.
During the following three, he had been required to dance with an endless parade of women who did not understand that being Mrs. Darcy meant assisting him with those responsibilities.
He was not interested in a woman who desired little more than to be an ornament on his arm.
He expected to wed for money and connections, but he required a woman with intellect, compassion, a genuine sort of charm, and . . . he blinked at Miss Elizabeth.
He took a breath. “A ball makes all ladies energetic. My younger sister . . .” he began, but he did not continue. Could not continue. He swallowed. It was the strangest thing.
Miss Elizabeth grimaced, and both she and the colonel were staring at him, waiting for him to complete his statement.
Miss Lucas came to join them, glancing between Miss Elizabeth and Colonel Forster before turning her gaze to him.
Darcy had wanted to explain Georgiana’s love of music and dancing, but nothing came out.
After briefly but effectively spearing him on the end of a pert, quizzical gaze, Miss Elizabeth resumed ignoring him and instead addressed Miss Lucas and then the colonel, some humorous nonsense about protecting the citizens of Meryton from the French.
The colonel laughed, and Darcy was left to himself.
He grimaced and touched his throat. What was the matter with him? He was not garrulous or as effortlessly amiable as Bingley, but he generally had more facility with the English language than this.
He cleared his throat once, twice, but his voice did not return. He made his way to the punch bowl. Perhaps a drink would help.
Bingley met him near the refreshments and handed him a cup. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
Darcy sipped the punch and tried to speak. Nothing. He cleared his throat and made another attempt. Still nothing. He closed his eyes briefly and opened them to find Bingley staring at him.
“My word, Darcy,” his friend said quietly, his normally cheerful expression lined with concern, “you do seem ill. Shall I call for the carriage?”
Darcy felt no more ill than he had the last time he had appeared in public, but it was no use. He was sorry to cause Bingley such anxiety, but he could not remain in public this way. He bobbed his head once. Bingley clapped him on the arm and hurried away.
He glanced back where he had left Miss Elizabeth to find her watching him, her head tipped to one side in a gesture of curious unease.
She extracted herself from her conversation and made her way over to him as the younger guests began to roll up a carpet in the back of the room.
He bowed and then lifted the ladle in the punchbowl in lieu of asking whether she was thirsty.
He even gave her another little smile, though it only amounted to a slight upturn of his lips.
She laid a gloved hand over his and shook her head. “Mr. Darcy, are you well?” she murmured, raising her dark eyes to his. She pulled her hand away and strangely, he wished she had not.
He allowed himself to be lost in her gaze for a moment before he frowned and lifted one shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she released a small, airy groan. He did his best not to shiver at the sound.
“I am sorry, sir.” She appeared distressed.
Why was everyone apologising to him? She could not have possibly had anything to do with his .
. . infirmity. Darcy shook his head at her as Miss Mary Bennet played a jig on the pianoforte and a few sets began to form.
He did not care for dancing at such events as these, preferring conversation as a rule.
But he did wish he might have asked Miss Elizabeth to dance. Doubtless, she would have enjoyed it.
“I hope you are yourself again soon,” she told him kindly.
As she walked away, he could see the outline of her form through the thin muslin of her gown, silhouetted as it was in the candlelight.
Had his throat not been so dry already, the sight of Miss Elizabeth’s fine figure moving away from him would have done the trick.
“Mildread,” Elizabeth muttered as she nearly fled from Mr. Darcy. Her fairy godmother would be nearby—she always performed her spells in person. Elizabeth escaped through a door into the hall and then a dark, unused parlour. “ Mildread .”
“Yes, my dear?” her fairy godmother replied.
“Where are you?” Elizabeth asked.
The darkness lifted enough for Elizabeth to see Mildread sitting in the corner of the room with an embroidery needle and a vast quantity of impossibly thin gold thread. With a quick puff of air, Mildread lit a single candle. It gave off a good deal of light, but the wax did not melt.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Mildread asked mildly.
“I was until you stopped Mr. Darcy’s mouth,” Elizabeth complained. “You cannot still be angry with him.”
“Of course not. You are the one who has been talking over him all week. I rather thought you would approve.” Mildread regarded Elizabeth with a mild sort of exasperation.
Elizabeth pinched her lips together. There was no pleasing Mildread. After all her blathering this week to prevent Mr. Darcy from falling into error again, her fairy godmother had still cast a spell on him.
“I merely thought to spare you both. Despite your best efforts, he was about to say something unflattering, and then you were going to refuse to dance with him.” Mildread did not look up from her work.
“I was not!” cried Elizabeth. She paused, perplexed.
Would Mr. Darcy have asked her to dance?
He had smiled, but was it for her? It made him very handsome, the smile, and the look he gave her when they stood together at the punchbowl had been .
. . she shivered. He had the most beautiful eyes, and she felt she could see every one of his emotions inside them.
Dare she believe . . . that look had not been disapproving.
“He would not have asked,” she added, uncertain.
Mildread nodded and hummed a little fairy song, the glimmering notes tracing a score in the air before vanishing in a puff of silver.
“This is very pretty,” Elizabeth said, coming a little closer. She examined the intricate scrolling design, which glowed brightly in the candlelight. “I have never been able to do this sort of detail work as well as you and Mamma.” Even Jane could not match Mamma’s needlework.
“Your Mamma loves beautiful things. She was willing to work at them. Perhaps you only need practice,” Mildread replied, glancing up and catching Elizabeth’s eye.
Mamma was endlessly patient with her fine embroidery, but she did not extend that kind of forbearance to her daughters.
Elizabeth placed a hand lightly on the fairy’s arm.
“Please, Mildread? Mr. Darcy does not know how he sounds, I am sure. He is the eldest son of a wealthy family. He has probably never been gainsaid in his life.” Before Mildread had come to stay, Elizabeth would not have requested leniency for such a man.
She would say he had reaped what he had sown.
Instead, she felt a kinship with him. Elizabeth well remembered the shock she had been given when her fairy godmother arrived.
It had not taken long to fall afoul of Mildread’s notions of polite behaviour.
She had been far more judgmental and prone to eavesdropping at eighteen than she was now, and Mildread had found her wanting.
Her fairy godmother’s punishments had humiliated her even though she knew why she had been so afflicted.
How much worse it would be for Mr. Darcy!
“His friends will fear for him,” was all she said. She feared for him.
“Why should you care?” the fairy inquired gravely, her grey eyes soft and round. “What is Mr. Darcy to you, other than the man who insulted my handiwork and who now follows you about the same as a dog who wishes to be fed?”
Elizabeth blushed. Mr. Darcy might be haughty, but he was a gentleman. He ought not be compared to a dog. “He is nothing to me,” she insisted.
Mildread lifted an eyebrow.
“It is only that I would not wish for him to be made ill on my behalf. I would not even wish that on Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst.”
“So in your estimation, he is superior to Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst?” the fairy asked lightly.
The Netherfield ladies were every bit as proud and supercilious as Mr. Darcy. Perhaps even more, since the women yet retained their powers of speech. Yet Elizabeth believed she had caught a glimpse of gentleness in him tonight that Mr. Bingley’s sisters lacked.
Still the fairy continued her work, the needle dipping steadily in and out of the cloth. “What about Mr . Hurst?”
Elizabeth sighed. “Mr. Hurst is rarely conscious, so I cannot say.”
Mildread wrinkled her little nose, but Elizabeth spied the hints of a smile. “True enough.”
“If Mr. Darcy is thought to be ill, Mr. Bingley will be occupied and unavailable to court Jane,” Elizabeth blurted out.
This had only just occurred to her, but it was true.
Mr. Bingley would soon depart Lucas Lodge with Mr. Darcy; she was sure of it.
He was not a man who would send his ill friend off alone.
Jane had been greatly anticipating spending the evening in Mr. Bingley’s company.
Elizabeth was disappointed for her, that was all.
Mildread sniffed. “Where is Priscilla?”
Elizabeth might have heard a bit of disdain in the question, but she did not dwell on it. “I cannot say,” she told Mildread, who grunted in a most un-fairy-like manner.
“Because once Priscilla has introduced them, she need not do anything more,” Mildread grumbled. “Well, I shall tend to Jane’s happiness in her absence, then. Will that do?”
Elizabeth wanted to decline, but she did not wish to offend Mildread. That could be—would be—disastrous for them all.
Elizabeth had not agreed, but Mildread did not seem to notice. She shooed Elizabeth back out to the party, where Jane was standing with Mamma.
“What does he mean, coming out when he is ill?” Mamma complained loudly. “Now Mr. Bingley has escorted him back to Netherfield and will miss the entire evening!”
The evening was more than half gone, but Elizabeth would not debate Mamma when her mother was already querulous. There was no point.
“Mamma,” Jane remonstrated, “we are all very concerned for Mr. Darcy. Sometimes these things happen very suddenly. He surely would not have come out had he felt ill.”
“I would put nothing past such a man,” Mamma replied with a huff. “Mark my words, Jane, he means to keep Mr. Bingley away from you. And then what will we do?”
Jane’s cheeks coloured. “Mamma, please.”
“Mildread is in the parlour, Mamma,” Elizabeth said softly. “She is working on the most cunning scrolled design. Perhaps you might care to see it?”
“Mildread is here?” Her mother’s expression cleared, and Elizabeth relaxed. Mamma truly did love pretty things, and she often came up with her own ideas from viewing the fairy’s work and asking about it.
Mamma sighed dramatically. “Well, I suppose I shall, now that Jane will not need me.” She patted Jane’s arm and made for the hallway.
“Thank you, Lizzy,” Jane said quietly, her cheeks still a rosy pink. “I am disappointed, of course, but Mr. Bingley would not be a man worth knowing were he to abandon his ill friend for a party.”
Elizabeth smiled. She did not care for Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst, but she believed they would ask Jane to visit them, and soon. Mr. Bingley would see to it. “Come, shall we comfort Sir William on the loss of his most illustrious guests?”
Jane smiled and took her arm. As they strolled across the room, Elizabeth cast a glance over at her younger sisters, who were dancing. She might have enjoyed a dance with Mr. Darcy.
But Mildread was wrong. He would not have asked.