CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The evening of the ball had arrived. Bingley took more care than usual in dressing, issuing rigorous orders to his valet and footman regarding the manner of his pantaloons and tailcoat. He made his valet, who was quite skilled indeed, untie, disentangle, and retie his cravat at least six times in order to have it perfectly knotted. A man of fashion as he was, the particular precision with which the master directed them this particular evening was something of a shock to those who normally dressed him. As he brushed the lint from his master’s shoulders, the footman shot quizzical glances toward the valet, who was having none of it. Just as he was buttoning the front of his lawn shirt, Mr. Wilshere entered quietly.
“Wilshere,” Bingley began in exasperation, “if you’re not going to give me good news, for the love of all things sacred, please do not say anything at all.”
“Pardon me, sir?” the steward stuttered.
Bingley waived the valet and the footman off and turned to face his steward. He brushed the front of his pantaloons with both hands, then looked up. “This is destined to be a night of revelry, jubilance, and dancing with the prettiest girl I have ever laid mine eyes upon—grant me the consideration of not laying waste to it with bad news before it has even begun.” Wilshere looked directly at him and held his tongue. “Well man, you have come all this way,” spoke Bingley with a frustrated wave of his freshly manicured hand. “And now you stand there like a figure in marble. Tell me.”
“His voyage is delayed,” replied Wilshere flatly.
“Delayed?” The steward nodded. “Well, that’s fantastic news!”
“It is indeed,” commented Wilshere. “A storm in the Celtic Sea is headed toward the Channel. Too unpredictable for private charters. Looks as though he might be delayed in Brighton a week.”
“If you weren’t my man, I would kiss you, Wilshere!” Bingley declared.
“Thank you, sir,” came the adroit response. “There is one more detail which might further amplify your delight.”
“Do tell.”
“I have it from Colonel Forster’s man that Mr. Wickham has been detained by business in London.”
“Fine news indeed, Wilshere! This puts a real spring in my step,” the master said, glancing at himself one last time in the mirror and smoothing out a few curly locks, “and I hope to use it to full effect!”
With that, Bingley flashed his grand smile and passed by Wilshere, who bowed, and out into the hall. He hurried down and through the gallery into the ballroom, directing servants thither and fro with a meticulous eye. He passed through the dining room and the stag parlour into the drawing room. His staff had done fine work preparing for the ball, but little things such as a curtain askew or a crooked vase caught his regardful eye on this particular evening. He snapped his fingers toward housemaids and footmen alike, pointing out minuscule flaws in each room that were apparently in urgent need of correction.
What might have set Bingley apart from young men of his age and situation, among other things, was that he did all these things with great cheer. No servants were berated; no abuses were shouted. In fact, on this night in particular, he felt like he floated through the house two feet off the ground. Nothing could scuttle his sunny disposition at that moment, which would explain why, although perhaps he should have expected nothing else, he was taken aback by the look of agitated complacency on the face of his friend whom he happened upon in the library.
“Darcy,” started Bingley, “whatever is the matter now ?”
His friend looked up from his fingernails. “You know I take little pleasure in balls.”
“There are many things from which you derive little pleasure,” Bingley countered.
“Bingley, you have been aware of my view on such matters for some time,” replied Darcy. “I am quite surprised that my disposition seems to constantly take you by surprise.”
“I am not surprised, per se , but I find myself, at the moment, in such a grand state of suspense over this evening, and your sulkiness tempts me toward melancholy.”
“I would never wish it,” Darcy answered. “You must not allow your mood or your enjoyment to be tempered by mine.”
“It hardly is,” quipped Bingley. “But it is difficult to have a friend who takes no pleasure in the very things by which I am so excessively diverted.”
“You do not wish me to be here, then?”
“Of course, I do. What I wish is that you would allow yourself some diversion.”
Darcy smiled wryly. “I cede your point.”
“Plus,” Bingley began, “I have some news which might lighten your mood.”
“Go on, then.”
“Mr. Wickham will not be in attendance tonight,” Bingley stated with glee. Darcy drew in deep breath and managed a half-smile. “Does even this not invigorate you?”
“To be frank,” Darcy said slowly. “I had not even thought of him. My mind had been more agreeably preoccupied.”
“Well, you may put him out of your mind once more. The coward has fled the scene of battle.”
Just then, Mr. West, the butler, entered to announce that the first invitees had arrived.
“I must go down to greet my guests,” Bingley said with delight.
“Of course, you must,” responded Darcy. “Take heart, Bingley—I am resigned that for your satisfaction, I will endeavour to derive some pleasure from this evening.” Bingley smiled broadly, thoughts and heart racing alike. Darcy, for his part, had only one thing on his mind at that moment—the fine eyes of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.