Chapter Twenty-Three
Handsome Enough To Dance With
It was comforting to take Miss Elizabeth’s hand in his and lead her out for the supper set. Darcy had spent the assembly thus far being excessively careful of both his steps and his manners. With her, he could relax his guard and feel only the enjoyment of the dance.
The supper set consisted of two longwise country dances performed in groups of four couples, giving each couple a considerable amount of time to talk as they stood in line awaiting their turn to tread the measures.
“I am not much of a hand at dancing,” he found himself saying as they walked to take their places in the set, then wished he had kept silent for fear of her thinking he meant he did not wish to dance with her, when that was far from the case.
“You have performed well so far this evening.”
“I was taught, of course, and by one of the foremost masters in Town. My aunt Ashbourne—who stood as a mother to me—forced my cousins and me to attend lessons at the Turveydrop Dance Academy. Too young to resist at the time, I at least know all the steps.” He smiled when she laughed, warmth unfolding in his chest. “Still, though I am no adept, I am enjoying myself here far more than any ball in Town.”
Miss Elizabeth’s laughter was musical and unrestrained, different than the refined titter of society ladies. “Does your aunt view dancing as a means of bringing eligible young ladies to your notice?”
“Do not all ladies see it in such a light? Do you not all believe that to be fond of dancing is a sure step towards falling in love?”
“I do not deny it is the case with some, particularly the matchmaking mammas and aunts.”
“It was lost on me, to my poor aunt’s chagrin. My mind was more engaged on enduring each half-hour without falling over my own feet or standing on the lady’s toes. She despairs of me.”
“I caught glimpses of you earlier, and you appeared to be at ease.”
“Your sister’s serenity, like music, soothes the most savage of breasts.
” He did not comment on his sets with the Bingley ladies.
They were of his aunt’s persuasion, he was sure.
Mrs Hurst was no conversationalist, but Miss Bingley had been at pains to assure him she considered dancing to be “…one of the refinements of civilised society, showing the elegance and polish owned only by those of the highest breeding. Of course, one is fortunate when one’s partner embodies all those necessary qualities.
” She had delivered this opinion accompanied by a flirtatious smile she likely hoped was alluring.
Miss Elizabeth glowed at his compliment to her sister. “Jane is soothing indeed.” She leaned forward and added, “You should not despair, sir. Not all are matrimonial in intent. Some ladies merely love to dance.”
Did she speak of herself? She had danced every set so far, and her cheeks were rosy from the exertion.
She looked very well in the emerald Indian silk, her eyes bright with mirth.
If his aunt had brought a lady such a this to his notice at a Town ball, perhaps…
She looked at him quizzically. He had left the silence run on too long.
“You are one such, as I can see. And you love to converse.”
How did so vital a creature manage to brighten even further?
“Of course! What can be more conducive to scintillating conversation than a few breathless words snatched between performing an allemande and a travelling step? Why, I am sure I will say something that will amaze the whole room and be handed down to posterity!”
“You may indeed, though I would struggle to emulate you. But we should have some conversation, and I do believe I suggested books. What think you?”
Elizabeth confessed the only book she had brought with her had been one of her father’s favourites: The New Bath Guide or Memoirs of the B—N—R—D Family in a Series of Poetical Epistles.
“It is a nonsensical book and I have such fond memories of hearing Papa laughing over it. He had a fine laugh. Satirical and wry, but fine.”
“You have a satirical eye yourself, Miss Elizabeth.”
“I am the most like him of all my sisters.”
He nodded, and allowed her a moment to recover her usual spirits, turning the conversation to the assembly by asking how she had enjoyed herself thus far.
“Oh, I count the assembly a triumph, and I am enjoying myself a great deal.”
“Yes, you are a social creature.” Darcy separated from her for a moment, and they performed their part of the dance.
When they had worked their way down to the foot of their group again, he went on, “Whereas I am at home with nabobs and rajahs, or trappers in the Canadian wilds, talking of trade treaties or military objectives, I find it more difficult to fully embrace the sort of conversation that smooths society along.”
“You are doing very well.” Miss Elizabeth stood back a step as the set came to an end, applauding the indefatigable musicians.
He bowed and thanked her for the honour she had granted him, offering his arm to escort her from the floor to return to the table where the rest of their party were congregating for supper.
“My conversation with the Bingley ladies was more halting. They have scant understanding of country life, and I cannot comprehend how they will go on when Bingley leases an estate.”
“We must hope they find a housekeeper of Mrs Reynolds’s ilk. She could run Pemberley single-handed, without mishap. She is a treasure.”
“Indeed. Pemberley is lucky with its treasures.” He spoke gravely, and with intent.
She looked at him, her mouth slightly open. Yes, a compliment and an intended one… he smiled, to drive home the message. Her answering smile assured him she was unoffended, at least.
“If you will, Miss Elizabeth, would you consent to dance the last set?” He would not stand up again until then, if he could help it.
Her gaze sought his. Held it. For an instant, the noise of laughter and conversations were muted, as though they did not exist. She smiled again. “I would be honoured.”
“No, he said, speaking from the heart. “The honour is entirely mine.”
At the table, he had the great pleasure of taking his seat beside her.
Darcy could only sigh, though, when the Standleys presumed upon their proximity to Pemberley as neighbours to join them.
Standley was a gruff, red-cheeked, opinionated squire, and his wife self-effacing, while the daughter—Henrietta?
Honoria?—tried too hard to attract his attention, hanging on his every word, praising him and Pemberley to the skies and saying nothing of any consequence.
Of course, Darcy was obliged to welcome them and introduce them to the Bingley party, but under no circumstances would he sit with Miss Standley, no matter how invitingly she looked at the chair beside her.
He returned to Elizabeth, and his pleasure was dimmed only by having Standley at her other side. She gave him a sparkling look, her amusement plain, although the expression she turned to the Standleys was sweetly welcoming. She was at her ease, wholly unaffected by those who sought to overawe her.
The talk became general after the waiters had delivered their plates, and glasses of negus, ratafia, and punch.
Standley had much to say about the harvest, the weather, the recalcitrance of his tenants, the state of the roads, the weather again, and the price he had got for his wool.
He suggested that now Pemberley was out of strict mourning, they should arrange some shooting and, perhaps, a dinner over at Standley Hall.
He would speak to his wife about it, and have the invitations sent.
“We are holding a shoot at Pemberley next Saturday, of course, in honour of my friend Bingley,” Darcy said.
“You will attend? Excellent. I look forward to it. Bingley is a fine shot, and is keen to pit his skills against those of my neighbours. We will be convening at Tom Wilkinson’s farm. Do you know it?”
“I do indeed. Your father usually convened his shoots there, and I am all anticipation.” Mr Standley took a large swig from his glass of punch.
“I have not attended many shoots in England.” Bingley was sufficiently fond of the sport to look away from his conversation with Miss Bennet.
Standley offered Bingley a condescending sort of smile. “It will be different than India. We follow the French fashion of battue now, and drive the birds before the guns.”
“Coke,” Hurst cut in. His family estate was in Norfolk, where Thomas Coke was reputed not only to be England’s foremost innovator when it came to farming, but was also credited with this new means of shooting, which had been in fashion for the last decade.
“Remember m’father going to one of Coke’s shoots, and grumbling that driving the birds took all the surprise out of it.
Said it was not so much hunting, as target shooting. I do not mind it, myself.”
“It is more efficient,” Darcy said. “The tenants are old hands at the game, too. Most of them will join us with their dogs, and their labourers and elder boys will act as our loaders while the younger ones delight in beating out the game. George Wickham reminded me to call into my bank this morning, and I have laid in a plentiful supply of pennies and thruppences for their vails.”
Hugh chimed in to add, “We can expect to see plenty of partridge in the fields and woods, and for those willing to climb the hills, the upper moors are thick with grouse. We will have a good morning, I hope.”
Mr Hurst looked pleased, toasting Hugh with his wine glass, and Darcy smiled on his younger brother. “I look forward to seeing you display your prowess, Hugh. More than once, our father mentioned that you are the finest shot he ever saw.”
“Aye,” Standley said, while Hugh, his ears red, mumbled something inaudible and turned aside for a discussion with Hurst about hunting and shooting. “I have never seen better, either. Hugh will claim the biggest bag of all. He is a prodigious shot.”