15. Fifteen
Fifteen
“Five shillings says the Netherfield Ball is held within the week,” Lydia declared. She jingled her small purse triumphantly as Kitty nodded in fervent agreement.
“You are too optimistic,” Mary replied without looking up from her book. “Such matters take time and planning if they are to be done with decorum. We’ve not even seen the invitations. Two weeks, at the very least.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had been inspecting a length of ribbon for her bonnet, snapped her head up. “Nonsense, Mary! Why, Mr. Bingley has been hinting at it for a fortnight or more. Did you not hear him speak of bringing the neighborhood together when he visited last?”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who was carefully folding a piece of embroidery in her lap. “I seem to recall he said no such thing,” Elizabeth said lightly. “Though I would not discourage Mama from placing her own wager. I am sure it would liven up the odds.”
Mrs. Bennet turned a sharp look on her second eldest. “Do not tease, Lizzy. I have every confidence that the ball will be announced soon—and when it is, you must be ready to dance. And do be sure to save a set for Mr. Collins.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “I was not aware we were taking reservations.”
“Oh, Lizzy!” Lydia interrupted with a loud laugh. “You will not need to save a dance for Mr. Collins. He is so slow, I am sure you could finish two sets before he even finds the floor.”
“That is enough, Lydia,” Jane said gently, though her lips twitched with amusement.
Lydia jangled her coin purse again. “I only said what you all were thinking. Will you place a wager, Lizzy? Surely you have an opinion on the timing of this grand affair. Perhaps you would like to bet on the number of dances Mr. Collins will attempt with you.”
Elizabeth sighed. “If I were to bet, Lydia, I would wager that Mr. Collins will find a way to be intolerably verbose, regardless of the number of dances or the date of the ball.”
Mr. Bennet, seated in the corner with a copy of Don Quixote , chuckled. “A safe wager, indeed. Perhaps he will find himself a Dulcinea at the ball, as well.”
“Stuff and nonsense! He will dance with Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet sniffed. “Or Mary would do very well, I suppose. I’ll not countenance any foreign tarts coming in and stealing his notice.”
Foreign…? Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open and her gaze drifted to her father, who only chuckled and turned his page without explaining who Dulcinea was. Not that it mattered—her mother had already shifted topics again.
“Of course, it will all depend on Mr. Bingley’s timing,” she said. “An honor to Jane, to be sure, for did he not wait until she was recovered to even speak of it? Mark my words, my dear, this ball will be your moment. He cannot wait forever to declare himself.”
Jane’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. “Mama, please. It is not certain there will even be a ball.”
“Not certain?” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “Oh, you are too modest, Jane! Why, everyone knows Mr. Bingley has been thinking of it. And once he proposes, think how grand it will be to be the mistress of Netherfield! So close to your family, too. I declare, Jane, there will be nothing like it. I always said you could not be so beautiful for nothing!”
Elizabeth bristled at her mother’s words. Their mother made too much of Jane’s beauty. None of the praise was undue, of course, but it always made Jane uncomfortable, to say nothing of how it made the rest of their sisters feel. And for once, she found she could not hold her tongue as she ought. “And what of my prospects, Mama?” she blurted. “Surely you have some grand prediction for me as well.”
“Of course, I do,” Mrs. Bennet said, waving a hand. “Mr. Collins is perfectly respectable, and he has already shown such marked attention to you.”
“Respectable and marked attention,” Elizabeth said wryly. “What more could a woman ask for?”
“Exactly! You must encourage him, Lizzy. It would be a fine match, indeed. And then—oh, just think! Once Jane is married to Mr. Bingley, and you are settled with Mr. Collins, we shall be the envy of all Meryton.”
Elizabeth caught her father’s eye. He had lowered his book just enough to peer over it with an arched brown and pursed lips. His eyes narrowed, but then he raised his book again and lost himself. Apparently, there was no help to be found there.
“Well, if you will excuse me,” she said, rising, “I believe I shall take a walk. I feel the need for fresh air after all this planning.”
“Oh, do not stay out too long, Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet called after her. “You will want to look your best when Miss Bingley calls with the invitations for the ball!”
Elizabeth marched to the door, her pace brisk as she escaped the din of the sitting room. Outside, the late afternoon air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and falling leaves. She breathed deeply, letting the quiet of the garden soothe her frayed nerves.
A ball at Netherfield. It was a certainty, she supposed, but the thought of enduring Mr. Collins’s attentions under the watchful eyes of the neighborhood made her stomach churn. And then there was Mr. Darcy—his inscrutable expressions, his maddening composure. If a ball did come to pass, she resolved to face it as she did all challenges: with wit and determination.
The rest, she thought with a faint smile, would be left to chance.
“I still say it is foolhardy,” Caroline said, pacing in front of the fireplace. “The last gathering we hosted brought nothing but chaos.”
“It brought good company,” Bingley replied, glancing up from the desk where he was carefully drafting the guest list.
“Good company?” Caroline turned sharply. “If you mean the Bennets, then I despair of your judgment entirely.”
Bingley set his pen down and leaned back. “Do not despair, Caroline. The ball will happen, whether or not you approve. The neighborhood expects it.”
“They wager on it, you mean,” Caroline snapped. “I have heard the rumors. The butcher’s wife insists it will be next Tuesday, while the dressmaker has pinned her hopes on Thursday. And we are to reward such absurdity?”
Bingley laughed. “Why not? It’s harmless fun.”
“Harmless!” Caroline threw up her hands. “You are inviting crassness and presumption into this house, Charles. Mark my words, it will end in disaster.”
Darcy shifted in his chair. “She is not entirely wrong.”
Bingley turned to him. “Oh, not you too. I had hoped for support.”
Darcy closed the book he had been skimming. “I do not object to the ball itself, but you must be prepared for what follows. It will spark speculation.”
“It already has,” Bingley said. “Everyone in the village talks of nothing else. If anything, announcing it will put an end to their guessing.”
Caroline folded her arms. “And what of the guests? You cannot seriously expect me to endure another evening of these simple country misses fairly seducing drunken officers in my drawing room.”
“You endured it before,” Bingley said, his tone growing sharper. “And I recall no complaints then.”
Caroline’s lips thinned. “A dinner party is nothing to a ball for drunken revelry. I shall not countenance it, Charles! I had hoped the novelty would wear off for you by now.”
Bingley sighed. “Caroline, I will not hear another word on the subject. The ball is my decision. I will see to the arrangements myself if I must.”
She stopped pacing, her posture stiff with indignation. “Do as you please. But do not expect me to salvage the evening when it inevitably falls to pieces.”
Bingley waved her off with a grin. “I would not dream of burdening you.”
Caroline swept from the room, her skirts rustling loudly in her wake. When the door clicked shut behind her, Bingley turned to Darcy.
“You do not agree with her, do you?”
Darcy hesitated. “Her concerns are not without merit.”
“Concerns,” Bingley said, shaking his head. “All this fuss over a harmless evening. The neighborhood will enjoy it, and I will enjoy seeing them do so. Must everything be weighed so heavily?”
Darcy rose, walking to the desk. “You do not see the weight because you are not its bearer. Speculation can lead to expectations.”
Bingley arched a brow. “You speak of Miss Bennet.”
Darcy’s silence was answer enough.
Bingley leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I do not wish to hurt her, Darcy. Surely you see that.”
“I do,” Darcy said. “And that is why you must tread carefully.”
“Carefully,” Bingley repeated with a small laugh. “Carefully is not the word the neighborhood would use to describe me, I think. They wager on everything I do.”
“They wager on everything everyone does.”
Bingley smiled faintly. “Even you, I imagine.”
Darcy said nothing, his gaze fixed on the guest list. One name in particular stood out—Elizabeth Bennet. Of course, she would attend. And this ball was to be his final test of civility—endure an evening of her smiles, her enchantments, or die trying.
“One week,” Bingley said, picking up his pen again. “The invitations will go out tomorrow. Prepare yourself, Darcy. It will be a splendid evening.”
Elizabeth adjusted her bonnet and shifted the weight of her basket, filled to the brim with her mother’s endless list of “essentials.” She caught sight of Charlotte Lucas near the apothecary and waved. “Charlotte!”
Charlotte waited for a carriage to pass before crossing the street. “Good afternoon, Lizzy. On an errand from your mother, I see?”
Elizabeth hefted the basket a little. “Yes, well, Lydia was ‘supposed’ to be helping me, but she has gone off Heaven knows where. I am sure she is questioning everyone she finds about the rumors of a ball at Netherfield.”
“Ah, well, to that I say the answer depends entirely on who you believe. Mrs. Long insists invitations will be issued tomorrow, but Mr. Goulding swears it will not be for another fortnight.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I think it is all rather absurd.”
Charlotte glanced toward the street, shielding her eyes from the sun as a figure approached from the direction of the inn. “Is that… Mr. Wickham?”
Elizabeth’s gaze followed hers. The man’s easy gait and familiar features confirmed it before he came within earshot. She folded her arms loosely, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Indeed, it is. My favorite toy.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Oh? Do tell, Lizzy.”
But Elizabeth crossed one arm over her chest and offered only a smug grin. “I shall not give up my secrets that easily, you know. I still have a wager to win.”
Charlotte pursed her lips. “I think you may be cheating, Lizzy.”
“Perhaps.”
By the time Wickham reached them, he was already smiling. “Miss Elizabeth, Miss Lucas. I could not have hoped for a more agreeable encounter this afternoon. I was looking for a bit of amusement, and I am sure I can count on both of you to see me right. Tell me, what has you both smiling today?”
Charlotte chuckled. “Any number of things, Mr. Wickham, but I imagine wagers over a prospective ball would be the most promising sort of entertainment.”
“Ah, yes! At Netherfield, correct? Even among the officers, speculation abounds. I daresay half of Meryton has already made it a sport.”
Elizabeth’s brow arched. “And what is your stake in it, Mr. Wickham?”
“I’ve refrained thus far,” he replied, flashing a grin. “Though if wagering were the custom of every gentleman, I suppose I might be tempted.”
“Better to refrain,” Elizabeth said. “You may find yourself out of pocket by the end of the month, if this town’s enthusiasm is anything to judge by.”
Wickham laughed. “A fair warning, Miss Bennet. But perhaps I will place a wager after all—on something more certain than the date of a ball.”
Charlotte’s eyes flicked between the two of them before she took a step back. “I must beg your pardon, but I have an errand to finish. Do excuse me.”
Elizabeth shot her a quick look, but Charlotte was already retreating into the nearest shop, leaving her alone on the street with Wickham. He turned his full attention on her, his expression one of amused interest. “Well! Your friend is rather abrupt today.”
“You might call it abrupt. I would use the word ‘purposeful’.”
Wickham grinned. “A lady after my own heart. Well, then, I shall waste no time in placing my wager.”
Elizabeth shifted her basket. “By all means, let there be no suspense. Are you betting on the number of dances, or the length of the guest list? Perhaps the main course, or the size or the number of musicians?”
He leaned closer. “I had rather thought of something much more amusing. I wager, Miss Elizabeth, that I will be able to solicit your hand for more than one dance.”
“Oh, now, that is hardly sporting! Why, you have only to ask me, and as I have the power of refusal or acceptance, the wager stands on the pleasure of an interested party. Now, say, should we make the stakes rather interesting… say, perhaps, five shillings? Why, then, you see, I would be in the enviable position of being able to simply refuse your hand for a second set, thus winning the bet.”
“Yes,” he replied, his brow furrowing. “That is a bother. Well, may I propose a counter wager?”
Her smile deepened. “And what might that be?”
“Well, I can hardly expect you to grant me two dances if your evening is full, can I?”
“Oh! So, you would place bets on a lady’s unpopularity? Rather ungallant, would you not say?”
“Far be it from me to imply anything of the kind. Perhaps I will wager that… ah, I have it! I wager that Darcy will beg a set of you.”
Elizabeth’s brows shot up. “Mr. Darcy? The man who scarcely notices my existence but to disapprove of it?”
Wickham laughed. “The very one. And if he does ask, Miss Elizabeth, you shall have the pleasure of refusing him and saying that you had promised that set to me.”
She puckered her lips in thought. “Interesting, Mr. Wickham. And what happens if you are already engaged with another lady by the time Mr. Darcy asks… assuming he does? Is the wager forfeit?”
“Well,” he chuckled, “I suppose I leave such terms to you to sort, Miss Elizabeth. Ah! And speak of the very devil himself.”
Elizabeth turned to see Mr. Darcy approaching from around the corner, his gaze flicking briefly to her before settling on Wickham. His features remained impassive, giving little indication of his thoughts.
“Mr. Darcy,” Wickham greeted, his earlier ease noticeably absent. “I did not expect to encounter you today.”
Darcy gave a brief nod in response but did not speak. The pause that followed felt deliberate, drawing attention to everything unspoken between them.
Elizabeth tilted her head slightly, her tone unnaturally light as she broke the pause. “Mr. Wickham and I were just discussing the likelihood of a ball at Netherfield. You might know better than anyone. Are we to expect the pleasure of such an event soon?”
“I am afraid it is not my place to speak on the matter, Miss Elizabeth,” was his clipped reply.
“Then perhaps you may at least be able to tell me if the town is wasting their time in speculation. It is all the talk, you see.”
Darcy’s eyes met hers, guarded. “I expect your curiosity will be satisfied soon enough.”
“There, that is as good as an announcement,” Elizabeth decided. “Everyone will be terribly pleased, sir.”
Wickham’s smile sharpened. “I trust you will attend, Mr. Darcy. Surely, no event would be complete without you.”
Darcy’s lips thinned. “I was unaware my presence held such significance.”
“Oh, but it does. You always draw interest, whether you seek it or not.”
Darcy’s gaze flicked briefly back to Elizabeth. “As it happens, I do not. Good day, Miss Bennet. Mr. Wickham.” With a curt nod, he turned and walked away, his strides brisk and deliberate.
Wickham watched him go, his grin returning. “It seems I struck a nerve.”
Elizabeth gave him a sideways glance. “You seem adept at that.”
He laughed, but Elizabeth’s gaze remained on Darcy’s retreating figure. His sudden departure did not unsettle her—it intrigued her. Whatever tension existed between the two men clearly worked in her favor, and she intended to make the most of it.
“An invitation from Netherfield!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice echoed through the house, louder than the bells at St. Mary’s on a Sunday morning.
Elizabeth glanced up from her book as Lydia darted into the drawing room, waving a cream-colored envelope triumphantly. “It’s here, it’s here!” Lydia sang, spinning on her heel. Kitty trailed behind her, nearly tripping over her own excitement.
Jane looked up from her embroidery, her cheeks pinking slightly. “Is it truly—?”
“Indeed!” Mrs. Bennet swept into the room with all the grandeur of a queen bearing news of a royal decree. “A ball! At Netherfield! Oh, Jane, my dear, this is your moment! Mr. Bingley shall have no choice but to propose after such a splendid evening.”
Elizabeth set her book aside, unable to suppress a smile. “And what role, precisely, does a ball play in securing a proposal?”
Mrs. Bennet waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, Lizzy, you are far too cynical. A ball is the very height of romance. Why, your father and I first danced together at a ball. And look at us now.”
Elizabeth’s brows lifted. “Indeed, Mama. What a glowing endorsement.”
“Do not tease your mother,” Mr. Bennet said from behind his newspaper. “It is unkind to mock those who cling to their dreams.”
Mrs. Bennet ignored him entirely. “Jane, my dear, we must ensure you have a gown that leaves no doubt as to your charms. Perhaps something with ribbons. Or lace. And pink—it must be pink!”
“Something sensible will suffice, Mama,” Jane said gently, though her blush deepened.
“Sensible! Jane, you cannot be sensible at a ball. It is entirely the wrong idea.”
Lydia plopped down beside Elizabeth, still clutching the envelope. “I wonder how many dances I shall have. Ten, at least. Maybe twelve.”
“Surely you will leave some for the other guests,” Elizabeth said.
Kitty huffed. “Only if they ask quickly enough. Lydia always steals the best partners.”
“And I’ll bet Mr. Wickham asks me first,” Lydia said, tilting her chin up triumphantly. “He said he loves dancing.”
Elizabeth raised a brow. “How fortunate for you.”
“Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet called, her tone suddenly sharp. “Do not think you can sit in the corner making clever remarks all evening. You must dance as well.”
“Do I usually abstain?”
“No, but I would not put it beyond you to vex me on this night, of all nights! And I am sure Mr. Collins will be most attentive to you. He will no doubt insist upon at least two sets.”
Elizabeth’s faint smile hardened. “How reassuring.”
“Now, Jane,” Mrs. Bennet said, returning her focus to her eldest daughter, “we must make the best use of this time. There are gowns to be chosen, accessories to be polished, and—oh, the hair! We must call Mrs. Hill at once. Yes, she must see if she can get an extra maid from the village to help you all dress.”
“Perhaps we might let Jane breathe first,” Elizabeth suggested.
Mrs. Bennet glared at her, but Jane intervened with a soothing smile. “Lizzy is right, Mama. There is still plenty of time before the ball.”
“Time enough to make every possible preparation!” Mrs. Bennet declared. “Oh, Jane, my dear, you will be the fairest star of the evening. And after Mr. Bingley proposes, we shall have such celebrations!”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who looked both flattered and overwhelmed. Rising from her chair, Elizabeth moved to her sister’s side, resting a reassuring hand on her arm. “Do not let Mama’s enthusiasm frighten you. A ball is just a gathering, nothing more.”
“A gathering where every eye will be on us,” Jane murmured. “And every ear will be listening.”
Elizabeth squeezed her arm. “Let them. You will dazzle them all.”
“Will you not dazzle them too, Lizzy?” Lydia teased, spinning across the room.
“Only if they appreciate sharp tongues and scathing remarks,” Elizabeth replied.
“I daresay Mr. Darcy might,” Kitty muttered.
Elizabeth’s head whipped toward her sister. “What nonsense is that?”
Kitty shrugged. “Only that he looks at you often enough to suggest he finds something interesting.”
“Perhaps he is wondering whether I have horns hidden under my hair,” Elizabeth said.
“Or perhaps,” Jane said, leaning close to Elizabeth’s ear, “you are nearer to winning that wager with Charlotte than you think.”