Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Fitzwilliam Darcy did not expect to enjoy the evening.
The journey from London had been longer than anticipated, the roads less agreeable, and the final miles marked by a succession of small inconveniences that, taken together, left him more fatigued than he preferred to admit.
He and his sister had arrived at Netherfield with little inclination for company and less patience for the obligations that followed it.
Still, his host, Charles Bingley, with his usual enthusiasm, had insisted.
“It will do you good,” Bingley had said, pacing the drawing room with restless energy. “You have been shut up in town far too long. A little country society will refresh you.”
Darcy had doubted it. He had wished only for a peaceful night resting in his chambers or perhaps engaged in amiable conversation with his sister.
Despite his protests, Bingley had won the day, and Darcy had been forced to endure Georgiana’s complaints at not being included in the outing.
His reminders that she was barely sixteen did little to endear her to him, and she had stormed off in a huff.
Her companion, Mrs. Annesley, had assured her employer that she would sooth the young lady’s ruffled feathers.
Now, standing within the assembly rooms at Meryton, he found that his doubts had not been entirely misplaced.
The room was bright—excessively so. Candles lined the walls and stood in clusters upon every available surface, their light reflected and multiplied by mirrors until the entire space seemed to shimmer.
It illuminated everything with equal insistence: the movement of the dancers, the arrangement of gowns, the expressions of those who watched from the sidelines.
There was no retreat from it. Already weary, the glow made his eyes throb painfully.
Darcy stood near the wall, where he had placed himself shortly after entering, his posture composed, his attention outwardly engaged, though inwardly reserved.
He observed as he always did—carefully, without haste, noting what might otherwise be overlooked.
Well aware that his manner bordered on rudeness, he reasoned that no one could expect him to make himself agreeable after such a long day, and that he could make amends at a later date.
First impressions were, of course, rarely accurate.
The company in attendance was varied. Everyone seemed respectable, for the most part.
Provincial, certainly. The distinctions were clear, though not unkindly so.
There was a warmth to the room—a liveliness—that could not be entirely dismissed.
Men and women mingled, dances, and gossiped on all sides of the room.
Bingley thrived within it. It was precisely the sort of evening he relished. It was a stark difference to Darcy’s preferences. He preferred more intimate gatherings where one knew the others on more than a passing level.
Darcy’s gaze shifted toward his friend, who had already secured a partner for the first set and appeared entirely satisfied with the arrangement.
His expression was open, animated, his movements eager rather than precise.
He laughed easily, spoke readily, and accepted every introduction as though it was a particular favor granted to him.
Darcy watched for a moment, then turned his attention away.
He did not intend to dance. The activity was a punishment in many ways.
He abhorred attempting to make conversation with simpering ladies who wished only to speak of the weather and the state of the roads.
It was always a struggle to recommend himself to strangers, and dancing was his least favorite way of doing so.
His decision to abstain from the activity had been settled before he entered the room, and nothing he had seen thus far had altered it. It might have ended there, had nothing further drawn his notice.
A gentleman approached him—one of the local inhabitants, judging by his manner—and offered a polite introduction.
Darcy inclined his head, returned the civility, and answered briefly.
The exchange concluded without difficulty.
It was, perhaps, not the done thing to introduce one to a newcomer without a request, but it did not signify.
Darcy resumed his position. He observed Bingley, who had partnered with a remarkably handsome woman.
His friend appeared awestruck, and Darcy could hardly blame him.
The lady’s looks were classical in every respect, from her willowy figure to her perfectly coiffed blond hair.
She, in turn, bequeathed an ethereal smile upon her partner, her pleasure at his attention evident.
It would seem Bingley has already found his latest angel. This amused Darcy, and he shook his head ruefully.
It was then that he became aware of her.
The awareness was gradual. It was not in the way that one notices something striking or unusual. Rather, she came into his understanding gradually, as though she had always been present and he had only just recognized it.
He had observed her earlier—seated apart during the first set, her stillness more noticeable for the movement around her, but considered her presence inconsequential.
She sat near the edge of the room, not in the manner of a wallflower.
She was not withdrawn or excluded but rather seemed placed in her spot as if intentionally.
Darcy’s gaze lingered, adjusting as the brightness of the room resolved into clearer detail. She was seated with composed ease, her posture unforced, her hands resting lightly in her lap. A walking stick stood beside her chair, its presence at odds with the setting, yet not incongruous.
He watched. Longer than he intended. She did not move as others did. When she turned her head, it was with purpose. When she rose, it was measured. There was no hesitation, but there was concern.
And then she shifted. It was slight, as if she angled herself toward the light.
Darcy saw it then. Her right eye, though open, did not focus as the other did. It held a faint opacity, a clouding that caught the candlelight differently. It did not track movement.
Her left, however—Her left eye was clear, bright and intelligent. It was fixed upon the room with silent attention, observing rather than merely seeing.
Darcy felt something stir—not surprise, precisely, but a sharpened interest. He had seen injuries before.
He had seen the effects of illness, of accident, of time, of the bitterness and despondency that came from it and was not hidden from the world behind politeness.
The lady before him displayed none of those things.
There was nothing diminished in her bearing, nothing that suggested retreat or surrender, anger or self-pity.
She sat as though entirely at ease within herself.
Bingley returned then, his expression alight. His partner stood a few paces away at the refreshment table.
“You must dance, Darcy,” Bingley said, coming to stand beside him.
“I must do no such thing.” The very idea filled him with dread. He could not countenance the thought of standing before the masses and putting himself on display.
“You must,” Bingley insisted. “It is a most agreeable set, and the ladies are all very pleasant.”
Darcy glanced toward the dancers. “I have no doubt of it.” Yes, every one of them would be pleased with the consequence that came with standing up with a man of his status.
Bingley followed his gaze, then laughed. “You have not even attempted to form an opinion. The ladies here are some of the handsomest I have ever met, and they are all very agreeable.”
“I have observed sufficiently.” And Bingley was dancing with one of the loveliest ladies in the room.
“That is not the same.”
Darcy did not answer. His gaze lingered on the lady in her chair.
Bingley leaned closer. “There is one in particular I wish you to meet.”
Darcy’s gaze shifted, though he already knew whom Bingley meant.
“The lady with whom you danced the last?” His gaze flicked to the refreshment table where the lady stood holding a glass of punch.
“Yes—Mrs. Collins. A most delightful woman. And her sisters.”
Darcy said nothing.
Bingley continued, undeterred. “She is seated just there. I shall introduce you.”
Darcy followed Bingley’s pointed finger. He gave a start when he realized that it was the lady with the walking stick to whom he gestured. Darcy hesitated only a moment. Any refusal on his lips died away as he replied, “Very well.”
Bingley’s satisfaction was immediate. “Excellent. Let me retrieve my partner to facilitate the introduction.”
In but a moment, Bingley returned with the handsome, blond woman on his arm. Mrs. Collins greeted Darcy with polite gentility.
They crossed the room together, Bingley moving with easy confidence, Mrs. Collins beside him, Darcy more measured in his steps. As they approached, the lady in the chair rose.
Up close, her ailment was clearer. Her right eye remained unfocused, its surface faintly clouded. Her left met his gaze with directness, though she turned slightly to favor it.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Collins said, turning with composed warmth, “may I present my sister, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Miss Bennet.”
She returned the gesture. “Mr. Darcy.”
Her voice was steady. Composed. There was a trace of humor in it, though he could not yet place its source.
“Elizabeth,” Mrs. Collins continued, her hand resting lightly upon Bingley’s sleeve as she turned slightly, “you are already acquainted with Mr. Bingley, I believe.”
“Indeed,” her sister said.
“Only too briefly,” Bingley added with a laugh. “I have been most fortunate in making the acquaintance of Mrs. Collins and her sister earlier this evening.”
Jane inclined her head with gentle grace. “You are very kind.”
Darcy’s attention returned to Elizabeth.