Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
The Ball
Morning, very early indeed
I never would have proposed to you at all.
Bloody bastard.
No. I will not think of it. I have promised myself I would not think about it.
But he is a bloody bastard.
And worse still I love him.
Yes, that's correct. I love Fitzwilliam Darcy, greatest idiot on earth.
He doesn't deserve me in the least. And I should have told him that as soon as he uttered his cruel words, but I said nothing because. . . .
Well, I do not exactly know why. I supposed I was shocked that his words should hurt me so much. It should not have hurt. I knew he never would have proposed to me if we had not become entangled in scandal. And if by some mad circumstance he had proposed I would never have accepted him.
But that was before.
Before our marriage. Before our friendship. Before I realized I loved him.
If he was as sensible as he claims to be, he would have noticed the effect his thoughtless words had had upon me and he would have immediately apologized and said something like, "But that was before I really knew you, now I see you for the glorious woman you are and I am so proud to call you my wife. "
But as I said . . . world's greatest idiot. Instead he sipped his tea and started reading the newspaper. Seriously. The bloody newspaper.
Grrrrrr. I must not think of it. Every time I think of it I want to bite something and presently there is nothing around to bite.
I was too feverish with dueling excitement and despair during the supper break to partake of much so now I am ravenous and the leavings I found in the refreshment room are far too picked over to even consider eating.
All the remaining little sandwiches look as if a drunken surgeon has hacked at them to remove their cheese and the lemonade is down to the dregs.
So now I wait, hoping that the servant I sent off for fresh refreshments will get back from the kitchen soon, and for the first time all evening I have too much time to think.
Since eight o'clock last night I have been smiling at, speaking to, and herding around guests.
Being hostess is much more work than I realized, but it is wonderfully distracting as well.
I was able to spend the first hour of the evening standing shoulder to shoulder with Darcy as we greeted our guests without thinking of him and his idiocy at all.
We have only danced one dance together thus far and I did not have to pay him any mind, preferring to speak to the ladies on both sides of me as we waited our turn to go down the dance.
But now it is well after midnight and the guests' enthusiasm is beginning to wane, and everyone who was so eager to speak to me upon first arriving is now engaged with their own friends. Leaving me time to think.
I never would have proposed to you at all.
"Bloody bastard," I muttered to myself because sometimes it feels better just to say it out loud even if it makes you look mad.
"Pardon?"
I didn't even scream or gasp in surprise or anything because of course he is standing right behind me, of bloody course he is. "Speak of the devil," I said in a low grumble, not bothering to turn around.
"What?" asked Darcy, now standing in front of me, blocking my intense surveillance of the refreshments table.
"Nothing."
"A successful evening, I think," Darcy said after several moments of awkward silence during which I continued to stare at the refreshments table as if he were not there.
"A great many shepherdesses," he observed after several more silent moments.
He was correct, there were many promiscuous shepherdesses in attendance this evening, but I was not about to give him credit for his predictions.
"I'm sorry, have I offended you somehow?"
"Not at all," I replied because I have too much dignity to admit that he could injure me so deeply with just one unconsidered sentence.
"Are you certain? You have been a bit tense since this morning."
"Everything is fine."
"Only you seem—"
"It is all fine, Darcy."
"Indeed."
He stopped speaking at least, but he continued to just stand there.
"We should not be monopolizing each other's attention like this. Our guests will think us rude," I said trying to give him a hint.
"We are still newly wed. I think that must excuse any perceived rudeness."
Newly wed but not happily wed. Apparently. You bloody bastard.
"Have you noticed Sir Sebastian has been following your sister around half the night?"
I had noticed and if I had not I would have assumed he meant Sir Sebastian the Dog and Lydia (Lydia had dressed the poor dog up as a sheep brought him to the ball as an accessory to her costume) rather than Sir Sebastian the Man and Mary.
"I have noticed. I believe Sir Sebastian is under the impression Mary is me."
"How could he possibly confuse Mary with you?"
"We are wearing similar costumes, we are both slight of figure and our hair is the same shade. With the masks hiding half our faces I suppose we must look quite alike."
Darcy still appeared skeptical.
"Also I think he has partaken of a good deal of wine."
"Shall I do something about him? Are you not afraid she might take his attentions to mean more than they do?"
"Oh, no, do not interfere. Mary has never danced so much, it is good for her to have the opportunity.
And she is far too sensible to think herself in love with him after one evening in his company, no matter how lavish his attentions.
In fact, if the look on her face last I saw her was any indication, she is already annoyed with his antics.
Perhaps she will give him a proper telling off. It would be good for both of them."
Having imparted the information he must have sought me out to give, I thought he would leave me in peace to wait for my sandwiches, but he continued to stand there. I was considering leaving myself despite my hunger when he suddenly said with great astonishment, "Is that my aunt?"
"Yes," I answered without turning around to look, "I thought if she had a really good costume she might be tempted to come down and enjoy the ball."
Inspired by her love of the Bart the Bird headpiece, I had commissioned a seamstress who worked for the theater to make Mrs. Vane a bird of paradise costume.
It was so spectacular that upon being presented with it Mrs. Vane actually thanked me.
She had sneaked into the ball after the dancing had begun and I suspected she would slip away again before the unmasking at the end, but it was a good first step in her return to public life.
"Yes, I know, I already saw Constance. It was kind of you to go to such lengths. But I was not referring to her, I was talking about Rebecca."
"What?" I spun around so quickly I was left dizzy.
"I believe that is her. Right there."
I looked through the open doors of the refreshment room into the ball room. "Oh, goodness. Is she the sun?" She was wearing a bright yellow gown of a shade that did not compliment her coppery hair with a golden mask and a sunburst crown.
"I think she must be."
"No, she is more than the sun. It would seem she is the entire solar system."
Darcy appeared stunned as he well should. His heavily pregnant aunt has arrived at a ball dressed as an orrery. And he has called my family outrageous.
"Should we go greet her?"
We did not have to travel far. As soon as she spotted us she quickly weaved through (read: razed down) the crowd to get to us.
"Oh Lizzy, you make such a beautiful Persephone!" she cried, jabbing me with one of the many planets revolving her as she embraced me. "And Fitzwilliam, dashing as ever."
"What a remarkable costume," I said because she clearly wished me to comment upon it and it was the only honest thing I could think to say. Fortunately, Rebecca interprets every remark in the most positive manner possible.
"You like it? James said it was absurd. He said everyone would ask if they could see the new planet."
"Uranus?" Darcy smirked, proving even sophisticated men are not above low, suggestive humor.
"Yes," answered Rebecca through gritted teeth, "And a few gentlemen have asked, but I am certain they posed the question with complete innocence," she finished primly.
"Is my uncle here?"
"No, I had to sneak out. He forbade me from attending, can you believe it? So I said "Yes, dear' very demurely and went up to bed. He did not suspect my intentions at all."
Her statement conflicted with the fact that a seething James Darcy, costume-less and unmasked, was currently stomping his booted feet across my waxed ballroom floor. Darcy men are just so exhausting.
"You are nine months pregnant! You cannot be gallivanting around in the middle of the night—in public. Think of your health—think of the baby!" he said without preamble upon reaching us.
"I am not pregnant—I am enceinte. And I do wish you would not discuss my delicate state so freely. Someone might overhear," said Rebecca casting a paranoid glance around her.
James pinched the bridge of his nose in that universal sign of frustration. "You are going home at once," he growled.
"I am staying here. You should go home. You are ruining Elizabeth's lovely ball with your negativity."
Whatever retort James might have made was drown out by the sudden piercing scream that emanated from the center of the ballroom.
My view was obstructed by the crowd, but Darcy, aided by his superior height, was apparently able to see the cause of the fracas. "Oh God, that cannot be—"
"Henry Vane," finished James, his face full of violent promise.
"Oh no, James—don't," pleaded Rebecca.
It was at this point everything went to Hades.