Chapter Thirteen #2
Darcy made a vague sound of agreement and glanced towards Bingley, who stood some feet away, already engaged in lively conversation with a remarkably pretty young woman in pale blue. Her manner was modest but animated, and her smile seemed to warm the entire corner of the room.
Caroline followed his gaze and pursed her lips. “At least,” she said, leaning nearer with a coy smile, “I know I shall have one agreeable partner tonight.”
Darcy turned slightly, his expression unreadable. “I am glad you enjoy standing up with your brother.”
Caroline blinked, her smile faltering. “My brother?”
“Yes,” he replied, allowing just a hint of dryness to enter his tone. “I, too, enjoy standing up with my sister.”
The silence that followed was only a second too long. Miss Bingley had certainly missed his jest.
Then, regretting the unintended misunderstanding, Darcy inclined his head slightly.
“May I have your third set? I am not otherwise engaged,” he said simply, already wishing the conversation would turn to anything else.
It was his duty to dance with both his host’s sisters. She accepted with alacrity.
Her attention, however, had returned to Bingley, whose bright enthusiasm was impossible to ignore.
“Charles has spoken of nothing but that woman since we arrived,” she said with a light laugh that did not reach her eyes.
“I suppose I shall be introduced to her eventually—some local beauty, I imagine. Rustic and entirely without distinction.”
Darcy looked at her then. “As I stated previously, I will reserve judgement until I have met the lady.”
Caroline arched a brow. “Have you no faith in your friend’s discernment?”
“I do,” he said, “though I might ask if you do.”
She laughed—too loudly for his taste. “Charles is led easily by first impressions. You know how he is. That is why I must be cautious on his behalf. People see his good nature and mistake it for gullibility. I can scarcely be expected to welcome every country chit who catches his eye.”
Darcy said nothing at first. His gaze drifted again to Bingley, who had just offered his hand to the young lady.
The two moved onto the dance floor as the music began anew.
The girl’s countenance was gentle, her expression attentive.
She looked, in fact, very little like a schemer or a social climber.
Finally, he said, “Perhaps you will find her worthy of his attention, after all.”
Caroline’s answering smile was thin. “I do hope so.”
But Darcy doubted she hoped for any such thing.
As the music swelled and the dance began, he turned away, no longer interested in speculations. He would form his opinion not from his friend’s praise nor his friend’s sister’s disdain—but from his own observation. And for that, he would have to meet Miss Bennet.
Mr Bingley approached with a cheerful step, Mr Bennet following behind, accompanied by two ladies.
The first—the lady in pale blue—was undoubtedly Bingley’s angel.
She was tall, with a willowy figure and a serene countenance.
Her hair was flaxen, her manner serene, and her smile touched with warmth.
The younger was livelier in countenance, her eyes keen and curious, her bearing graceful though wholly without pretension.
He gave her a cursory look and then turned his attention back to Bingley’s lady.
“Mr Darcy,” Bingley said, “allow me the honour of introducing Mr Bennet, and his daughters, Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Ladies, my friend Mr Darcy of Pemberley.” He next introduced his sisters and Hurst.
Darcy bowed. Mr Bennet acknowledged, saying something about how pleased he was to have forgone his usual tendency to stay home in favor of meeting new acquaintances.
Darcy detected mild sarcasm in his tone but chose to ignore it.
Bennet gave him a dry nod and a murmur of greeting before turning his attention to the arrangement of the chairs.
Miss Bennet curtsied with quiet elegance, and Miss Elizabeth—though her smile was far less subdued—offered a graceful inclination of her head.
Her eyes, bright and alert, darted not to Darcy, but to her sister, watching with evident amusement as Caroline Bingley attempted a compliment too drenched in artifice to land with any sincerity.
Darcy had scarcely exchanged a few words before he discerned what Bingley had likely noticed from the first: Miss Bennet was genuinely fond of his friend.
The gentle light in her expression, the way her glances lingered, the softening of her tone when she answered his questions—it was all unmistakably sincere.
There was no guile in her manner, only warmth.
It was a great relief to know his friend had not been taken in by a fortune hunter.
His attention, therefore, shifted to the younger sister.
Miss Elizabeth was not beautiful in the fashionable sense.
Her features were fine, though not striking, and her complexion, whilst clear, held the faintest touch of sun.
But she moved with confidence, spoke with clarity, and her eyes—those eyes—seemed to read every gesture and word.
When Caroline made a sly remark about the novelty of so many provincial flowers in one room, Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, though her smile remained.
It was not the reaction of a woman easily cowed.
Darcy watched her in silence, intrigued.
Bingley, in the midst of offering Miss Bennet a refreshment, turned suddenly towards her sister.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said with a grin, “I have already secured the first and last dances of the evening from your sister, so I suppose I must steal one from you as well, lest I be accused of favouritism.”
Elizabeth laughed, her tone bright and amused. “I shall be sure to mark that in your favour when I write my report to the magistrate.”
Bingley offered a mock bow. “I live only to preserve my honour.”
Miss Bingley, standing stiffly at Darcy’s elbow, rolled her eyes in a manner that was anything but subtle. Darcy, unmoved, turned to Miss Bennet.
“May I hope for the second set, Miss Bennet?” He wished to come to know the lady better.
She accepted with a modest nod, and he turned next to Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth, if you are not otherwise engaged for the fourth…”
“I am not,” she replied, watching him closely. “It would be my pleasure.”
Miss Bingley did not seem at all pleased, likely upset that he had condescended to ask any other lady to dance.
Determined to do all in his power to avoid singling her—or any other lady—out, Darcy next asked Mrs Hurst for a set.
She granted him one near the end of the evening.
I shall dance all night if it means less time in Miss Bingley’s company.
The music struck up again, and the dancers began to move.
Darcy stepped onto the floor with Miss Bennet for the second set.
She was, as expected, the very picture of grace—gentle in her step, soft in her speech.
They exchanged pleasantries, mostly concerning her family and the charm of the countryside.
Her affection for Bingley was delicately veiled, yet not absent, and Darcy could not deny a measure of satisfaction that his friend’s attachment was not misplaced.
The third set arrived with Miss Bingley. She danced well, but her conversation was marked by a brittle edge.
“You seem determined to make the acquaintance of every local family,” she said as they turned.
Darcy offered no more than, “It is only proper to acknowledge your brother’s new neighbours.”
“Oh, certainly. And some of the girls are quite… lively.” Her gaze swept towards Elizabeth, then returned, sharp. “But I daresay you will grow tired of the novelty soon enough.”
Darcy did not reply. He had never been in the habit of indulging another’s pettiness.
By the time the fourth set began to form, he found himself beside Miss Elizabeth once more on the edge of the dance floor.
Their conversation was less stilted than before, and though she teased him once about his reticence in company, he found no malice in her words—only mirth and a challenge beneath it.
She was not what he had expected. And for that, he was unexpectedly glad.
The fourth set began, and as they moved onto the floor, Darcy found himself unusually alert to the expression on Elizabeth Bennet’s face.
Her smile was composed, but there was a curiosity in her eyes that suggested she did not waste time on performances.
She took his arm with a graceful ease, and they joined the line of dancers as the first notes struck up.
“The music is better than I had expected,” she said lightly as they turned. “Though I suppose anything seems fine if one’s partner is not stepping on one’s slippers.”
Darcy allowed the corner of his mouth to lift. “Then I shall consider myself warned.”
“I am certain you need no such caution, Mr Darcy. You look far too practised in the art of not making mistakes.”
“Not making mistakes,” he repeated with mild irony, “is not always the same as doing things well.”
She tilted her head as they turned again. “A very neat distinction. I shall have to think on that.”
They danced in companionable rhythm for a few measures before she spoke again. “My brother would have liked this assembly. He is fond of music, even when it is bad.”
Darcy noted the shift in her voice—softened, almost wistful. He glanced towards her, but she was already looking away, following the movement of the line.
“Your brother is not here tonight?” he asked.
Her smile returned, though fainter. “No. He is but five years of age, though he wishes he were grown already.”
He opened his mouth to inquire further, but her tone brightened before he could speak. “But I am afraid that subject is far too dull for dancing. Tell me, have you ever danced in a smaller room than this?”
Darcy understood the redirection and chose not to press. “Once. In a winter parlour in London. The ceilings were so low the chandeliers had to be removed entirely.”
Elizabeth laughed. “And yet I imagine you danced with dignity despite the threat of flying candelabras.”
“I like to believe so.”
Their conversation flowed more easily than he had expected. Elizabeth had a knack for drawing meaning from silence and humour from simplicity. She made even the formal turns of a country dance feel more like a conversation than a performance.
As the set ended and they returned to the side of the room, she turned to him with that same knowing look in her eyes. “I believe Miss King over there is in want of a partner, and she has been glancing this way with increasing desperation. I hope you do not object to an introduction?”
Darcy gave a polite nod, though the idea of dancing again held little appeal after the unexpected enjoyment of his last set. “I do not object.”
Miss Elizabeth led him to a modest young woman with a quiet voice and a nervous curtsey. He bowed, exchanged a few civilities, and offered to stand up with her for the next dance.
He did not dance another until he stood up with Mrs Hurst. As the final set was called and couples reassembled, Darcy remained at the edge of the room, watchful and still.
He wished only to observe, and made no effort to seek out Miss Bingley’s glance; instead, he allowed the gentle chaos of the room to unfold around him.
The carriage ride back to Netherfield was silent.
Bingley, content and smiling, stared out the window with his thoughts obviously elsewhere.
Miss Bingley sat stiffly, her expression unreadable in the dim light and her usual diatribes absent.
The Hursts dozed, their heads nodding in rhythm with the swaying of the coach.
Darcy leaned against the velvet lining, his thoughts miles away.
Five years since Anne had disappeared—without warning, without reason.
Years of questions unanswered, of his aunt’s steady unraveling and rebirth into a charitable, kind patroness.
The ache of not knowing had dulled over time, but tonight, as the road continued in the dark before him, it returned with quiet persistence.
He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift upward, towards the unseen sky.
Wherever you are, Anne…be safe. Be happy.
The wheels rolled on through the night, and he allowed his thoughts to turn to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.