Chapter Twelve
Knowing that the next dance would be a reel, Elizabeth accepted Mr. Darcy’s hand nearly as much to make the staid man uncomfortable as to dance herself.
He deserved it, after all. Following her around all night, eavesdropping on her conversations only to refuse to speak to her when he at last had her full attention. Confounding man.
For all that, as she placed her hand on his arm, she could not help but notice once more that Mr. Darcy was very handsome.
He looked very like his father, but he was taller.
Despite the man’s earlier behavior, he was now polite and gentlemanly, escorting her to her position and taking his own.
They both looked up, their eyes meeting in the moment before Maria began to play.
The first time Mr. Darcy performed the Lematrast, crossing one foot over the other, stepping back, and hopping, Elizabeth nearly laughed.
To see Mr. Darcy dancing, no, springing in dance, like any other light-hearted mortal?
She had not believed he had it in him. Yet here he was, defying her every expectation.
“Who would have guessed?” she asked him as the dance brought them together. The steps forced them apart. When she again reached his side, she completed the thought. “Mr. Darcy knows how to dance a reel.”
The pace of the reel was quick, not leaving much time to speak, but Elizabeth let the music fill her ears as she moved first to one partner and then the next before returning to Mr. Darcy. “If you believed me deficient,” he asked somberly, “why did you accept?”
She could see his face was flushed with effort, and felt her own cheeks growing warm.
The reel was not often called in public anymore, but she loved country dances.
She enjoyed the fancy footwork required in the Scotch reel, and so, it appeared, did Mr. Darcy.
He was quite a tall man with shoulders just broad enough to be unfashionable, yet he moved with confidence and level of grace that surprised her.
She would not insult him by saying so, of course.
“You are always so very serious, sir,” she said, her breath coming a little harder as she moved into the double Kemkossy that carried her away from him with small, bounding steps. Then the music brought them back to their original positions. Serious was hardly the word. Self-important, perhaps.
“I am,” he admitted when they returned to one another. His own breath was a little labored. “My disposition is…” They hopped on one foot, extended the other, then repeated the movement with the opposite foot. “Quiet.”
Taciturn, she challenged silently. Arrogant.
Then, suddenly, another word occurred to her.
Reticent. Like Georgie. It was possible to be both.
His father had not been retiring, not in the least, and it had been so long since Georgie was reticent with her that Elizabeth had nearly forgotten how she behaved with strangers.
In her defense, it was difficult to think of a man of his position--nay, his size--being shy in company.
She switched from one foot to the other, toes pointed out.
No. That would not do. This was her failing, not his.
Her heart opened to him.
They began the final steps of the dance, the Fosgladh, springing straight up, dropping down, springing again.
Elizabeth concentrated on the steps, the quick half-turn, facing the opposite direction, and then another sharp turn to finish the dance.
When he bowed and she curtsied, she smiled brightly at him.
“I find myself in great need of something to drink, sir,” she said happily, feeling as though she had unlocked some great secret. “Would you care to accompany me?”
The smallest half-smile appeared on his face and he held out his arm. “I believe that to be my duty, Miss Elizabeth. Allow me.”
Her sisters and Mr. Bingley joined them almost immediately, so Elizabeth could not speak to Mr. Darcy the way she would like.
She was now more determined than she had been since the assembly, though, to find a way.
As Mr. Darcy handed her a glass of punch and they chatted about the surrounding countryside, Elizabeth suddenly caught Miss Bingley observing them from the other side of the room.
The woman should work for Whitehall. She coughed a little as she sipped, and Mr. Darcy’s eyes laughed at her.
“A bit strong for you, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, his voice warm.
“It is,” she said, handing it back to him when he offered to take it. “Thank you.”
Elizabeth was both unsurprised and uninjured when the next invitation from Netherfield Park was addressed only to Miss Jane Bennet.
They were all sitting down to breakfast when the note arrived.
A servant from Netherfield waited outside for a response.
Mrs. Bennet asked several questions without drawing a breath, the first tumbling over the next, until Jane seemed unsure whether to try to answer without having read the message or to read it first and ignore her mother in the meantime.
“Read your note, Jane,” Papa said kindly, before winking at Elizabeth.
Mary frowned. “They should have asked you as well, Lizzy. It is rude to exclude you.”
“No ruder than it was to exclude you, Mary,” Elizabeth replied, “and you have not fallen into disfavor with Miss Bingley as I have.”
Papa looked amused. “On their bad side, already, eh, Lizzy?”
“They put up their noses at Uncle Gardiner,” Kitty said, showing an indignation that was rare for her.
Mary nodded. “So Elizabeth reminded them that their own fortune comes from trade, Papa,” Mary informed him.
Jane let the letter fall into her lap as she leaned to Elizabeth’s ear. “Not to mention that you have seen more interest from Mr. Darcy in a month than she ever has.”
Elizabeth elbowed her sister in the side, but Jane simply smiled and picked up the note.
Mr. Bennet chuckled at the exchange, though Elizabeth was sure he had not heard it. “Well done, Elizabeth.”
“Oh, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Bennet scolded, speaking over her husband, “You can be quite sarcastic, you know. You must behave when you are next invited to Netherfield and not ruin Jane’s chances with Mr. Bingley. The Russells may have raised you to believe yourself better than your family, but…”
Elizabeth sat back and counseled herself not to respond. One moment Mama feared her censure, the next she could not hold back. She loved her mother, but the woman confused her no end.
“Mama,” Jane said calmly, cutting the diatribe off before her mother could work herself up further. Elizabeth sent her sister a look of gratitude, and Jane gave her a quick wink.
“Yes, Jane?” Mrs. Bennet asked eagerly, “What does it say?”
“It is an invitation to dine, Mama. The men will be out with the officers.”
Mrs. Bennet was upset. “With the officers?”
“Oh,” Lydia said dreamily, “the officers.”
Kitty shook her head. “I know you find them handsome, Lydia, but I hear them speaking out in the street and their language is rather…” She shuddered. “I did not like it.”
Mrs. Grover, who had a talent for blending in with the wallpaper until she was needed, nodded sagely. Lydia slumped back in her seat, but Elizabeth glanced up and smiled at the woman. To her delight, the woman smiled back.
“Lyddie,” Elizabeth said, “you should know that most officers cannot afford a wife. Even many of the colonels do not have enough of an income to marry.”
“Colonels!” cried Lydia, “But they are so old!”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth agreed, nodding sadly. “So you are not missing out on anything there.”
Lydia’s face crumpled, as though she was thinking about what her sister had said, and Elizabeth was glad to see it.
“It is such a waste,” Lydia sighed at last. “Lieutenant Denny is so handsome.”
“Well,” Elizabeth said theatrically, “You are not out, Lydia, but you are not dead, either. Nobody has said you cannot look at them so long as it is from a distance.” A very far distance.
“I am not hearing this,” Mr. Bennet said, directing a hard look at Elizabeth.
Lydia promised to be content with looking. “After all,” she stated boldly, “what would be the point in all my tedious lessons were I not to marry well?” She giggled, but at the sound of her governess clearing her throat, Lydia put a hand up to her mouth and stopped.
Poor Mrs. Grover. Elizabeth was relieved, but the giggle reminded her how young Lydia was. She was in many ways even younger than her fifteen years. Georgiana would be turning sixteen in the new year and she was nearly a woman. Despite her well-developed figure, Lydia was still very much a girl.
“Jane,” she said, turning to her sister, who was finishing her reading, “Shall Mary, Kitty, and I be losing your company today?”
“Yes, Lizzy,” Jane said quietly. “I hope you do not mind that I wish to accept the invitation.”
“Mind?” cried Mrs. Bennet, “Why would Elizabeth mind?”
Elizabeth would have laughed at how closely her mother’s words echoed her own desires, but Jane was truly conflicted.
“Oh, Jane,” Elizabeth said contritely, shaking her head, “I should be cross with you if you did not accept an invitation that clearly gives you pleasure.” It was no hardship for her.
Jane’s face lit up. “May I have the carriage?” she asked.
Before Papa could answer, Mama burst out, “Oh, no, Jane. You must go on horseback, for it looks like rain.” Mrs. Grover held a hand out to Lydia; the girl was quick to take it. As the two of them slipped from the room, Mama finished, “Then you will have to stay overnight.”
Elizabeth’s good mood vanished. “Mama,” she began, shocked. She glanced over at her father. Say something. Instead, Papa just turned to look out the window. “That,” she said in the absence of his response, “is precisely the way to ensure Jane receives no further invitations.”
“Oh, you must leave this to me, Elizabeth,” her mother said, waving her concerns aside. “You have no idea how this sort of thing works.”