Chapter 10
The assembly room above the town hall had not changed in living memory.
Its walls were a faded cream, the floors waxed smooth, and its tall windows always too drafty in winter and too warm in summer.
But on nights such as this, when the fiddlers took their seats and the lamps were freshly lit, it could be almost grand.
Meryton may be a modest market town, thought Elizabeth as the Bennet carriage arrived, but on assembly nights, it dresses itself in borrowed splendor and pretends to be Bath.
Jane descended first, assisted by the footman, her rose-pink skirts settling gracefully around her.
Mrs. Bennet followed with her usual fuss, then Kitty and Lydia—giggling before their slippers had even touched the stones—and finally Mary, who held a well-thumbed book of collected sermons as though it were a shield.
Elizabeth followed last, her mind far from things. She had left her tenant folio at home, but some question about barley tariffs had lingered in her head all afternoon, and she feared it would haunt her through at least the first two reels.
Inside, the hall was already half full. The musicians were tuning at the far end, and the Lucases had claimed one corner with strategic precision.
Sir William beamed from his post near the refreshment table, where he held forth on the virtues of public assemblies to a pair of bored-looking militia officers.
It did not take long for Jane to draw attention.
Within moments of entering the room, she was approached by Mr. Goulding’s nephew, a newly arrived curate.
Elizabeth stifled a giggle at her mother’s face; the matron appeared to be torn between encouraging Jane towards a prospective husband, or upset that she would not be available when the newcomers arrived.
Jane accepted the young man with a faint blush.
Elizabeth moved her gaze from her sister to look around the room, which was already filled with familiar faces.
The Kings had claimed their usual corner, Mrs. Long was parading her two nieces with feathered caps and anxious smiles, and Sir William was vigorously shaking hands with the vicar.
An hour later, the second set of the evening had just come to an end when the doors opened. Lydia, who was standing next to Elizabeth at the punch table, gasped loudly.
“Look, Lizzy,” Lydia hissed, tugging on her sister’s sleeve. “That must be him—Mr. Bingley! And look, who dresses like that?
Elizabeth followed her gaze across the room to the small group entering through the double doors.
Speaking animatedly with Sir William, the master of ceremonies, was a cheerful-looking young gentleman in a light blue coat.
At his side was a tall woman with red hair, which clashed horribly with her orange gown.
Behind them was a slightly older woman who could only be sister to the one in orange. She wore a lacy cap on her head, and at her side was a man Elizabeth presumed to be her husband. The man looked bored, and the two women appeared as though there was a foul stench.
And then a final figure stepped through the doors.
He was taller than the others by several inches, broad of shoulder and impossibly straight of posture.
His coat was dark, perfectly tailored, with gleaming brass buttons and immaculate cuffs.
The white of his cravat was so crisp it might have been starched in heaven, and his hair—dark, wavy, and carefully restrained—seemed the very image of masculine elegance.
He paused just within the threshold, surveying the room with a dispassionate gaze. His features were finely cut, his expression unreadable. There was nothing eager in his countenance, no polite mask of welcome. He looked, rather, like a man who had arrived somewhere he had not wished to be.
Lydia’s eyes grew large. “Mercy. He is magnificent.”
Elizabeth said nothing.
Kitty joined them at the table. “Which one is Mr. Bingley?”
“I assume the one in the blue coat,” Elizabeth murmured as she watched the newcomers. “He is performing the introductions.”
“But who is he?” Lydia insisted. “The tall one.”
“I have no idea.”
There was something about him—something that did not merely suggest wealth or breeding, but certainty. As if the room had shifted subtly to acknowledge his presence, though he had said not a word.
“Do you think he is married?” Kitty asked a tad fearfully.
“Of course not,” Lydia said. “Look at his boots.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “Is that the usual measure of marital status?”
“Unmarried men polish their boots. Married men do not have time.”
Elizabeth laughed, but her attention never left the tall stranger. He stood now with the others, allowing himself to be drawn forward, though he neither smiled nor spoke. His gaze drifted across the room without urgency, lingering on no one.
Then, abruptly, it caught hers.
For the space of a single breath, they looked at one another.
Elizabeth felt—not a jolt, precisely—but a flicker of recognition. Not that she had seen him before—she was certain she had not—but that she had seen that look before. Detached. Measuring. As if he were calculating the quality of the company and finding it wanting.
Her chin lifted half an inch.
But the moment passed. He looked away without acknowledgment, and Elizabeth returned her attention to the punch.
“Handsome,” Mary intoned behind her, “but likely arrogant. I would wager he has read no Fordyce.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly and offered her cup to be refilled.
The orchestra resumed tuning. The third set would begin soon.
Across the room, the man in the dark coat accepted a glass of wine from a footman and continued surveying the crowd with the calm disinterest of a man inspecting livestock.
And Elizabeth, sipping her punch as she crossed the room to stand beside Charlotte Lucas against the wall, decided she did not like him.
“Do you know who he is, Charlotte?” she asked her friend, nodding at the tall man.
“That is Mr. Darcy,” the older girl replied. “He is friend to Mr. Bingley and is helping his friend learn about how to manage an estate.”
“He is a gentleman, then?”
“Yes, from Derbyshire. I understand his estate there earns a clear ten thousand pounds per year. He must own at least half the county.”
“The miserable half, most likely,” Elizabeth said with a laugh, then she sobered. “Oh dear, my mother is summoning me.”
She handed Charlotte the remainder of her punch and turned just as Mrs. Bennet beckoned urgently from the edge of the floor, her fan fluttering like a distress flag.
“Lizzy! There you are! Sir William says he will do the introductions at once, and you must come now, before Miss King snatches up every available partner!”
Elizabeth curtsied politely to her friend and allowed herself to be pulled toward the Bingley party, which had gathered at the side of the room near the musicians. Sir William, proud as a peacock, was already bowing and gesturing.
“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet—may I present Mr. Bingley and his guests: Mr. Hurst, Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley… ah, and Mr. Darcy.”
Jane’s curtsy was elegant, her expression calm. Elizabeth followed with hers, keeping her chin lifted. Mr. Bingley smiled brightly. Mrs. Hurst gave a cool nod. Miss Bingley looked faintly bored.
Mr. Darcy inclined his head.
He did not speak.
Elizabeth’s lips tightened.
Mr. Bingley recovered the moment with cheerful skill. “Will you dance this set, Miss Bennet?”
“With pleasure,” said Jane, blushing, and they were off.
Mrs. Bennet turned her attention towards the other single gentleman. “Do you enjoy dancing yourself, sir?”
“No.”
With that, he bowed and walked away without another word.
Now Elizabeth really did not like him.
She turned from the party with as much dignity as she could manage and had only just reached the edge of the dance floor when Mr. James Lucas approached with an eager smile and a slightly crooked cravat.
“Miss Elizabeth—would you do me the honor of this dance?”
She hesitated only a moment before returning his smile. “Absolutely.”
As she stepped forward to take her place in the set, she caught it—just for a moment—a flicker of attention from across the room. Mr. Darcy, half-shadowed near the fireplace, was watching her.
Their eyes met.
He looked away first.
Elizabeth straightened her spine and fixed her attention on her partner. She would not give him the satisfaction of being thought on again.
The music began.
Mr. Lucas was not the most graceful dancer, but he was cheerful and sincere, and Elizabeth chose to enjoy herself. The floor filled with color and motion. Gowns swirled. Laughter echoed. The violins played something sprightly, and the entire room seemed to warm.
When she crossed the set and returned to her place, she caught sight of Jane and Mr. Bingley moving together with such effortless symmetry that it nearly broke her breath. Jane’s smile was soft and unguarded; Mr. Bingley looked as though the moon had risen just for her.
Elizabeth felt something tighten and ease at once.
Perhaps, just this once, their mother’s hopes were not so ill-placed.
Two dances later, Elizabeth found herself seated at the side of the room, accepting a glass of lemonade from a passing maid and fanning herself with slow, deliberate movements. Her feet ached, and a curl had slipped loose behind her ear, but her cheeks were bright and her eyes alight.
She had just begun to enjoy the brief respite when she noticed that Mr. Darcy was once again standing nearby. Not close enough to speak—heaven forbid—but just near enough to observe the room, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Elizabeth lifted her chin.
Let him look. She had already decided what to make of him.
“Darcy,” said a cheerful voice. Mr. Bingley had appeared at his friend’s side, flushed from dancing and grinning ear to ear. “I must have you dance. There are many agreeable young ladies here—and you are wasting your height leaning against that wall like a sconce.”