Chapter 6
Shifting Impressions
The gentlemen had scarcely withdrawn when the atmosphere of the drawing-room altered at once. Chairs were drawn closer, voices softened, and the conversation – freed from masculine observation – took a turn at once more animated and more discerning.
Mrs. Bennet, who had borne the dinner with admirable composure and no small sense of triumph, seated herself near the centre and fanned briskly.
Lady Lucas, who had taken a chair a little apart, inclined her head in agreement, her expression attentive rather than enthusiastic.
She was well accustomed to Mrs. Bennet’s triumphs, and had learnt to receive them with civility, if not conviction.
Still, she allowed herself a glance about the room – at the Bingley sisters’ composed elegance, at the younger girls’ restless energy – and wondered, not for the first time, how different an evening might appear to those who counted daughters as prospects, and those who observed them as they were.
“Well,” said Mrs. Bennet, “I think we may congratulate ourselves: such a table, such company – and everything conducted with the greatest propriety. I dare say the officers were vastly impressed. Colonel Forster looked quite struck by the elegance of it all.”
Lydia laughed. “I am sure Mr. Denny was. He scarcely took his eyes from the sideboard.”
Mrs. Bennet waved this aside. “Young men will be young men. But it is the ball I am thinking of now. There is so little time, and so much to be done. Gowns must be examined, ribbons chosen, shoes tried again – I declare, it is quite enough to distract a sensible woman.”
Charlotte Lucas smiled. “The ball will be talked of for weeks. Preparation is half the pleasure.”
“Quite so,” Mrs. Bennet agreed eagerly. “And quite half the anxiety. Jane, my dear, you must be certain your gown is properly aired. Nothing is worse than arriving with a crease that might have been prevented.”
Jane smiled. “I believe it is in very good order, Mama.”
Elizabeth, who had taken up a piece of needlework with little intention of advancing it, glanced up. “Jane’s gown could not fail her. It succeeds without effort.”
“That is because Jane succeeds without effort,” Lydia said, with mock solemnity. “Some of us must work harder for admiration.”
Miss Bingley, who had been listening with polite attention, now spoke.
“I confess,” she said, “I find the anticipation of a ball infinitely more diverting than the event itself. The choice of a gown, the deliberation over colours – these are matters of real consequence. Do I understand correctly that you intend to wear an old dress?”
All the local ladies, young and old, paused at the question. Poor Jane hardly knew what to say to a question like that, laden with meaning.
It was Elizabeth who answered instead. “Miss Bingley, I am sure you are used to a different economy in London, but this is the country. I assure you, though, even if the dresses have been worn to this or that event, nobody will recognise them; our needle will ensure as much. We would not disrespect your efforts for the ball with anything less.” Her smile was such that even Miss Bingley could only reply:
“How very economical.”
“Practical,” Elizabeth corrected, pleasantly.
Charlotte Lucas smiled. “There is something to be said for the skills of ladies who must create diversity with little. The milliner does very well here.”
“Miss Bingley, I can assure you that my girls will look very well in their gowns.” Mrs. Bennet finally found her voice, too.
“Indeed,” Miss Bingley replied, after a moment. “Miss Bennet would look well in almost anything. Still, there is a pleasure in knowing one has done all that can be done.”
The two younger ladies, Kitty and Lydia, sensed the tension among the others.
It was sobering that what was normal to them was wanting in the eyes of the ladies from town.
They resolved to put extra effort into their dresses.
Quietly, they left the room to take account of what they had to deal with or if they should go into the village for a ribbon or two.
Lydia said they could ask their mother if she had anything extra they could use.
Lady Lucas, perceiving that the subject of gowns had grown perilously close to offence, brought up the ball as a timely diversion.
She did so, however, not without a momentary reflection upon the very delicate shade of superiority with which the Bingley sisters regarded all such preparations.
Her thoughts travelled, unbidden, to her own daughters’ wardrobes.
She could not but wonder whether it was now expected that new gowns should be produced at every assembly, as if families in Hertfordshire were in the habit of maintaining London modistes on permanent notice – or, indeed, of supporting five daughters in uninterrupted novelty, like the Bennets.
She was therefore much relieved, and not a little amused, to discover that on the subject of arranging a ball, both Miss Bingley and her sister were eager to speak at length upon the refinements required to conduct a country entertainment in the London style.
***
The murmur of voices in the hall announced the gentlemen’s return before the door was opened. Chairs were shifted; fans paused mid-motion. Mrs. Bennet looked up with renewed animation, while Miss Bingley adjusted her posture as if the room itself had been waiting for the correction.
The door opened.
Mr. Bennet entered first, his expression composed into one of mild amusement, followed by Mr. Bingley and Colonel Forster, both in excellent spirits.
Mr. Darcy came last.
He crossed the threshold with his attention oddly unfocused, as though his thoughts lagged a step behind him.
The room appeared much as he had left it – the same arrangement of chairs, the same cluster of ladies – and yet it felt altered in some indefinable way, as though something had already been set in motion without his consent.
His eyes sought Elizabeth at once.
She was seated near the window, her posture easy, her expression composed, speaking to Miss Lucas. There was nothing in her manner to suggest disturbance or anticipation. She looked, if anything, particularly at her ease.
It did not reassure him.
Before Darcy could determine why this should trouble him, movement at the edge of his vision drew his attention.
Mr. Collins.
The parson, who had lingered only long enough to offer a bow to Mrs Bennet, was already advancing across the room with unmistakable purpose. His hands were clasped, his head inclined, his manner solemnly resolved. Toward Elizabeth.
Darcy halted, though only for the briefest instant – too little to be remarked upon, yet enough to register fully in his own mind.
He watched as Mr. Collins approached her, watched the eager inclination of his head, the preparatory breath, the air of consequence with which he addressed her.
There are few situations more disagreeable to a gentleman of discernment than to discover that events of consequence may proceed without his notice – and fewer still in which he is more reluctant to acknowledge his concern.
A faint, involuntary recoil passed through him. Miss Elizabeth turned at once, surprise flickering across her face before she recovered herself and rose with polite composure. She introduced him to her friend.
Darcy felt, with sudden clarity, that he was no longer merely observing.
He could not have said what he expected to happen – only that the sight before him was intolerably wrong.
Collins’s voice reached him in fragments: deferential, earnest, unrelenting.
Miss Elizabeth listened, her expression attentive but guarded, her answers measured.
He even noticed the brief glance she shared with Miss Lucas.
Darcy stood quite still.
It was not jealousy – at least, he would not call it that – nor quite concern either for Miss Elizabeth’s comfort alone. It was something nearer to disorientation: the unsettling sense that events were already taking a shape he had not foreseen.
Only minutes earlier, Collins’s announcement had struck him with disbelief. Now, watching the man position himself so confidently at Elizabeth’s side, Darcy felt a quiet, unwelcome conviction take root.
He intends it.
The thought was unwelcome not for what it implied about Collins, but for what it stirred in himself.
Elizabeth glanced up, as if aware – not of Darcy’s thoughts, but of his gaze. Their eyes met briefly. There was no appeal in her look, no request for rescue – only a flicker of recognition, followed by a look of composed patience that suggested she meant to manage the matter herself.
The look should have satisfied him.
It did not.
An estate entailed to the very man. He found he could not look away from the group.
On the surface, it was a desirable situation.
The estate would stay in the family’s hands, and the family would be safe if Mr. Bennet should die.
On the surface, it made perfect sense. He paused there, as if the conclusion ought to have satisfied him – and was irritated to find that it did not.
So why did this bother him? Miss Elizabeth and this buffoon.
It did not sit well with him – and the fact that he should think so at all only sharpened his irritation.
He told himself it was his conviction that she could – she should – aim for better.
Mr. Collins, self-absorbed as he was, could not appreciate her character.
Darcy turned away at last, annoyed with himself for the attention he had paid, and more so for the strange sense of displacement that lingered even after he forced his thoughts elsewhere.
He told himself – firmly – that whatever Mr. Collins intended, whatever Elizabeth chose to endure or discourage, was no concern of his.
Yet the room no longer felt quite as it had before. He looked around, and he did not feel up to conversing about the most unimportant matters. This was going to be a long evening, he thought.
***