Chapter 10
Steps and Stratagems
The gentlemen were assembled in the hall somewhat earlier than was strictly necessary. Mr. Collins stood with an air of solemn expectation, gloves folded precisely in one hand, his posture suggesting that he considered himself already in public view.
Mr. Bennet, by contrast, leaned indolently against the small table near the staircase, as though the entire business of preparation were a spectacle arranged solely for his private amusement. “You appear prepared for conquest, cousin,” Mr. Bennet observed mildly.
“I endeavour only to discharge my social duties with becoming propriety,” Mr. Collins replied. “The ball affords a valuable opportunity for graceful conduct.”
“I am sure it does,” said Mr. Bennet. After a pause, he added, “Have you secured a partner for the evening?”
“I have taken the liberty,” Mr. Collins said, lowering his voice slightly as though confiding something significant, “of requesting the honour of Miss Elizabeth’s hand for the first set.”
Mr. Bennet’s brows rose – not dramatically, but enough. “Elizabeth?” he repeated.
“Yes. I thought it fitting. Her discernment in household matters, her spirited manner…”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Bennet interrupted gently. “Spirited indeed.” He studied his cousin for a moment with an expression of reflective curiosity. “That will not do,” he continued, “Jane and Elizabeth are unlikely to want for partners. They are, I suspect, already provided for.”
Mr. Collins drew himself up slightly. “I was unaware…”
“Of course you were not,” Mr. Bennet said soothingly. “It is merely that my two eldest daughters are favourites in the neighbourhood.”
Mr. Collins looked momentarily discomposed.
“Mary, however,” Mr. Bennet went on, as though struck by inspiration, “possesses a most improving fondness for solemn company. And Kitty and Lydia, though lively, might benefit from a steady influence in their immediate vicinity. I should be gratified to see them engaged in rational society.”
At the top of the staircase came the faint sound of laughter – unmistakably Lydia’s.
Mr. Bennet’s expression altered very slightly. “One cannot be too vigilant where red coats are concerned,” he said lightly – though the lightness did not quite reach his eyes.
Mr. Collins brightened. “It would, indeed, be my pleasure to promote decorum where possible.”
“I rely upon you entirely,” said Mr. Bennet gravely.
Footsteps sounded above them. The rustle of silk descended.
The carriages were announced in due order, and the household descended in a flurry of silk, ribbons, and admonitions.
Mr. Collins hovered with visible anticipation but found himself burdened by his new task.
Mr. Bennet assisted his daughters into the carriage with an air of detached civility. When Elizabeth’s foot found the step, he leant slightly nearer. “You may thank me later,” he murmured.
She looked at him in quick surprise. “For what, sir?”
“For rescuing you from opening the evening with our worthy cousin.”
Her eyes widened. “You did not…”
“I merely suggested that solemnity is best appreciated in moderation,” he replied. “Mary seemed the safer enthusiast.”
Elizabeth struggled not to laugh as she settled onto the seat. “And what am I to do when he seeks the second set?”
“My dear,” Mr. Bennet said, closing the carriage door with deliberate calm, “one cannot prevent all suffering. It is enough that we limit it.”
As the carriage lurched forward, Elizabeth caught her father’s eye through the window.
He inclined his head slightly – a conspirator satisfied with his work.
***
The ballroom was already bright when the Bennets arrived. Light spilt from the tall windows onto the gravel, and the sound of violins, imperfectly tuned but enthusiastic, drifted into the cool evening air.
Elizabeth stepped down with steadier composure than she felt.
Within, the room glowed with candlelight. Chandeliers cast a softened brilliance across silk sleeves and polished boots. The floor had been newly waxed; its surface reflected motion in fragments – a turn of muslin, the gleam of a buckle, the flash of a fan.
The air was warm already. Too many bodies, too much expectation. She noticed several unfamiliar faces in elegant evening dress – perhaps visitors from London.
She paused only a moment beside Jane, long enough to take in the arrangement of the room.
After greeting the hosts, she allowed herself to drift a little from her family.
Officers in scarlet stood in confident clusters.
Local matrons surveyed the company with practised vigilance.
Young ladies affected indifference while watching the door.
Elizabeth did not search the room for anyone in particular. She had done with anticipations that relied upon appearances. Instead, she observed.
Mr. Bingley was immediately engaged – smiling, bowing, entirely at ease. Jane’s countenance brightened almost imperceptibly when he welcomed them, though she maintained her composure. Elizabeth felt a small, private satisfaction at that.
Inside the big parlour that now served as the main ballroom, she became aware – not by sight at first, but by the curious shift in attention that follows a man of consequence – that Mr. Darcy had entered the room.
He did not advance at once. He stood a little apart, as was his habit, surveying the room with an expression that might have been mistaken for indifference by those who did not know him better.
She found, to her irritation, that she did not look away immediately.
The candlelight altered him. The severity of his features softened in movement; reserve became something nearer to reflection.
His gaze travelled until it met hers. She felt it distinctly.
There was no hauteur in it. No challenge. Only awareness.
Before she could look away, he bowed to her. She was rescued by a gentleman from the neighbourhood, who asked if she was engaged for the first set.
The musicians struck the opening notes of the first set. The sound cut through conversation like a summons. Partners were claimed with increasing urgency. Gloves adjusted. Fans snapped open. Murmurs rose and fell.
Elizabeth drew a steady breath. Whatever the evening held, she would meet it alert. She would dance. She would observe. She would judge more carefully than she had done before.
And if Mr. Darcy asked her for a set… she surprised herself with the thought.
The final figure of the set concluded amid polite applause and the scrape of shoes upon the polished floor. Elizabeth made her curtsy, accepted the compliments of her partner with composure, and withdrew toward the side of the room.
Mary, smiling, was led away by Mr. Collins, who straightened himself as if he had just discharged a matter of considerable importance.
The air was warmer now; the candles burned lower; the hum of conversation had risen a degree.
She had not long to wait.
Mr. Wickham approached with his accustomed ease, as though no interval had elapsed since their last exchange. He had ventured to attend, emboldened by the absence of any public reproach from Darcy at their last encounter.
“Miss Elizabeth, it is a joy to be in your company again. I fear the exercises take up too much of my time,” he said, bowing with that warmth which had once appeared sincerity itself. “But I hope I have arrived in fortunate time.”
Elizabeth returned the bow. “Indeed, sir. Your timing has often been fortunate.”
He smiled, taking the remark for encouragement.
“I trust you will allow me…”
Behind him, across the floor, Mr. Darcy had taken a step forward – then halted.
He had not anticipated Wickham’s presence.
For a moment, something very like irritation crossed his features before discipline reasserted itself.
He did not advance. But neither did he withdraw.
His gaze remained fixed upon Elizabeth and Wickham.
Elizabeth saw Wickham’s extended hand. She did not place her own in it. “Before you say anything, Mr. Wickham,” she said lightly, though her eyes did not match her tone, “there is a small matter of clarity I should like resolved.”
His smile faltered – only slightly. “Clarity?”
“You once informed me,” she continued, “that you had been denied a living most unjustly.”
He inclined his head, adopting the expression of injured dignity he wore so well. “I did.”
“And you omitted to mention,” she said evenly, “that you had first relinquished it in exchange for a considerable sum.”
The music for the next set began, but neither of them moved.
Wickham’s countenance altered – not dramatically, but enough.
“I see,” he said slowly, “that I have been misrepresented.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth replied. “Or perhaps I was too ready to be persuaded by what was agreeable.”
Across the room, Darcy did not stir. The musicians struck the opening bars again; couples began to form.
Wickham’s tone softened, urgent now beneath its polish. “Miss Elizabeth, you cannot imagine how circumstances compel a man to…”
“I imagine,” she interrupted gently, “that circumstances often reveal more than they excuse.” There was no heat in her manner. Only steadiness.
He looked at her – properly now – and understood that the advantage he had once enjoyed was no longer his.
“You refuse me?” he said, with a faint attempt at levity.
“Fortunately,” she answered, with a composure that left no room for negotiation, “you never asked me.”
Wickham bowed – a shade more stiffly than before – and withdrew into the movement of the room.
***
The second set formed with less ceremony and more eagerness. Mr. Bingley crossed the room almost before the previous notes had faded. “Miss Bennet,” he said, bowing with unaffected eagerness, “I believe I have secured the honour of this dance.”
For one unguarded instant – before composure reclaimed its place – a smile lit her countenance unlike any she had shown. It was brighter, freer, wholly sincere.