Chapter 10 #2
It struck him so unexpectedly that he quite forgot to move. He blinked – actually blinked – and then laughed softly at himself.
“Forgive me,” he said quickly, offering his arm at last. “I had not anticipated such… encouragement.”
Jane’s colour deepened. “I meant only to express pleasure, sir.”
“If that was pleasure,” he replied as he led her toward the forming set, “I shall endeavour to deserve it again.”
They reached their places and separated to stand opposite one another. The musicians lifted their bows.
Across the polished floor, Jane’s expression had resumed its usual serenity, yet something of that earlier warmth remained.
Bingley bowed, a shade more earnest than custom required.
“If your pleasure produces such effects,” he said lightly, as the first notes sounded, “I find myself newly devoted to it.”
Jane lowered her eyes – but her smile, though gentler now, did not entirely fade.
Sir William Lucas, who had stationed himself near the edge of the floor with an air of civic benevolence, observed the pair with increasing satisfaction.
Mr. Bingley’s animation was evident even at a distance; Miss Bennet’s composure lent it grace.
They moved in exact time, advanced and retired with equal harmony, and appeared to understand one another without the least confusion of figure.
Sir William’s brows rose approvingly. “Very pretty,” he murmured to no one in particular.
“Very pretty indeed. A most elegant understanding.”
***
Mr. Bennet had withdrawn to a position of relative safety near the window when Mr. Collins approached him with evident self-importance.
“I am pleased to inform you, sir,” Mr. Collins began, lowering his voice though not his volume, “that I have secured Miss Kitty’s hand for the next set.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Bennet replied. “You move with commendable efficiency.”
“I considered it my duty to ensure that no young lady of your household should remain unengaged.”
“How very public-spirited of you.”
Mr. Collins inclined his head, accepting this as praise.
A pause followed.
“And,” Mr. Bennet added mildly, “have you also secured my wife?”
Mr. Collins blinked. “Mrs. Bennet, sir?”
“She is, after all, your hostess,” Mr. Bennet continued gravely. “I should be distressed to think her overlooked.”
Mr. Collins coloured faintly. “I had not presumed…”
“Presumption is often the soul of gallantry,” Mr. Bennet said. “Pray do not let propriety stand in the way.”
Mr. Collins hesitated, visibly calculating the risks of so conspicuous a display.
Mr. Bennet regarded him with serene interest. “If I may offer advice,” he concluded, “no lady should be neglected where gratitude is due.”
This seemed to settle the matter. Mr. Collins bowed and retreated in search of Mrs. Bennet, whose astonishment at being solicited for a dance was equalled only by her determination to accept.
Bennet allowed himself a small, private satisfaction – and gathered it at no cost to himself. He cast a glance toward the dancers and shuddered slightly.
Mr. Bennet had scarcely resumed his station when a movement near the musicians caught his attention.
A flash of scarlet. A familiar ease of manner. Mr. Wickham advancing with the confidence of a man who had never yet been denied an entrance.
Lydia, stationed inconveniently near the centre of the room, had already turned toward him with unmistakable animation.
Mr. Bennet straightened. He reflected – not for the first time – that ignorance had been easier.
Mr. Wickham was within a pace of Lydia when Mr. Bennet interposed himself with courteous precision. “Mr. Wickham,” he said pleasantly, as though the encounter were accidental. “What a fortunate meeting.”
Wickham bowed, all polish and warmth. “Mr. Bennet. I hope I find your family in excellent spirits this evening.”
“They are in the highest,” Mr. Bennet replied. “So much so, in fact, that I am compelled to guard them from exhaustion.”
Lydia laughed, not yet understanding.
“I was just about to ask Miss Lydia for the next set,” Wickham said lightly.
“Were you?” Mr. Bennet’s brows lifted with mild interest. “I fear you are too late.”
“Too late, sir?”
“My daughters,” he continued with genial composure, “are very fully engaged for the evening.”
Lydia turned sharply. “Papa, I am not…”
“You are,” Mr. Bennet said calmly, without looking at her. “Mary has secured you for the following set.”
Mary, who had secured nothing of the kind, looked startled but did not contradict him.
“And I have promised Kitty to her uncle,” he went on smoothly. “A family arrangement.”
Wickham hesitated – only a fraction.
“I should be honoured to wait, sir.”
“How obliging,” Mr. Bennet said. “But I would not detain you from more… immediate prospects.”
His tone was mild. His eyes were not.
A small silence formed. Wickham smiled – the same smile he offered everyone – though it now required greater effort. “Another time, perhaps.”
“I shall take care that no such inconvenience arises,” Mr. Bennet replied.
Wickham bowed and withdrew into the shifting crowd.
Lydia opened her mouth to protest.
Mr. Bennet regarded her with gentle firmness. “You may thank me later,” he said. “Or not. It alters nothing.” And with that, he guided her toward the forming set – leaving Mr. Wickham to seek less supervised amusement.
Darcy saw Wickham enter the ballroom again. He saw, almost at once, where he intended to go. He had taken a step forward when another figure intervened.
Mr. Bennet.
From across the room, Darcy watched the exchange unfold with deceptive civility – Wickham’s bow, Lydia’s bright animation, Mr. Bennet’s mild interruption. The conversation was brief. No raised voices. No visible discord.
And yet, a moment later, Wickham withdrew. Alone.
Darcy did not allow himself the satisfaction of a smile. But he recognised the manoeuvre for what it was.
He had not been mistaken in speaking. Mr. Bennet, it seemed, had not dismissed him after all.
Wickham rejoined the crowd with polished composure. The polish, however, had thinned.
Darcy remained where he was – and adjusted his judgement accordingly.
Lydia found Elizabeth near the refreshment table and seized her arm without ceremony. “Lizzy! You will not believe what Papa has done.”
Elizabeth regarded her calmly. “I can imagine several possibilities.”
“He would not let Mr. Wickham ask me to dance! He declared I was engaged – when I most certainly was not.”
Elizabeth raised her brows. “Were you not?”
“Of course not! I was just about to accept him.” Lydia stamped her foot. “It was most provoking. Mr. Wickham looked quite astonished.”
“I am sure he bore it heroically.”
“I do not know what has come over Papa,” Lydia continued. “He has never interfered before. I was so surprised that I could scarcely speak.”
Elizabeth did not answer at once. Across the room, she saw her father standing where he always stood at assemblies – a little apart, observant, faintly amused. He appeared as indolent as ever. And yet he had moved. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “he thought it necessary.”
“Nonsense,” Lydia returned. “Papa never thinks anything necessary.”
Elizabeth watched him a moment longer. “Then you ought to consider that something persuaded him to do so tonight. He does not often act without cause.”
Lydia remained unconvinced and tossed her head. “Well, I shall not forgive it easily.”
“Then you must dance twice as well with someone else,” Elizabeth replied. “It is the only remedy.”
Lydia brightened at once. “I shall. Or better still – dance with me, Lizzy, as we used to. We shall show them how it is done.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “Lydia, this is not a country assembly.”
But her sister looked at her with such earnest delight that resistance would have been churlish.
“Very well,” she relented. “But we must not terrify the room.”
“Oh, let us terrify it a little,” Lydia cried, already drawing her toward the forming set. “The Bennet sisters require no assistance!”
***
Darcy had not intended to remain where he stood. He had meant to move – to seek Bingley, or at least to disengage himself from observation. Yet the sudden motion near the centre of the room arrested him.
Miss Elizabeth.
She had been drawn – almost bodily – into the forming set by her youngest sister. He recognised Miss Lydia’s animated gestures at once; there was no mistaking that exuberance.
He watched as Miss Elizabeth laughed – not the composed, measured smile she wore in conversation, but something freer. Unrestrained. She bent slightly toward Miss Lydia, speaking a word of mock caution, and she answered with theatrical defiance.
The music began.
Miss Lydia entered the steps with fearless enthusiasm, her energy just within the bounds of propriety.
Miss Elizabeth matched her in spirit. She guided where she must, yet never with visible restraint.
If Lydia hurried, Miss Elizabeth steadied her; if Lydia faltered, Miss Elizabeth recovered the figure with quiet competence.
More than once, laughter escaped her – unguarded and genuine.
Darcy found himself unexpectedly still. This was not wit directed at him. Not challenge. Not argument. It was affection.
There was nothing artful in it. No desire to attract attention. Indeed, for several moments, she appeared to have forgotten the room entirely.
He had seen her lively. He had seen her composed. He had not seen her thus.
When the figure brought them opposite one another across the set, Miss Lydia flashed triumph toward the spectators. Miss Elizabeth only smiled – but it was a smile warmed by indulgence rather than display.
Darcy became aware, with a clarity that unsettled him, that what most distinguished her was not animation. It was attachment. And that quality, he reflected, was far rarer.
Darcy became conscious, too late, that he was no longer unobserved.
“Mr. Darcy,” came Caroline’s polished voice at his shoulder, “you appear quite absorbed.”
“It is very easy to lose oneself in the enjoyment of two sisters in their dance. Miss Elizabeth’s manner is particularly engaging when she forgets herself.”
Caroline followed his eyes, and her mouth became an invisible line at what she saw.
He turned. Caroline stood beside a tall, elegantly dressed lady whose bearing announced London before she spoke. Her gown was of deeper silk than most present; her gloves immaculate; her smile measured.
“Miss Ashford,” Caroline said, “finds our provincial assemblies… instructive.”
Miss Ashford inclined her head with graceful composure. “I am always curious to observe local manners.”
Darcy bowed. “They reward close attention.”
Caroline’s eyes flickered toward the dance floor, where Elizabeth and Lydia were completing a lively figure.
Miss Ashford followed the glance. “How spirited,” she observed. “The country encourages freedom.”
“Perhaps,” Darcy replied evenly.
There was a small pause. Miss Ashford adjusted her fan.
“I find myself quite at liberty for the next set,” she said, lightly enough to pass for an accident.
Caroline watched him.
Darcy allowed the silence to extend a fraction longer than was comfortable. “I fear,” he said at last, “that I do not dance every set.”
Miss Ashford’s smile did not quite falter. “But surely one must participate at least occasionally?”
“One must,” he agreed. “When suitably inclined.”
Caroline’s expression sharpened almost imperceptibly.
“And you are not inclined?” she asked, sweetness carefully applied.
Darcy’s gaze returned briefly to the dance floor. “Not at present.” It was precisely the tone he used when pressed: civil, unassailable, and entirely discouraging.
Miss Ashford closed her fan. “How very particular.”
“I endeavour to be,” he replied.
Caroline laughed lightly to smooth what could not be undone. “Mr. Darcy is most discriminating.”
“I prefer not to fatigue myself unnecessarily,” he said, with the faintest inclination of the head. It was dismissal – courteous, unmistakable.
Miss Ashford withdrew soon after, pleading the necessity of securing a less philosophical partner.
Caroline remained.
“You did not think her agreeable?” she asked quietly.
“I am sure she is very much so.”
“But not sufficiently?”
Darcy met her gaze without apology. “I have no wish to dance.”
Across the room, Elizabeth and Lydia concluded their set amid laughter.
Caroline followed his line of sight – and understood.
Her smile did not alter. Only her eyes cooled.