Chapter 11 #2
“And you,” Darcy replied, with the faintest hint of irony, “are transparent.”
Bingley did not deny it. He looked back toward Jane, who was speaking quietly with Charlotte.
“I should not wish to hurt her,” he said more seriously.
Darcy followed his gaze.
“Then do not,” he answered.
The music struck up again. Bingley’s expression brightened at once.
“Well,” he said, “I intend not to. But now I’d better dance with another as a good host.”
Darcy observed his friend in the discharge of his duties. Bingley secured a set with one of the London ladies, attentive and cheerful as ever, fulfilling the obligations of a host without visible reluctance.
When supper was announced, however, it was Miss Bennet who found herself beside him at the side table.
They stood close – not conspicuously so, but with the natural ease of two people who had forgotten to calculate appearances. Bingley listened while she spoke, smiling down at her with such unstudied warmth that the crowded room seemed, for him, to contract into a narrower orbit.
He insisted upon selecting something for her. She protested, faintly; he persisted, gently; and the matter was settled with a shared look that required no witness.
Darcy watched from a short remove. He almost laughed.
No argument, however rational, could unsettle a man so plainly at ease in his choice.
Bingley had already made his choice.
***
Supper had scarcely begun when Mrs. Bennet, flushed with animation and fortified by triumph, leaned slightly across the table toward Mr. Darcy.
“Oh, sir, how very obliging you have been this evening! To stand up with Lizzy – and with Miss Lucas too! I declare, you have quite set the tone of the ball.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I am glad if I have contributed to its success.”
“Success indeed! Why, Charlotte Lucas has not been without partners since. I told Lady Lucas as much – that such notice from a gentleman of consequence is of the greatest advantage. Young ladies cannot command these things, you know.”
Elizabeth, seated opposite, felt the familiar warmth of embarrassment rise to her cheeks.
Mrs. Bennet continued, perfectly undeterred. “And Lizzy – though she pretends indifference – has always done very well for herself. But Miss Lucas! It is quite another matter. Not many gentlemen think of her at first. Still, she is a very good sort of girl. I am sure she is vastly obliged to you.”
There was no malice in it. Only cheerful arithmetic.
Darcy, who might once have stiffened under such frank calculation, merely answered, “Miss Lucas does herself every credit.”
Mrs. Bennet beamed, satisfied both with the compliment and with her own discernment in eliciting it.
Further down the table, Lydia was declaring that the supper was vastly inferior to the dancing, and that she should expire of fatigue if not immediately restored to the floor.
Kitty contradicted her. Mary attempted to observe that moderation in amusement was always advisable but was not permitted to finish.
Soon enough, talk turned to music.
Mary required little encouragement. She rose with solemn eagerness, and Elizabeth’s fork paused mid-air. Across the table, she saw Darcy glance – not at Mary – but at her.
He understood.
Mary began. Her voice, though earnest, did not command the room. Lydia whispered audibly. Kitty stifled laughter. Elizabeth’s gaze drifted helplessly toward her father.
Mr. Bennet bore it for one verse – perhaps two – before saying, in tones of paternal authority disguised as indulgence, “That will do extremely well, my dear. You have delighted us sufficiently.”
Mary sat down, disappointed but obedient.
Mr. Collins, inspired by the subject, rose halfway from his chair.
“Music,” he announced, “is a most innocent diversion, and entirely compatible with clerical dignity – provided it be not indulged to excess.” He bowed gravely in Darcy’s direction, as though expecting theological confirmation.
Darcy inclined his head with polite neutrality.
“Miss Mary, you have been quite generous with us to share your music, and before all these people. I could listen to it forever.” Mr. Collins resumed his seat, content that he had discharged his reflection.
Throughout it all, Darcy remained composed. The room was loud; the manners imperfect; the expressions unguarded. Yet when Elizabeth’s eyes met his – apologetic, defiant, resigned all at once – he did not look away.
He had seen society at its most polished. This, at least, was sincere.
***
Elizabeth slipped from the supper table before the general movement began. No one remarked her absence; Lydia was engaged in loud complaint, Mary in injured dignity, and her mother in animated conversation. It was easily done.
The small retiring room beyond the corridor was cooler. She rested her hands briefly upon the edge of the washstand and regarded her reflection.
She had not meant to watch him.
And yet, throughout the evening, she had known precisely where he stood.
She had felt it – not by sight alone, but by that curious awareness which precedes the eye. When he crossed the room, when he paused, when he looked – she had known.
And she had not been surprised when he asked her to dance. That, perhaps, was the most surprising part of all. What startled her was learning that he had wanted to dance with her the previous two times.
She had always supposed his previous attentions to be reluctant civility. Even at Meryton – no, especially at Meryton – she had assumed he would rather have remained seated than stand beside her. When she refused him before, she had done so with an ease that now seemed… less admirable.
She had refused out of irritation. Out of spite, perhaps.
The word unsettled her. Had she been punishing him for that careless remark? For that moment when she had overheard him pronounce her tolerable – not handsome enough to tempt him?
Jane had urged her not to take it to heart.
Jane, who had never been compared unfavourably to anyone in her life.
But Elizabeth had grown accustomed to such comparisons.
Her mother’s voice echoed easily enough in memory – that her beauty was but a shadow of her sister’s.
It had been said lightly, often laughingly. Yet repetition lends weight to trifles.
Perhaps she had felt more than she admitted. She exhaled.
And yet tonight, he had not been reluctant.
He had been attentive. Engaged. Almost… earnest.
He really could be pleasant company – if he chose. That discovery disturbed her more than his former reserve. For it seemed he chose to be so in her presence.
And Charlotte. Elizabeth’s expression softened.
She had not expected that. She had known – of course she had known – that Charlotte was an afterthought. Mr. Darcy had asked her because he stood beside her. Because it was proper. Because she was watching.
And yet – he had asked. There had been deliberation in it. Not mere politeness. A consideration she had not anticipated. She had seen the effect upon Charlotte. And she had seen the effect upon him when she looked at him afterwards.
Her cheeks warmed again.
During the dance – when movement had softened the severity of his expression – she had thought him handsome. Not merely so. Striking.
The thought had come unbidden. It had stayed.
She straightened slightly, as though correcting herself.
It would not do to rewrite a gentleman’s character because he moved well through a country set.
And yet…
Elizabeth drew a steady breath and reached for her gloves. The evening was not concluded. Neither, it seemed, were her impressions.
And for the first time since she had met him, she wondered whether she had judged too quickly – or too eagerly.
She extinguished the extra candle and returned to the noise of the room, carrying with her a composure that was no longer quite the same as before.
***
Darcy left the supper table under the pretext of air.
The noise had grown oppressive – Miss Lydia’s laughter, Mrs. Bennet’s animation, Collins’s reflections upon music. He required a moment’s distance.
The corridor toward the small library stood in relative shadow. He had nearly reached the door when another figure detached itself from the darker end of the hall.
“Darcy!”
He stopped.
Wickham approached without haste.
He had spent the greater part of the evening in the card room, where fortune had proved less obliging than the company.
His pocket was lighter – a circumstance that did nothing to soften a temper already strained by repeated affronts.
When the game dissolved for want of players, he had risen with an easy apology and stepped into the corridor in search of air.
He had not been seeking Darcy. But when he saw him at the far end of the passage – alone, composed, in all his finery, untouched by humiliation – something in him hardened.
The refusals of the evening returned at once: Miss Elizabeth’s cool dismissal, Mr. Bennet’s quiet obstruction. Each, in its way, an insult. And behind both, he perceived the same influence.
His blood rose. He moved forward slowly, deliberately. The smile he arranged was practised. The light in his eyes was not. “Darcy. You avoid me with remarkable consistency,” Wickham observed.
“That is because I do not wish for your company,” Darcy replied evenly. He stepped into the library.
Wickham followed. “How admirable. Yet, you are not my master, Darcy.”
“Why would I want to see you, Wickham? After our last parting, you should not wonder.” He observed him closely. “You had much to drink. Go home, Wickham.”
“You will not dismiss me. I am a guest here.”
“Then do as you please – but take it elsewhere.”
“You interfere where you have no right,” Wickham continued. “At Meryton. Tonight. Even Mr. Bennet appears suddenly vigilant. You carry influence conveniently.”
Darcy’s voice did not alter. “You overestimate yourself.”
“Do I?” Wickham’s tone sharpened. “You have always been jealous.”
Darcy’s gaze hardened, but he did not rise to it.