Chapter 8
Eight
CURIOSITY PIQUED
After Mr Bingley’s country dance and Mr Harrington’s allemande, she found a dearth of partners.
Miss Mary King had seemingly captured the interest of Mr Wickham, for he remained in her orbit even after their dance was finished.
Jane sat beside her for the few minutes she was not partnered, but Mr Bingley contrived to be nearby to converse, and moreover, Jane was very popular.
She even would have welcomed Mary’s criticisms, but her younger sister did not much care for dancing, and had chosen to remain at home.
She could not quite bring herself to seek out Mr Morris again so soon; a few other of her father’s old friends would have been willing, and she probably should try to engage them, simply to remind the Philipses that she was not without allies.
Yet, it was difficult to pretend a gaiety she could not feel, and most were not as blithe about her situation as old Mr Goulding. She was in no mood for lectures.
“Come, Darcy,” came a voice behind her, the mention of that name making her freeze in place.
“I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. Upon my honour I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life, as I have this evening. There are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.”
“Have you finally discovered one who surpasses Miss Bennet?” replied a deep-sounding voice that could only belong to him—Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“Oh! Miss Bennet is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is her sister sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me introduce you.”
She could not help herself, turning to look. It was him!
“Who do you mean?” he asked, and turning round, he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and with a small smile said, “I ought to have known you had already met her. Perform the introduction, if you please.”
Mr Bingley eagerly complied with his friend’s request, hurrying over to her.
“Miss Elizabeth! Allow me to make you known to my good friend, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, of Pemberley in Derbyshire. It was he who discovered Netherfield was available and brought me to this neighbourhood, for which I shall ever be grateful. Darcy, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
She curtseyed; he bowed. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of joining a set,” he said gravely.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, equally solemn, as Mr Bingley, she noticed, neatly extracted Jane from her previous partner to claim a second set. Mama should be in transports of delight, she thought.
Mr Darcy did not enjoy idle chatter, it appeared. He stood beside her, solemn, unsmiling, waiting for the next dance to be called.
Who is this man? she wondered. Was he truly a person who could ignore his father’s dying wishes? It mattered not. He was not for her. Nevertheless, as he held out his gloved hand to join the dancers, she took it with an eagerness she had not felt for any other all this long night.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet! Miss! Not married. Elizabeth.
Darcy had already watched her dancing; he knew she was graceful, as well as lovely.
He had only been able to watch her for so long, however, before the envy of those men who partnered her had become like needles under his skin, and he had forced himself to stop, to look away, to repudiate his own unjustified jealousy.
He had kept half an eye on Wickham, however.
Thankfully, the man had paid her no particular attention after their one set, but at the time, Darcy had believed she had a husband; Wickham’s tastes ran to the na?ve and unprotected.
Now, he realised Wickham might be aware she was one of those vulnerable females he so delighted in imposing upon.
It was one thing to watch her and walk away; it was another thing entirely to have her upon his arm, to hear the rustle of her skirts as they ever so briefly outlined her limbs, to feel the heat and air and scent of her, to watch her whirling around him, to breathe in the lavender in her hair.
Her mouth was wide and full, her lips soft as she smiled at him, however briefly.
His memory had not lied or exaggerated the truth of her. If anything, it had minimised the depth of his attraction.
He wanted her. He wanted her with a surge of impassioned indifference to rules and expectations.
He wanted her in his bed, in his life. Now knowing she was unmarried had roused him further, but the mysteries had grown even deeper.
Why did she not reside at Longbourn? Could she be a young widow?
But Bingley had introduced her as a ‘Miss’.
Why would she, apparently, raise her brother alone? It was time to solve this mystery.
“Why do you not reside at Longbourn?” he asked smoothly, and not as if he was dying to know the answer.
“In a matter of speaking, I do,” she replied.
“What matter of speaking is that? Perhaps it is Edward’s unique language, wherein the meaning of ‘residence’ is unlike its translation to the King’s English?”
There was no mistaking the startled expression on her pretty face.
“Neddy has not yet learnt ‘the King’s English’—but he is not stupid.
He has learnt many things, his achievements all the more impressive because of how much he does not understand.
” Her eyes were alight with a passion of her own, her tone sharp and protective.
He knew a streaking desire that she might feel such zeal for him, and although he immediately crushed the thought, he could not crush the accompanying alarm.
A little harmless lust, easily ignored, was permissible; deeper feelings were not. He shoved the notion away.
The figures of the dance separated them, disquieting him with the yearning he felt to have her back within reach. What was this peculiar ensorcellment? The other dancers were but objects in the way of his view of her.
It is simply the mystery of her, hanging in my mind like a hat snagged upon a tree branch. Once I extract her history, she shall be an unexciting, ordinary female residing in an unexciting, ordinary country neighbourhood.
“I thought it to be a straightforward question, but evidently you require a more specific one. There is a house approximately three miles south of Netherfield, complete with lawns, a small park, and stables, referred to by its inhabitants as ‘Longbourn’. Do you live within its walls?”
“You are uncommon curious, sir,” she said quellingly, allowing the dance to pull her away once more, albeit briefly.
“I do not like mysteries. You are one,” he countered upon her return.
“An insignificant one, hardly worth the time of a personage such as yourself.”
“An enigmatic neighbour in an otherwise tranquil neighbourhood. Why should I not wish to bring you out of the shadows?” He stepped away, around, circling her, his footwork flawlessly meticulous in this relatively slow dance. Why was his heart pumping madly in his chest?
“Do you not mean a dull neighbourhood? My father would have accused you of melodrama.”
“How long has he been gone?”
By her expression, the question took her by surprise; her soft answer took him aback. “Three years, one and a half months. A fever took him, and two of my sisters as well.”
Her grief, although years old, was yet a fresh one, and one he could sympathise with. “My father died five years ago. I feel it still.”
The figures parted them, and brought her back. He simply watched her whenever he could, and when there had been a lengthy pause, and he and Miss Elizabeth stood side by side watching the other dancers, he asked her what he most wanted to know: “Why do not you live with your family?”
She gave a soundless huff of laughter, shaking her head at his persistence. “There are many of my neighbours who would be glad to enlighten you, with varying degrees of hyperbole and fabrication. It is no great secret.”
“I asked you.”
He heard her soft sigh. “It is a long story. The short version is that Neddy does better in the quiet of Fox Hollow than the noise and clamour of Longbourn.”
“It does not explain why you, his sister, are the one raising Edward there.”