CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TWO DAYS SLIPPED QUIETLY away at Longbourn, leaving behind a sense of restless expectation.
Elizabeth was relieved that Mr. Collins had not attempted to renew his attentions—at least, not yet.
Apart from a visit to Lucas Lodge and one solemn dinner homily upon “the duty of young people to discern the Lord’s favour when it presents itself,”—a discourse Elizabeth was convinced had been directed entirely at her—he had kept to himself with commendable restraint.
Most of the household, however, was in a flurry.
All conversation, planning, and occupation centred upon the approaching Netherfield ball.
Gowns were examined, ribbons chosen, and new bonnets procured from Meryton.
Mrs. Bennet presided over every preparation with the importance of a general before battle, inspecting each of her daughters’ dresses and declaring that Jane would, without question, be the “star of two balls in succession throughout Hertfordshire.”
To the astonishment of everyone, Mr. Bennet announced that he too would attend. Elizabeth could scarcely believe it; her father was far fonder of solitude and his books than of any public assembly.
“It will be my little way of calling upon Mr. Bingley,” he explained, half amused at their surprise. “After all, I have not paid him a proper visit since he arrived in the neighbourhood.”
Mrs. Bennet sniffed. “And whose fault is that, pray? Thank heavens Mr. Bingley does not measure friendship by the diligence of fathers, or our daughters would have no chance at all.”
Elizabeth laughed quietly to herself and escaped to her room, where her own gown lay spread upon the bed—a simple blue muslin trimmed with white ribbon, a gift from her aunt Gardiner the previous Christmas.
It was not the most fashionable of her dresses, yet it pleased her taste far more than the gaudier silks her mother favoured.
Pippin, who was lying upon the rug, lifted her head as Elizabeth smoothed the muslin’s folds. “Well, Pippin,” Elizabeth said with a fond smile, “it seems this must do. I dare say we shall not outshine Jane, but I am content to let her have all the admiration. She deserves it.”
The little spaniel wagged her tail, as if in agreement.
Elizabeth knelt beside her and, after a thoughtful pause, continued in a softer tone.
“I wish Aunt Gardiner were here. She always knows what to say before such an evening. Her advice is never worldly, only honest. For example, she would never counsel me to marry a man merely because he is to inherit my father’s estate. ”
Pippin gave a low, sympathetic whine.
“Exactly,” Elizabeth said, laughing a little. “She would say as much herself. You know, Aunt Gardiner married my uncle for love, and I dare say she has been the happier for it.”
The dog tilted her head as though in question, her brown eyes bright and curious.
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, smiling at her own fancy, “I am quite certain she would think Mr. Darcy sensible. My aunt has a most generous eye for character and is always disposed to find the good in people. It took me rather longer to do the same, though I cannot say he has ever exerted himself much to correct the world’s opinion of him. ”
Pippin nudged her mistress’s hand and licked her fingers, as though offering gentle contradiction.
Elizabeth laughed again, brushing the soft curls behind the dog’s ears. “Very well, I shall allow it. He did make an effort to correct mine, at least. We must count that in his favour.”
She rose, holding the gown against her in the looking-glass. The blue suited her complexion better than she had remembered. Pippin barked once, as if in approval, and Elizabeth smiled faintly at her reflection.
“Perhaps,” she murmured, half to herself, “we shall see whether Mr. Darcy continues his efforts at the ball.”
Outside, the last light of the afternoon fell through the window, gilding her hair with a soft gleam.
Pippin settled once more at her feet, her tail thumping gently against the floor, while Elizabeth gazed into the glass—half thoughtful, half amused, and wholly unaware how near she stood to the edge of something more than civility.
***
THE NIGHT OF THE NETHERFIELD ball was a mild November evening, soft with a thin mist that glistened upon the hedges and silvered the lanes.
Inside Longbourn, all was in cheerful confusion.
Gowns were adjusted, ribbons retied, gloves hunted after, and shawls exchanged at the last moment.
Yet for Elizabeth, the bustle was shadowed by a small sorrow.
Pippin stood by the parlour door, her bright eyes full of expectation, her plume-like tail sweeping the rug each time Elizabeth passed.
“No, my dearest girl,” Elizabeth murmured, crouching to stroke her silky head.
“Not tonight. Mama has been very clear, and I fear this is one argument I cannot win.”
The spaniel gave a faint, bewildered whine, and Elizabeth smiled sadly. “You shall forgive me, won’t you? I promise we shall have our own little ball tomorrow — a walk across the meadow at sunrise, and no one to tell us otherwise.”
But Pippin’s tail drooped, and she retreated to a corner of the room, curling herself upon the hearthrug with an air of quiet martyrdom.
Elizabeth felt a sharp pang of guilt and bent to kiss the dog’s head.
“I am sorry, my love,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a laugh she could not quite manage.
“If I could smuggle you into the carriage, I would. But to keep you from running after us, I must leave you indoors. I know last time was an adventure, but we cannot risk another. Mama would surely faint.”
Pippin gave a soft, pitiful whine, her eyes rolling upward in mournful appeal. Elizabeth sighed and brushed her hand along the dog’s silky ears. “I shall explain everything to Mr. Darcy, and he will tell Apollo. It must be this way, dearest girl.”
Outside, the sound of wheels and stamping hooves announced the carriages’ arrival.
For convenience, Mr. Bennet had rented a second carriage, declaring it a necessary expense to preserve both his sanity and his daughters’ finery.
He and Mr. Collins occupied that conveyance, leaving Mrs. Bennet and all her daughters to fill the other.
When the door closed and Longbourn’s familiar windows disappeared into the fog, Elizabeth pressed her face briefly to the glass, her breath misting the pane.
She thought of Pippin’s small, reproachful eyes and could not help a sigh.
The roads were damp but passable, and by the time the carriages drew up at Netherfield, the rain had ceased entirely.
The house blazed with light, its tall windows glittering like a chain of jewels against the night.
Garlands of evergreen framed the great doors, and the air was fragrant with beeswax, roses, and late autumn blooms. Within, the ballroom gleamed, its oak floor polished to a mirror’s sheen, chandeliers sparkling above like captured constellations.
Guests already assembled filled the rooms with a hum of laughter and conversation.
Country neighbours mingled with visiting gentry, each eager to see, to be seen, and perhaps to speculate which pair might stand up together before the night was done.
At the entrance stood Mr. Bingley, all warmth and welcome, his amiable smile as constant as the candlelight.
His sisters flanked him: Caroline, elegant to the point of artifice, her grace so measured it bordered on theatrical; Louisa, more tranquil, though her half-lidded eyes betrayed boredom.
A little apart stood Mr. Darcy, tall and composed, his gaze wandering toward the door each time new names were announced, though he seemed scarcely aware of it himself.
The arrival of the Bennet family caused a gentle stir.
Mrs. Bennet’s satisfaction was unrestrained; she looked about her with the triumphant air of a general surveying conquered ground.
Jane, though modest and serene, could not help but glow — her beauty made more striking by its simplicity.
Mary, pale but determined, smoothed her gown’s modest trimmings with nervous pride, rehearsing in silence the opening bars of a sonata she hoped to perform should she be invited to play.
Kitty and Lydia fluttered like restless birds, already craning their necks for a glimpse of the officers.
Mr. Bennet followed last, his expression one of quiet amusement, as if the whole affair were some elaborate comedy for his private diversion.
Elizabeth, stepping through the threshold, paused for one heartbeat.
The splendour of the room, the blaze of candlelight reflected in gilt mirrors, the strains of music rising above the murmur of voices, all struck her at once with a curious mix of awe and irony.
The whole display seemed half magnificent, half absurd.
Mr. Bennet was soon greeted with enthusiasm by Mr. Bingley, who was all civility, while Mr. Collins immediately inserted himself into the conversation, bowing and scraping with such vigour that his hat threatened rebellion.
Darcy’s eyes, however, lingered elsewhere. The moment Elizabeth entered, his composure shifted. He bowed low and spoke with grave politeness. “Miss Elizabeth, it is a pleasure to see you this evening. Netherfield is much improved by your presence.”
Elizabeth curtsied lightly, her smile quick but guarded. “You are very kind, Mr. Darcy. I must confess the same of Netherfield — it seems even more splendid tonight than before.”
“Miss Bennet!” cried Mr. Bingley, moving forward with open delight. “How happy I am to see you again — and Miss Elizabeth too! Netherfield has been quite dull without you both.”
Mrs. Bennet’s answering curtsy was nearly a bow. “You are too kind, Mr. Bingley. My daughters were most impatient for this evening. How beautifully everything is arranged.”
“Thank you, madam,” said Bingley, his eyes fixed wholly on Jane. “I can only hope it proves as pleasant as it looks.”
Caroline’s smile tightened. “We have been most anxious for the pleasure of your company,” she said to Elizabeth, her tone one of measured sweetness.
Before Elizabeth could reply, Darcy said quietly, “I do not see Pippin. Where is she?”
Elizabeth had just opened her mouth to answer when her mother, alarmed by the turn of conversation, hurried to interject. “I insisted we leave her behind. She is far too spirited. We would not wish a repeat of the little accident she nearly caused you at the Meryton assembly.”
“It was merely a set of muddy paws upon my boot, Mrs. Bennet,” Darcy replied with faint amusement. “My valet was not offended to clean it.”
“Well, still, we thought a night without her would do,” Mrs. Bennet said with a fluttering laugh.
Darcy inclined his head courteously. “Apollo will be disappointed. I had hoped the two might amuse themselves while we enjoyed the dancing.”
Elizabeth looked up, startled into stillness.
…We enjoyed the dancing? The last time they had stood beneath chandeliers and candlelight, he had refused to dance at all.
For a moment she wondered if she had misheard him, but the faint curve of his mouth left no doubt.
The words were simple, yet they carried something—an ease, perhaps even an invitation—that unsettled and pleased her in equal measure.
Composing herself, she returned his smile with quiet grace. “Then Apollo must bear it as best he can—just as I hope Pippin will. Though I fear she will hold this against me for some time.”
“If I recollect, Miss Elizabeth, you said she does not hold grudges,” he answered softly.
Elizabeth caught his eye, and for a fleeting moment the noise of the ballroom seemed to fade. A soft warmth rose to her cheeks, though she managed a composed smile. “True, sir. I only hope she remembers that for my sake.”
Darcy’s lips curved then, the faintest suggestion of amusement softening his usually grave features. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, yet the impression lingered, leaving Elizabeth unaccountably aware that something between them had shifted—subtly, but unmistakably.
Mr. Collins, who had been hovering in impatience, now stepped forward and bowed with excessive ceremony. “Mr. Darcy? Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s illustrious nephew? What a providential encounter! I have long desired the honour of meeting you.”
Darcy bowed politely, though his expression revealed nothing. “I heard you are acquainted with my aunt, sir?”
“Indeed, sir! I have the privilege of serving her ladyship as her clergyman. She speaks of you constantly, with the highest esteem. I daresay she would be gratified to learn of our introduction.”
“I am obliged to her ladyship’s good opinion,” Darcy said, his tone polite but cool.
Mr. Collins beamed. “I have oft been told I share a certain gravity of character with your aunt. She is a most admirable woman.”
“Indeed,” Darcy replied after a pause that might have chilled a lesser man. “Then we are well met, Mr. Collins.”
He inclined his head slightly, then, catching Elizabeth’s eye, offered a subtle bow and excused himself. “If you will forgive me, there are other guests to attend.”
Mr. Collins bowed again, clearly gratified, while Darcy retreated into the crowd with practiced ease.
At that moment, the Lucases were announced, and the Bingleys hastened to receive them, leaving Elizabeth at last free to breathe.