CHAPTER FOURTEEN
UPON MRS. BENNET’S warm encouragement — which might more properly be called insistence — Mr. Collins was the first to request Elizabeth’s hand when the music commenced.
No amount of protest on her part could deter him.
Her claims of fatigue and unsteady feet were swept aside by his overblown gallantry.
“My fair cousin,” he argued, bowing with such gravity that his heels squeaked upon the floor, “it would give me the highest satisfaction to open the dancing with you. It is most fitting, I think, that relations should do the honours of the evening. Lady Catherine would certainly approve the propriety of it.”
Elizabeth, caught between exasperation and laughter, had little choice but to rise. “Very well, Mr. Collins,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “I suppose propriety must prevail.”
The first dance was a cotillion, one of those sets where conversation is easily carried, though often better avoided when one’s partner cannot keep time with the music.
As they joined other dancers, Elizabeth cast a quick glance about the room.
The sight before her was a glittering scene of motion — silks, satins, feathers, and lace weaving beneath the chandeliers.
Jane and Mr. Bingley were already moving together in perfect harmony, their steps so naturally attuned that they seemed scarcely to touch the floor.
Jane’s cheeks glowed with quiet happiness, and Bingley’s eyes followed her as though no one else existed.
Kitty and Lydia were laughing gaily with a pair of officers, one of whom Kitty had earlier introduced as Mr. Denny.
When Elizabeth, curious, asked Lydia about the handsomest officer she had so praised at dinner a few days before, Mr. Denny only smiled and explained that his friend had been taken ill and remained behind in town.
“I think something Wickham ate disagreed with him,” he said lightly. “A mere stomach upset, nothing more.”
Lydia’s disappointment was fleeting; within moments she had forgotten the absent gentleman entirely amid the music, laughter, and the excitement of new partners.
Even Mary was dancing, having been persuaded by Mr. Mark, whose conversation was as mild as his countenance. Elizabeth could not help but smile at the sight; her serious sister appeared to enjoy herself at last.
If only she could say the same.
Mr. Collins’s notion of dancing was, as Elizabeth quickly discovered, an unfortunate combination of solemn ceremony and mechanical enthusiasm.
His movements bore all the grace of a windmill in a gale, his steps either too long or too short, and his bows so excessive that he risked striking his partners in the face.
Whenever Elizabeth sought to recover the rhythm, his anxious murmurs of correction made matters worse.
“You are not displeased, I hope, cousin?” he said after a particularly awkward turn that sent his shoe perilously near her hem. “I confess I have not had much occasion for practice since leaving Kent, but Lady Catherine herself once remarked that I have a good figure for the dance.”
Elizabeth bit her lip to conceal a smile. “Indeed, sir, I am astonished her ladyship should take notice of so many accomplishments at once.”
“I assure you, she does,” he replied earnestly. “Her discernment is extraordinary.”
Elizabeth turned her gaze toward the opposite end of the room, partly to hide her amusement and partly in search of relief.
Her eyes, almost of their own accord, sought Mr. Darcy.
He stood near her father, tall and composed as ever, his countenance grave but not unkind.
They seemed deep in conversation — her father’s expression half amused, Darcy’s politely attentive.
She wondered, with a little flutter of curiosity, what they could possibly find to discuss.
Her thoughts returned to their earlier conversation.
…while we enjoyed the dancing, he had said.
Yet the evening was passing swiftly, and he had not asked her once.
Had she misunderstood him? Or had he merely spoken out of civility, as so many men did?
The notion pricked her pride more than she cared to admit.
Her partner’s voice recalled her to the moment.
“My fair cousin,” said Mr. Collins, lowering his tone as though to speak confidentially, “I have been hoping for a private word, though the occasion is hardly ideal. Have you had leisure to reconsider the proposal I had the honour to make you?”
Elizabeth nearly missed her step. “Not here, Mr. Collins. I beg you — this is neither the time nor the place.”
He nodded solemnly, mistaking her discomfort for delicacy. “I quite understand. Yet I feel it my duty to inform you that this will be the last time I make the offer. I am not a man to trifle with my affections, and if my hand is refused again, it will not be offered twice.”
“Then allow me to spare you the trouble, sir,” Elizabeth said quietly but firmly. “My answer remains the same. I wish you every happiness in finding a lady who better suits your expectations.”
Mr. Collins blinked, clearly startled by her composure. “You may come to regret this decision, cousin. There are women — sensible women — who understand the advantages of such an offer. When they do, it may be too late for you to repent.”
Elizabeth’s smile was calm, almost amused. “Then I shall endeavour not to envy them, sir. I wish them all the good fortune they deserve.”
Her gaze drifted again, unbidden, to where Mr. Darcy stood. He had not moved far from her father’s side, and she thought, just for a moment, that he was looking her way.
Elizabeth quickly looked elsewhere, though her pulse quickened in spite of herself.
***
THE MUSIC OF THE COTILLION swelled through the room in bright, rippling measure, though to Darcy it seemed little more than a pleasant hum behind the confusion of his own thoughts.
He had stood near one of the marble columns for several minutes, watching Elizabeth dance with her cousin, Mr. Collins, with a mixture of admiration and pain.
Never, he thought, had grace been so poorly paired with absurdity.
She moved with a natural elegance that no art could imitate, while her partner contrived, at every step, to diminish her beauty with his floundering gallantry.
It was almost impossible to look away.
He had known from the moment she entered the room that evening that his peace, what little of it he had managed to keep these past days, was undone.
The rustle of her gown, the faint colour in her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes as she greeted her friends, all returned to him with a force that startled him.
He had told himself he was merely pleased to see her again, to observe that she bore him no resentment after his apology and their last conversation at Netherfield.
Yet even as he tried to believe it, the truth pressed harder upon him.
He admired her, more deeply perhaps than he ought.
For two days he had reasoned against the inclination, though he knew it was useless.
He had already spoken to her too often, lingered too willingly, betrayed too much in tone and look.
Even their dogs’ attachment had become a sort of emblem of the talk that surrounded them.
What had begun in jest seemed, somehow, to have deepened—passing from the creatures to their masters, or perhaps only from him to her. He could no longer be sure.
Attachments, he told himself, were perilous things.
His mind drifted to the summer past, when misplaced trust had nearly destroyed the peace of one he held most dear.
That memory alone should have made him cautious.
Yet all such prudence seemed feeble now.
Whatever guard he had set upon his heart had long since been breached.
One conversation, one smile, one glance from her across the room could undo every resolve.
It was not new, this feeling, only newly admitted, and he could no longer pretend it might pass.
He had thought her eyes fine before. Tonight they were perilous.
Darcy’s attention drifted toward the far end of the room where Mr. Bennet stood, half withdrawn from the noise, his hands clasped behind him, observing the dancers with his usual air of detached amusement.
There was intelligence in his face, a quiet irony that reminded Darcy, not unpleasantly, of Elizabeth herself.
In that moment Darcy resolved upon a course he had considered since her last visit to Netherfield.
If he were to speak to Elizabeth with any hint of personal feeling, it was only proper that her father should know his intentions.
The idea of doing otherwise—of behaving like one of those thoughtless men who let gossip run ahead of their honour—was insupportable.
He crossed the room with deliberate calm, threading through the crowd of guests, until he reached Mr. Bennet’s side.
“Mr. Bennet,” he said quietly.
The older gentleman turned at once, a glimmer of humour in his eye. “Ah, Mr. Darcy. You look as though you approach on business of state.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I hope I do not intrude.”
“My dear sir,” Mr. Bennet replied, “if someone does not intrude upon me at least once in the evening, I begin to feel quite neglected.”
Darcy permitted himself a brief smile before his gaze, unbidden, sought Elizabeth again. She was straight-faced—almost helplessly—as Mr. Collins made some hopeless attempt at a bow mid-turn. The sight stirred something in him so vivid that he could scarcely manage his next words.
“Mr. Bennet,” he began, “forgive my frankness, but I find myself compelled to speak plainly. There are rumours abroad—idle, yet persistent—linking my name to that of Miss Elizabeth.”
Mr. Bennet lifted a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “So I have heard. I cannot say I am surprised. When two dogs take a liking to one another, the world is bound to make a tale of it.”