Chapter 12 The Netherfield Ball
THE NETHERFIELD BALL
Jane traced her finger over the faint lines embossed on the journal’s cover. “You see? On the journal, the chest is open, not closed.”
We had borrowed one of my father’s custom-bound books for reference. It showed the Longbourn crest: a wyvern rearing, clutching a chest in its claws.
On both the book and the journal, the chest was a strongbox with straps and a keyhole. But the Longbourn chest was closed and held tight to the wyvern’s body, as if precious. On the journal, not only was the chest open, it was tipped upside down.
“It is as if the artist wished to show the chest is empty,” I said. “Perhaps the ancient Bennets were poor.”
“An impoverished family that chose penury for their symbol?” Even Jane, polite to a fault, sounded dubious.
“Well, said like that, it seems unlikely.”
“I think it indicates discarding the contents. Charity?”
“Does it matter? If this is the only difference, I do not think it is a different crest. Just a variation, after many years and many copies.”
“But look…” Jane touched the letters that spelled Longbourn. “There is a gap as if it is two words, ‘Long bourn.’ And I am unconvinced the first word is ‘Long’ at all.”
The script was elaborate and almost illegible from age, with the ‘g’ in particular extending both high and low. I squinted, unsure. “It must be Longbourn. This is a journal of the Bennet family and the Longbourn estate.”
“Yes…” Jane seemed unwilling to give up her argument. She placed a sheet of paper on the cover and rubbed it with a bit of charcoal. Rubbings of leaves and bark were in fashion, so we had supplies. She held it in the light but looked more puzzled.
The day of the long-awaited Netherfield ball arrived. Really, we waited only three days, but every one was excruciating. Mr. Collins could stretch a minute into an hour. I had gone so far as to ask what times he recommended for exercise, then reversed that for my own walks.
But Mr. Bingley had asked Jane when she would be able to dance comfortably, then scheduled the ball for that date, so I had no complaint about his method.
The ball would be a grand affair. Even my father was attending, although he would sit most of the evening. This made a party of eight, for Mr. Collins would come also, and we had hired a second carriage to carry us all.
Evening fell, and the carriages pulled up.
Wary eyes assessed Mr. Collins. When he walked to the first carriage, there was a scramble for the second.
I was fast, so I should have won a seat, but Mamma barred the way with a stern expression.
Despondent, Jane, Mary, and I turned to ride with Mr. Collins.
My mother patted my arm. “Do not be vexed, Lizzy. I have explained to Mr. Collins that Jane is soon to be engaged.”
I did not see why Jane’s engagement should matter to Mr. Collins, but that was the least of my concerns. “Mamma, promise me you will not speak like that at the ball. Discussion of Jane’s engagement is premature and improper.”
“Nonsense! It is common knowledge.”
“What?” I said as she vanished into her carriage.
“Society’s gossip is a wicked thing,” Mary said. “The search for anonymous approval by the ill-informed is a great waste of the creative spirit.”
“I agree,” I said, then added, “You look nice, Mary.” Her gown was dark velvet.
Although that was an odd color for a ball, it was accented with bright blue, and her hair was done up with a ribbon embroidered in musical notes.
The ribbon was beautiful; she must have saved to afford it.
She held her music satchel, and I knew she was excited to perform.
With luck, I could surrender my opportunity to her as well.
I had also dressed carefully, imagining dances with Mr. Wickham in his scarlet uniform. I wore ivory muslin with silk trim, and my hair up with ribbons and a pearled comb.
We arrived, and I circulated twice through the rooms without seeing Mr. Wickham. Finally, his friend Lieutenant Denny nodded to me.
“Wickham is on another of his mysterious woodland excursions,” he said, and added with a significant smile, “Although he might have attended had he not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman.”
Lydia swept Denny away to explore the food, and I was left irritated and alone. But Netherfield was a grand setting for a ball, so I resolved to admire it and enjoy the evening.
I heard an obsequious cough and turned, smiling, before recognizing the source.
“I hope to be honored, fair cousin,” Mr. Collins said, heaving into an exaggerated bow, “when I take this opportunity to solicit your hand for the two first dances.”
I had avoided other inquisitive glances already, thinking that clever while looking for Mr. Wickham, so I had no excuse to decline. Fuming at myself, I accepted. But two dances was a cruel commitment, so I found Charlotte and demanded sympathy.
“Ask me again,” she said, “when I have been asked. Then I shall be more sympathetic.”
“You will be asked, Charlotte!” But my encouragement embarrassed me. There were more ladies than gentlemen, and we chatted until the dance without anyone asking her.
Mr. Collins escorted me to the floor, and I wondered if I should hint that he ask Charlotte next.
Then we danced, and I realized I should protect Charlotte from him at all costs.
My feet were trampled upon and adjacent couples were collided with.
I had to duck through the passes, for Mr. Collins was shorter even than me.
At last, Mr. Collins succeeded in knocking my pearled comb from my hair, and we had to scramble among frantic feet to catch it. I set it back in place with great care—so much care that we were too late to join the second dance. I expressed my disappointment profusely.
Rather frayed, I found Charlotte again.
“If only Mr. Wickham had come,” I sighed.
“Are you so entranced with him?” Charlotte said.
“Entranced?” I considered. “I enjoy him. But I do not think I am entranced.” Although I missed having a handsome officer to dance with, I could not summon any profound loss. That was concerning. It would be a pity to lose my moral superiority over Lydia.
“I do not like Wickham,” Charlotte said. “He asked fawning questions about my mother and grandmother’s bindings when he visited. He even admired our tunnelworm, the poor thing.” Their draca must have died soon after that.
“Well, fawning is better than Mr. Darcy.” I folded my arms. “He was most disagreeable when I was caring for Jane.”
“You should not allow your fancy for Wickham to overcome your judgment. Mr. Darcy is ten times his consequence.” I snorted at that, and Charlotte added, “Just consider your choice.”
“It is not a choice. And the only advantage I can imagine for Mr. Darcy is that he is very tall, so he should not send my pearled comb flying.”
“Lizzy…” she said in a warning tone.
“But tall or short, I may safely promise you never to dance with—”
“Lizzy!” hissed Charlotte desperately.
With a horrible premonition, I turned as Mr. Darcy arrived. I had to adjust my gaze upward, so I had a good view of his silver-and-pearl buttons and the black velvet edging of his jacket, then his high silk collars, before I reached his eyes.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he said, unsmiling, “if you are not already engaged, would you honor me with the next dance.”
I had been too surprised to curtsy at his arrival, so I curtsied, or perhaps I nodded, and he nodded gravely and left, and it seemed the matter was settled.
Charlotte’s face was a study in suppressed mirth.
“I defy you to laugh at me,” I warned.
Jane arrived breathlessly to ask, with sisterly consternation, if I had agreed to dance with Mr. Darcy. And then Charlotte could not help herself.
At last, wiping her eyes, she finished with, “I dare say you will find him agreeable.”
“Heaven forbid!” I said. “To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate? Do not wish me such an evil.”
To my delight, a gentleman asked Charlotte for the next dance. I gave myself some of the credit because Charlotte looked so charming while mocking me.
The musicians were ready, and Mr. Darcy accompanied me to the dance floor. We joined one of three squares for an extended cotillion. There were many glances from the room. In all his time in our society, Mr. Darcy had danced only twice: once with Miss Bingley, and once with Mrs. Hurst.
I tried to riddle his invitation. For better or worse, he had conversed more with me than anyone else in the neighborhood. Perhaps that merited a single dance of my own.
The music began. He danced well, which did not surprise me. Soon the patterns proceeded by rote.
Equally unsurprising, he was also silent. But that meant I had to debate which would annoy him more, outlasting his silence, or breaking it.
“Do you enjoy the cotillion?” I said at last, as we passed.
“Yes,” he said, at the next pass, expressionless.
We passed twice more, and I began to smile. “It is your turn, Mr. Darcy. Shall I fetch a book of draca illustrations to spark your interest?”
There was a flicker of smile. “You declared me dismissive of draca.”
I realized this topic led toward our argument at Netherfield—an argument whose passes included draca and Mr. Wickham.
By our next pass, Mr. Darcy’s face was stern. Perhaps he remembered also.
We met, and he held my gloved hands. His grip was taut.
“I spoke improperly in our last conversation,” he said. “Obsession with draca may be selfish and evil. But for others, it may be… inevitable. Preordained.”
“Do you accuse me of obsession?” I asked, uneasy, as this brushed events I thought secret.
“I warn of those who pursue draca for self-importance. Or for darker purposes.”
“I am afraid I do not understand.”
“My sister—” he began, then missed a step and had to stretch to take my hand and correct the pattern. At once, his dancing became perfect again, and silent again, for several passes.