Chapter 12 The Netherfield Ball #2
The cotillion is a refined dance, and it suited his posture, which was not stiff like a parading soldier, but exact and balanced. I thought of the stage fencing in Hamlet, and of our drake when he struck the mad dog.
The music ended with each couple holding hands. The other couples parted. Mr. Darcy did not release my fingers. This indicated he wished to continue our conversation.
“Your sister?” I prompted.
He dropped my hand. “I spoke out of turn. My apologies.” He bowed deeply and strode away.
Jane approached with a mischievous smile. “Was Charlotte correct? Did you find him agreeable?”
“No.”
“He danced well.”
“Dancing, in itself, is insufficient to make one agreeable.”
“Of course. But what is the cause of your dislike?”
“He is very tall,” I said, and Jane laughed. Warming to my subject, I began a list. “Overly clever. Too well-mannered to expose his true thoughts. He intimidates with his dark eyes and sharp cheekbones, is impeccably dressed, and is fabulously wealthy.”
“I begin to comprehend your intense dislike.”
“In truth, my dislike is unchanged from my first meeting. He is self-satisfied and haughty. But now, he is also mysterious, which I further dislike because the subject is draca, so it makes me curious.” Mr. Darcy’s tall shoulders were heading toward Miss Bingley.
He cut a broad wake through the crowd. “When we are home, I should like to share a confidence from Mr. Wickham. But how is your evening? I saw you take the first dance with Mr. Bingley. Will that be all?”
“He has requested the final dance also.” Jane’s eyes were lowered, but she smiled.
“Well, do not tell Mamma, or she will say something quite untoward.” Dancing both the first and last dance was a serious statement.
“Oh, Lizzy, I fear she is already talking!” But before Jane could say more, Mr. Collins arrived.
“Cousin Elizabeth, may I commend you on your charming society. This room is a delightful, if inferior, likeness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s smallest dance room. And I have made a great discovery! While you danced, I overheard that your partner is nephew to my patroness.”
“Mr. Darcy is Lady Catherine’s nephew?” Mr. Collins’s endless praise had painted an amusing picture of her infamous ladyship, but I suppose it was possible. She had wealth enough.
“I shall introduce myself!” Mr. Collins announced. “I will justify my presumption and set him at ease through praise of her ladyship’s extraordinary draca.”
“At ease!” I could not invent a less likely phrase to describe Mr. Darcy, particularly if the topic was draca. But Mr. Collins was already marching to Mr. Darcy, who was conversing with Miss Bingley.
Openmouthed, Jane and I watched Mr. Collins hem and haw until Mr. Darcy turned. There was a great bowing and fluttering, observed with astonishment by both Mr. Darcy and Miss Bingley. Astonishment became shock as Mr. Collins began flapping his arms, apparently enacting the flight of a winged draca.
“We must intervene!” I said to Jane and began walking, desperately inventing a pretense to take Mr. Collins away.
So, I was close enough to hear when he turned to Miss Bingley and said, “And allow me to congratulate you on your brother’s superior bounty of marriage gold. We anticipate a most prestigious binding when he is joined to my fair cousin Jane.”
I stopped dead halfway across the dance floor.
Miss Bingley’s face convulsed in anger.
Mr. Darcy’s lips twisted in revulsion. With utter disdain, he turned his back. Even Mr. Collins’s impaired social judgment registered the cut. He halted his soliloquy, jaw hanging.
Miss Bingley’s furious laugh ripped the room as she swirled away.
Jane arrived beside me. “Poor Mr. Collins.”
“Poor Mr. Collins?” I said, incredulous.
“It is not so bad, Lizzy. People will forget his peculiar flapping.”
Jane had not been close enough to hear. But soon enough, she would know. At least a dozen people had been agog at the drama.
Mr. Collins rejoined us. “I am greatly pleased with my reception,” he blurted, then wiped his beaded forehead with a handkerchief. “Recalling the conversation, I realize how highly he valued my report on Lady Catherine’s—”
I could stand no more and walked away myself.
I ended up beside Mary, who was waiting her turn to perform on the pianoforte. Mary would be a relief from gossip, at least.
“I am quite relying on you for a wonderful report of the evening,” I said. “Mine has been horrible.”
“Do not practice your wit on me, Lizzy.” Mary’s voice was tight, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“I did not intend wit.” Had she already heard what had happened? “Jane—”
“Jane has danced every dance, and she and Bingley are in love. Should Bingley fall out of love with her, a parade of gentlemen awaits.”
I reviewed the evening and realized what was wrong. “Has no one asked you to dance?” Mary’s stiff silence was answer enough. “It is of no consequence. Perhaps next time, a light-colored frock—”
Mary turned on me. “Spare me the pity of a beauty!” I was speechless as she continued, “Witty Elizabeth Bennet, admired by men and dodging invitations with a laugh, then caught by the most elusive man at the ball. You do not comprehend what it is to wish you were wanted. Instead, you waste your intellect insulting suitors so they can marvel at your nerve.”
“What is this, Mary?” I was hurt, and shocked, and frightened for Mary as well, as her voice was rising.
“This”—she swung her hand in an accusing arc, and heads turned toward us—“is a joke. And I am the object of the joke, for this chase is the greatest falseness of my life, and yet I envy your perfect success. And I am ashamed of my envy.”
“Mary, I spoke thoughtlessly. I… there is some truth in how you accuse me. But do not accuse yourself of envy when it is only frustration. A public scene is no solution—”
“No? Shall I find the solution by standing, scorned for dull features and lank hair, at more dances? Shall I simper and flutter to attract a gentleman, when their attention repulses me? I hide my feelings and become an invisible fraud. What choice do I have? I am lonely, Lizzy, and I am not brave. The prospect of a life alone frightens me, as does surviving on fifty pounds a year if our estate is lost. And that is selfishness, for that sum would be wealth for the maids sharing our roof.” She dashed tears from her eyes.
“If I were a man, I would go to London, or Paris, or New York, and I would… do something that mattered! Do you not see how unfair it is? Mamma bargains you off to secure our luxury, and I should rejoice because it frees me from this charade—even though I know you should refuse. I am a laughingstock for wearing a velvet dress, while around us, even in Hertfordshire, people die of hunger and cold…” She stopped, her spray of fury exhausted, a fire kicked into lifeless cinders. She finished, “Are you even aware?”
I had not known she felt any of this. I did not know what to say. What stumbled out was an answer to her last question. “You cannot think me so callous as to be unaware of the inequity of suffering.”
“No. I think you only complacent.”
The lady playing the pianoforte had stopped to stare, and she fled when Mary pulled a piece of music from her satchel and advanced to the instrument. Mary’s satchel fell to the floor, and music scores flew. Mechanically, I knelt to gather them. I knew she treasured them.
Mary began to play.
I recognized the notes, something strange and new that she had practiced every day for weeks, like scales. But never like this. Not at speed, and angry. Defiant.
I rose, my arms full of music too challenging for me ever to attempt, while Mary’s final accusation, complacent, burned deeper and deeper, and her music rolled over me like nothing I had ever heard.
It was wonderful. Incredible. This was no Italian air, with the composer’s words replaced by English doggerel in a pathetic nod to English patriotism.
This was raw emotion, Mary’s accusation pounded into the keys.
There were tears on her cheeks as she played, and on mine.
Then, I saw the room around her.
People were smirking and laughing. And, cruelly, their grins made me hear the music through their ears—notes missed and tempo wavering, the passion that moved me overwhelming accuracy and control.
Our father was seated near me, as stunned as anyone. I ran to him.
“Papa, please, she is so upset. This will become a dreadful scene. Can you not do something?”
He nodded, and I helped him stand. He walked to the pianoforte and made a show of listening. But I did not understand his pose. It was almost… comic.
He removed the music in front of Mary and leafed through it with exaggerated confusion. The audience tittered. After a few bars, Mary’s playing stuttered into silence. She sat, staring where the sheets had been.
“How very modern,” he said and got a resounding laugh.
I was unable to move. Unable to believe the man I adored could be so inhuman.
Mary stood and cried out, “Enlightenment demands introspection into our shared humanity and emotion, regardless of class, or sex—”
“That will do extremely well, child,” Papa interrupted. “We do not attend a ball to hear female philosophy. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies perform.” This received a few amused claps, and Papa pretended a bow.
With a strangled wail, Mary fled. I ran after her.
Mamma found us outside Netherfield manor. Mary was sobbing in my arms. The valets and coachmen had turned away to provide a semblance of privacy. That was more consideration than we received from the gentry inside.
“What is happening, Lizzy? Everyone is gossiping a storm!”
“I am taking Mary home,” I said.
“Now? The ball is not over. You cannot leave!”
“Mary is distraught. I have called for a coach. We are going, Mamma.”
“Oh, very well. I shall have to go also. I will go and plead headache, and say you two are accompanying me. But Jane must stay for her final dance.”
I was braced for a fight, so I was too surprised to answer. I watched our mother go in, then said, “Wait here, Mary. I shall return momentarily.”
I climbed the front steps, and two footmen in Bingley livery swung the Netherfield doors wide for me.
Inside, I found my father chatting with two other gentlemen. He looked more animated than I had seen him in weeks.
The men fell silent when they saw my expression. I held out my hand for the music my father still held. He offered it slowly.
“How dare you,” I said.
He called my name as I left.
As I reached the door, Mr. Darcy’s voice came behind me, “Miss Bennet!” I was ready to curse then, but I stopped without turning.
He arrived beside me. I did not look at him.
“Please tell your sister that she played with great passion,” he said.
That was too much.
“Have you discovered an interest in Mary? That is remarkable, for you ignored her for two hours while she hoped one gentleman would have the decency to take her hand and utter a few civilities on the dance floor.” I turned to him. “Speak to me again when you have defended a heartbroken sister.”