Chapter Two
Five days later
“Lizzy, you must hold still or I shall never manage these ribbons properly!” Lydia declared with all the authority her seventeen years could muster, wielding hairpins like weapons of conquest.
Elizabeth submitted to her youngest sister’s ministrations with what patience she could summon, though the evening ahead promised little beyond the usual assembly diversions.
Meryton’s monthly balls followed a predictable pattern—the same faces, the same conversations, the same careful navigation of Mrs Bennet’s matrimonial ambitions.
“There!” Lydia stepped back to admire her handiwork. “You look almost as fine as me, though naturally I shall attract far more attention in my new blue silk.”
“Naturally,” Elizabeth agreed with fond exasperation, turning to examine her reflection. The simple elegance of her green muslin would have to suffice, though she harboured no illusions about competing with Lydia’s dramatic flair or Jane’s gentle beauty.
The carriage ride to Meryton’s assembly hall buzzed with anticipation.
Mrs Bennet spoke of the evening’s prospects with her customary enthusiasm, while Jane maintained her serene composure despite the knowing glances directed her way.
The possibility of encountering Mr Bingley had transformed their mother into a strategist worthy of military command.
“Remember, my dears,” Mrs Bennet instructed as they approached the hall, “first impressions matter tremendously. Jane, you must engage Mr Bingley in conversation at the earliest opportunity. Elizabeth, perhaps you might charm one of his companions. Mary, do try to smile more—you appear positively funereal when serious.”
Elizabeth suppressed a laugh at Mary’s wounded expression. Their mother’s advice, however well-intentioned, possessed all the subtlety of cannon fire. Still, the sight of Meryton’s assembly hall, blazing with candlelight and alive with music, stirred her spirits despite her reservations.
The Bennet family’s entrance created the usual flutter of acknowledgment among the assembled company.
Elizabeth scanned the room with practiced efficiency, noting familiar faces and identifying newcomers with the skill of a seasoned campaign veteran.
Near the refreshment table, she spotted her dear friend Marcella Fairfax, resplendent in primrose yellow and clearly hoping to make an impression.
“Elizabeth!” Marcella hurried forward with barely contained excitement. “Is it not wonderful? Mr Bingley and his entire party have honoured us with their presence. I confess myself quite overwhelmed by such distinguished company.”
Elizabeth followed her friend’s eager gaze towards the far end of the hall, where a cluster of elegantly dressed figures commanded considerable attention.
Mr Bingley stood at the centre, his open countenance and ready smile making him immediately recognizable.
Beside him, a tall gentleman in severe black evening clothes surveyed the assembly with an expression that suggested he had detected an unpleasant odour.
“That must be the infamous Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth murmured, studying the newcomer with interest. His bearing spoke of wealth and consequence, though his austere demeanour created a marked contrast to Mr Bingley’s welcoming spirit.
“Indeed! And such a handsome figure he cuts,” Marcella sighed with romantic fervour. “Ten thousand a year, they say, and master of a grand estate in Derbyshire. Surely he must be seeking a wife among us country ladies?”
Before Elizabeth could respond to this hopeful speculation, Mr Bingley approached with his characteristic enthusiasm, Georgiana at his side.
The sight of her new friend brightened Elizabeth’s evening considerably, though she noted how Georgiana remained close to her host as if drawing courage from his presence.
“Miss Bennet, Miss Fairfax,” Mr Bingley bowed with pleasure. “How delightful to encounter neighbours in such festive circumstances. May I present Miss Darcy? I believe you and Miss Bennet are already acquainted.”
The introductions proceeded smoothly, though Elizabeth noticed Marcella’s barely contained excitement when Mr Bingley mentioned his friend’s availability for dancing.
Her poor friend possessed a romantic disposition that often overwhelmed her natural good sense, and Elizabeth could practically see her constructing fairy-tale scenarios involving herself and the mysterious Mr Darcy.
“Mr Darcy appears rather formidable,” Elizabeth commented quietly to Georgiana as they watched the gentleman in question maintaining his solitary vigil near the wall.
“Fitzwilliam can seem intimidating upon first acquaintance,” Georgiana admitted with a fond smile. “He guards his privacy carefully, though he possesses the kindest heart once one knows him properly.”
Elizabeth was about to pursue this intriguing observation when Mr Bingley’s voice carried clearly across their small circle. “Darcy, you must allow me to introduce Miss Fairfax. She is particularly eager to make your acquaintance.”
The response that followed made Elizabeth’s blood run cold with indignation.
“I thank you, but no,” came the curt reply in a voice that brooked no argument. “I have little interest in dancing, and even less in country assemblies’ provincial offerings.”
Marcella’s face drained of colour, her bright smile faltered, and Elizabeth watched her friend’s romantic dreams crumble in the space of a heartbeat. The casual cruelty of the dismissal, delivered with such calculated indifference, stirred Elizabeth’s protective instincts to immediate fury.
“Come, Marcella,” she said gently, taking her friend’s trembling arm. “Let us refresh ourselves with some punch.”
As they moved away from the mortifying scene, Elizabeth caught fragments of further conversation that only deepened her outrage.
Mr Bingley’s attempts at persuasion met with increasingly dismissive responses, culminating in a pronouncement that reached Elizabeth’s ears with perfect, devastating clarity.
“You are wasting your time, Bingley.” Mr Darcy’s cold gaze swept the room before settling directly upon Elizabeth with unmistakable intent.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me. I shall content myself with observing your charitable efforts from a safe distance rather than dancing with such provincial offerings.”
The arrogant assessment, delivered in tones of supreme condescension, confirmed Elizabeth’s worst impressions.
She had encountered proud men before, but rarely one who combined such wealth with such thorough disagreeableness.
Poor Marcella’s hopes had been crushed beneath the heel of unmitigated conceit.
“Do not regard him, dear friend,” Elizabeth murmured as she pressed a cup of punch into Marcella’s unsteady hands. “A gentleman who cannot appreciate your evident charms hardly deserves consideration.”
“But he is so very distinguished,” Marcella whispered, tears threatening to spill. “Perhaps if I had worn the blue silk instead, or arranged my hair differently…”
“Nonsense. You look perfectly lovely, and his opinion reflects poorly on his judgement, not your appearance.” Elizabeth’s voice carried a steel that surprised even herself. “A true gentleman would never deliver such public slights, regardless of his private preferences.”
The evening proceeded with Elizabeth maintaining careful distance from the offensive Mr Darcy, though she remained acutely aware of his presence like a storm cloud threatening rain.
She danced with several partners, engaged in pleasant conversation with neighbours, and gradually restored Marcella’s spirits through determined cheerfulness.
Yet the sting of his casual insults lingered, poisoning what should have been an enjoyable evening.
During a brief respite between sets, Georgiana approached with obvious concern. “Miss Bennet, I hope my brother’s manner has not given offence. He can be rather reserved in unfamiliar company.”
Elizabeth chose her words carefully, unwilling to burden the kind girl with her brother’s shortcomings. “I confess myself curious about his relationship with young Ambrose. Guardianship suggests a capacity for affection that his public demeanour does not readily display.”
“Oh, Fitzwilliam adores Ambrose,” Georgiana replied. “The arrangement began as duty, I suspect, but has become real devotion. He worries constantly about the boy’s welfare and future prospects.”
This revelation surprised Elizabeth considerably. The man she had observed tonight seemed incapable of such tender concern, yet Georgiana’s sincerity was unmistakable. Perhaps Mr Darcy possessed hidden depths, though she remained sceptical about their accessibility.
“Do you play the pianoforte?” Georgiana enquired, clearly hoping to steer conversation towards safer ground.
“Indifferently, I fear, though I enjoy music greatly. My sister Mary is our family’s accomplished performer.”
“I should love to hear her play. Music has always provided me great comfort, particularly during difficult periods.”
Something in Georgiana’s tone suggested painful memories, though Elizabeth respected her privacy too much to pry. Instead, she offered gentle encouragement. “Music does possess a remarkable ability to soothe the spirit. Do you have particular composers you favour?”
“Mozart, especially,” Georgiana replied, her expression brightening. “His sonatas remind me of happier times when my father was alive. He used to sit beside the pianoforte and turn pages for me, even when his estate business was pressing.”
Elizabeth felt a pang of sympathy for the young woman’s loss. “How lovely that you have such cherished memories. My father also appreciates music, though he claims his ears are better suited to the rustle of book pages than musical notes.”