Chapter Eleven
There was little Fitzwilliam Darcy liked less in the world than an evening spent in unfamiliar company.
Never one for small talk, he struggled to catch the tone of a conversation or show any interest in the lives of people whose situation in life was so decidedly beneath his own.
Such efforts required a level of attention he found both exhausting and unrewarding, and he was keenly aware that his reserve was often mistaken for pride—an error he seldom troubled himself to correct.
Thus, when he arrived in Hertfordshire only to learn that his friend, Charles Bingley, had accepted an invitation for all his guests to attend an assembly, he was seriously displeased.
The journey itself had already put him out of humor.
Long hours confined in a carriage, the uneven roads jolting both body and temper, would have been trial enough.
To endure it in the company of Bingley’s sisters and Mr. Hurst—each conversation circling endlessly around fashions, acquaintances, and minor London gossip—had tested the limits of Darcy’s patience.
“I have only just arrived, Bingley,” Darcy admonished, standing stiffly in the drawing room at Netherfield.
He had not yet removed his gloves, as though he might depart again at any moment.
“I have spent the better part of the day in a carriage with your sisters and Mr. Hurst—a tedious and uncomfortable experience if there ever was one.” He was aware that he sounded petulant, but fatigue stripped him of any inclination to soften his tone.
“Was it truly so terrible?” Bingley raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his open, good-natured face. “I am sorry. You offered to convey them.”
“Yes, the situation is of my own making,” Darcy conceded, exhaling sharply. Blast his indefatigable good form. “But must I attend?” The assembly itself sounded like a death sentence.
Bingley hesitated only a moment. “You may stay if you like,” he said easily, “but you will have better success avoiding Caroline if you attend. She, too, complained of fatigue and offered to ‘stay at the manor’ and ‘entertain our guest.’” He lifted a brow, clearly enjoying himself. “The choice is yours.”
Darcy grimaced. At least at an assembly he would not be required to spend time exclusively with Bingley’s sister.
Caroline Bingley was, by all outward measures, everything a well-bred lady ought to be—polished, elegant, and attentive to propriety, at least as London understood it.
Unfortunately, she was also ambitious to the point of single-mindedness and possessed of a determination that left little room for subtlety.
In this instance, she had fixed upon Darcy as the prize she meant to secure, and he was well aware that she considered her success inevitable.
Darcy, however, had no interest whatsoever, and no compromise—however advantageous—would persuade him to marry a woman he did not respect.
Her constant flattery, delivered with rehearsed enthusiasm, and her inability to express a single original thought were deterrents enough.
He valued intelligence, independence of mind, and sincerity; Caroline offered him none of these.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I shall attend with you. I will do my duty and stand up with your sisters, but you must ask me nothing more.”
“As you like it,” Bingley replied, grinning broadly, as though Darcy had agreed to a great adventure rather than a tedious social obligation.
“I am serious, Bingley,” Darcy pressed, fixing him with a steady look.
“You forgot your promise last time and pressed me to dance. I will not tolerate it tonight. The ride from London has already made me disinclined towards company.” He drew himself up, donning what his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, teasingly referred to as his mask of severity—a carefully composed expression meant to discourage further entreaties.
“Yes, yes, I shall do my best,” Bingley laughed.
“I cannot help it if I wish everyone to be as happy and good-natured as I am. The urge will rise, whether I like it or not, but I shall attempt to rein it in, so to speak.” He paused, eyes dancing with mischief.
“Who knows? Perhaps a country beauty will catch your eye. Oh, that would put Caroline in a right state!”
“Country miss, indeed,” Darcy muttered, shaking his head as he turned toward the door.
He had little expectation of finding anyone at a provincial assembly who could engage his mind, let alone command his attention.
Still, duty—and a desire to escape Miss Bingley’s concentrated attentions—demanded his presence.
If he were to last the night with his composure intact, he would need a brief respite. With that thought, Darcy withdrew to his chambers, intent on restoring both his appearance and his patience before the inevitable ordeal of the evening began.
Miss Bingley’s expression betrayed her disappointment the moment she learned Darcy intended to attend the assembly after all.
The faint tightening about her mouth, the cool brightness in her eyes—Darcy knew these signs well enough to recognize vexation even when cloaked in civility.
For his friend’s sake, he affected contentment with the arrangement, schooling his features into something resembling good humor.
It cost him dearly to do so, but it was a small price to pay for Bingley’s comfort and peace.
Bingley, ever attuned to the moods of those he loved, shot him a grateful glance as they boarded the carriage, as though Darcy had agreed to far more than a mere evening’s attendance.
The carriage had scarcely set off before Bingley’s sisters launched into dire predictions of the savagery they expected to encounter at the country assembly. Their disdain seemed to deepen with every mile traveled from Netherfield.
“I am certain it will be entirely provincial,” Mrs. Hurst declared, settling herself more firmly against the cushions. “Why, it would not surprise me if the floors were dirt instead of wood.”
“And I am sure the refreshments will be sadly lacking,” Miss Bingley added with a delicate sniff.
“Hurst will likely be thirsty all night.” She cast her brother-in-law a sour look, though Mr. Hurst—already in his cups—maintained his usual habit of ignoring her completely, his attention fixed instead on the indiscernible view beyond the window and the promise of further indulgence.
“You are both ridiculous,” Bingley snorted, though there was no malice in it. “It will not be as fashionable as town, to be sure, but it will not be a tenants’ ball. Many of the attendees are landed gentry—a social class above our own, may I remind you.”
Miss Bingley scoffed openly. “And I would wager none of them have seen the inside of a London drawing room.”
She was likely right. Darcy reflected that this did not necessarily mean the locals were backward or impoverished—only that their manners would be shaped by a different set of expectations. Still, refinement mattered to him, and he suspected the evening would indeed prove tedious.
The banter continued until the carriage entered the small market village.
Darcy peered out at the narrow streets, already crowded with conveyances.
Carriages lined the way toward the assembly hall, which stood prominently at the center of the village.
It was brightly lit, light spilling from its windows and illuminating the night air.
Even before they disembarked, Darcy could hear the low hum of voices—animated, expectant.
If he were to hazard a guess, he would say the hall was overflowing with curious onlookers, eager to inspect the wealthy newcomers who had stirred the neighborhood into such excitement.
As they entered, the murmur of voices softened, then resumed in a flurry of whispers. Speculative looks were cast their way, and Darcy struggled not to shift under the weight of so many appraising gazes. He reminded himself sternly that such attention was neither new nor particularly important.
A portly gentleman approached, bowing with evident pleasure as he greeted Bingley. “Mr. Bingley! It is a pleasure to see you this evening. I am eager to meet your guests. Might I request an introduction?”
“Certainly,” Bingley replied readily. “Darcy, this is Sir William Lucas, the master of ceremonies and proprietor of Lucas Lodge. Sir William, my dear friend Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire.”
Bingley proceeded to introduce Mr. Hurst and his sisters. The ladies offered shallow, barely polite curtsies, their expressions making plain their assessment of the surroundings.
If they held their noses any higher, Darcy thought, they would scarcely be able to see where they were going. Even he, with all his reserve, did not comport himself with such obvious superiority.
Darcy scarcely listened as Sir William introduced his wife and daughter, also gesturing toward his son, who stood on the opposite side of the room in earnest conversation with a young lady.
“Ah, here is Mr. Bennet,” Sir William continued brightly as a gentleman approached from the left. “Mr. Bingley, I believe you have met him?”
Mr. Bennet had an intelligent air, peering at their group over wire-rimmed spectacles. His white hair was neatly arranged in the prevailing style, and his attire spoke of plentiful means rather than conspicuous wealth—a man secure enough to need no display.
“May I present Mr. Thomas Bennet of Longbourn? Mr. Bennet, you know Mr. Bingley…” Sir William went on to complete the introductions, his enthusiasm undimmed.
“Longbourn is the largest estate in the area, except for Netherfield, or so I understand it,” Bingley remarked amiably.
Miss Bingley’s mouth curled in faint disdain.