Chapter Twenty-One
Calls to Longbourn continued. Sometimes Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst attended; sometimes they did not. Darcy always accompanied Bingley. He felt it prudent to guard his friend from any undue encouragement.
Miss Bennet remained unfailingly polite—always calm, always correct. To Darcy’s eye, it was evident she enjoyed Bingley’s conversation but felt nothing deeper.
Despite his earlier resolutions, Darcy continued to seek conversation with Miss Elizabeth.
She never failed to surprise him. Her wit was quick, her intelligence keen, and her knowledge broad.
She spoke several languages fluently, understood mathematics and science, and possessed a genuine interest in botany.
Her guardians had clearly invested in her education, and the results were unmistakable.
Their debates were lively and engaging. Darcy often left them feeling as though he had been bested by her superior reasoning.
And yet I do not resent it.
On that particular afternoon, they had scarcely settled in the Bennets’ drawing room before Bingley declared, with evident enthusiasm, “I have been considering a ball at Netherfield.”
Darcy watched the effect ripple through the room.
Mrs. Bennet looked momentarily stunned—then delighted. Jane’s needle paused mid-stitch. Elizabeth’s brows lifted with amused interest. Mary glanced up from the pianoforte in quiet anticipation.
Across the room, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst reacted quite differently. Their expressions—twin flashes of horror—appeared before either could conceal them. Miss Bingley quickly composed herself; Mrs. Hurst’s smile was so rigid it could hardly be genuine.
Darcy felt a familiar tightening in his chest.
Here we go.
“A ball?” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “How exceedingly agreeable! Such an event would be talked of for years.”
“I thought so,” Bingley replied cheerfully. “There are many pleasant people here, and Netherfield is well suited to it.”
Darcy noticed Miss Bingley’s fingers curl against the arm of her chair.
Jane looked up at Bingley then, her expression warm but composed.
Again, Darcy noted that she encouraged him no more than courtesy required.
Bingley leaned toward her. “Miss Bennet, may I claim the first set?”
Jane blushed softly. “You may, sir.”
Darcy felt something shift within him—an unwelcome sensation he refused to examine.
Elizabeth glanced toward her sister, her smile quick and genuine—simply pleased for Jane.
She feels things deeply, he thought, but never demands to be noticed for it. The realization unsettled him.
As Mrs. Bennet began speculating about refreshments and Mary mentioned suitable musicians, Darcy’s attention drifted once more toward Elizabeth.
If there is a ball, I shall be expected to dance.
The notion both tempted and unsettled him. Prudence dictated distance. Familiarity bred attachment, and attachment—under present circumstances—could lead nowhere desirable.
Yet he could not help imagining her in a ballroom.
She would not merely be handsome—she would be remarkable.
He pictured her moving through a set with the same assurance she brought to every conversation.
I must not. I cannot.
The call soon concluded, and the Netherfield party departed. No sooner had the carriage begun moving than Miss Bingley spoke sharply.
“Well! That was unexpected.”
“Unexpected?” Mrs. Hurst echoed. “Charles, how could you propose a ball without consulting us?”
Bingley looked genuinely puzzled. “Why should I not? Netherfield is my house.”
“Yes,” Miss Bingley replied coldly, “and you mean to fill it with country rustics who will neither appreciate the expense nor understand the distinction of the occasion.”
“That is unfair,” Bingley protested. “Dancing is a mark of polite society.”
Miss Bingley laughed lightly. “Every savage can dance. The ability to move about a floor does not make society polite.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly.
“If you believe,” she continued, “that the company we are keeping constitutes polite society, then you do not understand the phrase.”
Bingley flushed. “The Bennets are well-bred and perfectly respectable.”
“They are provincial,” she replied sharply. “And grateful for any attention paid to them.”
Darcy turned toward the window, jaw tightening.
Once again, I am trapped in a family quarrel I neither invited nor can escape.
Weariness settled over him—not merely at Miss Bingley’s sharp judgments or Mrs. Hurst’s agreement, but at the endless insistence that worth could only be measured by birth and polish.
And most dangerously, he found himself thinking of Elizabeth Bennet.
She would raise one brow and answer all this with a single clever remark.
Which was precisely why he must be cautious.
Because if there is a ball at Netherfield, he thought grimly, I am not at all certain I will be able to keep my distance.
“A ball, Jane! That is surely a credit to you.” Mrs. Bennet beamed, her eyes shining with unrestrained pleasure. “He is a good man. You will be very happy.”
“He has not requested a formal courtship, Mama,” Jane reminded her mother gently. “As of this moment, Mr. Bingley is nothing more than a friend.” Jane’s cheeks turned pink, betraying her true sentiments far more clearly than her carefully chosen words.
Elizabeth watched her family bantering lightly over the supper table, the easy rhythm of Longbourn settling about her like a familiar shawl.
Mr. Bennet expressed his usual sardonic amusement, teasing his wife about the upcoming ball and warning her—tongue firmly in cheek—not to exhaust herself planning entertainments she would then fret over endlessly.
Elizabeth knew her uncle did not enjoy social endeavors in the least, but he humored his wife nonetheless, content to sit back and observe the drama with wry detachment.
Kitty and Lydia asked eagerly if they would be allowed to attend. Mrs. Bennet firmly but kindly told them no. “Perhaps if Jane was married, my dears. Lydia, you are still very young—only fifteen!”
To their credit, neither protested too loudly, though Lydia’s sigh was theatrical enough to make Elizabeth hide a smile behind her napkin. Supper commenced in relative peace, a rare and precious occurrence in a household so full of youthful energy.
Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted back to the call that afternoon.
It had been clear—painfully so—that Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were not in favor of having a ball.
Their polite expressions had concealed sharp displeasure, and Elizabeth had little doubt the ladies would press their brother to abandon the idea once they were alone with him.
Whether Mr. Bingley would yield to such pressure remained to be seen.
Her mind wandered, as it so often did of late, to the conundrum that was Mr. Darcy.
His disdain for their society had been evident from the first, yet his interest in her contradicted it at every turn.
Their debates were stimulating—she would not deny that—and Elizabeth found she relished matching him point for point.
Still, she could not help but wonder at their purpose.
Did he seek to find fault in her understanding?
In her education? In her very right to hold opinions so firmly?
Elizabeth knew she could hold her own and felt she had even triumphed several times over the course of their discussions, though she suspected Mr. Darcy would never concede such a thing aloud.
That afternoon, he had briefly mentioned his cousin, Anne. Elizabeth had asked a few questions about the lady, curious about the cousin she had never known. Mr. Darcy had been tight-lipped, sharing the barest of information, as though anything more might betray some private understanding.
I wonder if he knows the depth of Lady Catherine’s expectations.
Surely, he was aware of his aunt’s desire that he marry her daughter—but did he know the lady believed it only a matter of time before he accepted his “duty” as inevitable?
Elizabeth doubted it. Men so accustomed to authority rarely grasped the full weight of others’ expectations until they became impossible to ignore.
Later that evening, Jane came to Elizabeth’s chamber. They sat together on the bed, speaking softly, the candlelight casting soft shadows upon the walls.
“Jane, surely you know Mr. Bingley cares for you.” Elizabeth took the first opportunity to raise the subject that had occupied her thoughts all evening.
“He has behaved no differently with me than any other with whom he associates.” Jane shook her head, her expression thoughtful rather than distressed. “I cannot be sure he feels even a modicum of affection for me.”
“What can you mean? Mr. Bingley comes to your side at the earliest opportunity when we are in company and does not leave your presence if he can help it. How does that equate to behaving no differently for you than others?” Elizabeth laughed softly.
“The man loves you, my dear cousin. You cannot escape it.”
“Be that as it may, I shall not behave with any less propriety. It is not my place, as we discussed.”
“Jane, should you not give him some indication of your feelings?” Elizabeth knew she herself was more demonstrative than her cousin, but Jane’s manner bordered so closely on indifference that it troubled her.
“You are, perhaps, correct, Lizzy. I shall make greater effort to show how I feel.”
They spoke of other things then, and Elizabeth told her cousin about Mr. Collins’s letter.
“What terrible things to say!” Jane looked rightly appalled. “How can a man of the cloth behave in such a manner? You were a child! How can he speak so ill of the dead?”
“These are all questions to which I have no answers. I wish I did.” Elizabeth sighed.
“At least I understand now why my father’s family was so quick to accede to the Prince’s demands.
” Mr. Bennet had fought to retain a relationship with his daughter’s child, but Elizabeth had long wondered why the de Bourghs had never done the same.