Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Mrs. Bennet surveyed her daughters with a measured expression of approval, her own appearance reflecting the same careful restraint.
Her gown, a warm shade of cream with subtle gold detailing along the sleeves, was fashionably current without verging on extravagance.
The fit was impeccable, the result of thoughtful selection rather than impulsive indulgence, and her accessories—pearls of modest size and a neatly reticulated bag—were chosen with care.
There was a composure about her that evening, a gentleness in her manner that spoke of self-awareness hard-won and deliberately maintained.
Pride warmed her features, but it was tempered with propriety, and when she spoke, her words were calm, encouraging, and entirely appropriate to the occasion.
Elizabeth, observing them all, felt a quiet satisfaction settle over her.
There was harmony in their appearances, a reflection of the balance they had each learned to strike between personal inclination and social expectation.
Tonight, they would enter Netherfield not merely as guests, but as a family entirely at ease with themselves—and that, she thought, was its own kind of triumph.
Never had Darcy been so impatient for an evening to begin. After many days of wrestling with his own desires, he had made the decision to leave Netherfield Park after the ball. He could not remain and be tempted by Miss Elizabeth.
The resolve had come not in a moment of clarity, but through exhaustion.
Each day had brought new reasons to stay—her wit, her warmth, the ease with which she unsettled him—and each night had ended with the same stern conclusion.
Distance was required. Habit must be broken.
Hope must be extinguished before it took deeper root.
How his heart had argued! She is a gentleman’s daughter—you are a gentleman, so in that, you are equal. That, along with protestations about her standing and the question of her fortune, went around in his head for far longer than he liked.
The arguments rarely arrived singly. They came in waves, reason contending with desire, pride marshaling its defenses only to falter beneath the memory of her smile.
He had paced the room more than once, hands clasped behind his back, rehearsing objections as though they were lines in a well-worn debate—each one persuasive, each one insufficient.
He had to admit that he knew not the true nature of her fortune. Was she wealthy or not? Brisby had been unable to discover any additional information. The cousins, however, did have some little dowry—but nothing worth flaunting, apparently, or it would be well known.
That uncertainty troubled him more than the lack itself. Mystery implied intention, and intention suggested independence—qualities he admired far more than prudence allowed. If there were secrets, they were well kept, and Darcy respected discretion even as it thwarted him.
The behavior of the family was above reproach, but would they survive when placed among the harpies that inhabited the ton?
He did not believe they would. Bingley deserves someone better than a country miss—someone who can elevate him beyond her sphere—and his—and who paves the way for future generations.
The thought came unbidden, yet he clung to it, sharpening it into a weapon against his own inclinations.
London was not Hertfordshire. Polite civility would not suffice there; the Bennets’ quiet virtues would be measured and found wanting by those who delighted in cruelty dressed as wit.
He would not see his friend wounded by society’s judgments.
But he would be honest with himself. Bingley’s attachment to Jane Bennet was only part of his struggle. No, Darcy would run from the cousin and pray the distance would allow him to forget her.
That admission settled heavily upon him. He did not wish to forget her—only to survive the attempt. Memory, however, was a traitor, and he feared hers would prove indelible.
He would give himself one last gift, however. Tonight, he would ask Miss Elizabeth for a set. He would bask in her company one last time before he departed the next day. Brisby already had his trunks packed.
The knowledge lent a strange finality to his anticipation. Every moment would be precious, sharpened by the certainty that it must end.
“Darcy!” Bingley clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Are you as eager for the night as I?”
Darcy startled slightly, dragged back from his thoughts, and turned to face his friend.
“Eager for it to end, to be sure.” Darcy smiled awkwardly. “You know how much I abhor dancing.”
The familiar jest tasted thin upon his tongue.
“I am pleased you will attend.”
Bingley’s expression was open, sincere—too sincere. Darcy felt an unexpected pang.
Darcy hesitated. “Bingley, I am for town tomorrow.”
His friend looked surprised. “As am I! My man of business has an urgent matter I must see to at once. Shall we go together?”
The coincidence struck Darcy at once, though he kept his expression neutral.
“Yes, if you like. I plan to leave after breakfast—the ball will go into the early hours of the morning and I must have some sleep.” The jest fell flat, but Bingley chuckled anyway.
“I plan to return by the week’s end. Will you stay in London?” There was something strange about Bingley’s manner. Overly nonchalant. He would not meet Darcy’s gaze.
“Yes. At least for a week or two. My aunt, Lady Catherine, has demanded my presence at Rosings Park for the festive season.” Demand was the correct word.
Her letter had been less an invitation than a summons.
“No doubt she will again tell me I must marry my cousin.” That had gone on long enough.
Darcy intended to inform his aunt once and for all that he would not be pressed into such an arrangement.
If I cannot have Elizabeth, I will at least have my choice of suitable brides.
The thought carried no comfort.
“I wish you well in the dragon’s den. You have told me enough of your aunt to believe she can breathe fire.” Bingley laughed again, but it sounded hollow. “Shall we go down?”
Both men were ready for the evening and departed for the large drawing room together. They would stay there until guests began to arrive.
Miss Bingley and the Hursts joined them shortly. After what seemed an interminable time, the first carriages could be heard on the drive. Bingley and his family left to form a receiving line, and Darcy went to the ballroom.
The room was already alight with candles, the polished floor reflecting their glow in soft brilliance. Music stands were arranged with precision; flowers adorned the corners, lending the space a faint, pleasant fragrance.
He positioned himself where he could see the entrance of the room but was largely hidden from sight. He did not wish to make small talk with the locals. No, he would keep to himself, only fulfilling his duty to his hostess before claiming a set with the entrancing Miss Elizabeth.
From here, he would see her first. He would note the fall of her gown, the tilt of her head, the spark in her eye before anyone else could intrude. And then—just once—he would allow himself the indulgence he had so resolutely denied.
After tonight, he would leave.
Miss Elizabeth danced the first with a local gentleman—Arthur Long, if he recalled the name correctly.
Darcy stood against the wall, glowering as she bestowed her smiles upon someone unworthy.
He noted every tilt of her head, every quick flash of amusement, each light laugh offered freely to another man.
It was intolerable to watch her ease, her warmth, directed elsewhere—particularly toward one whose chief merit appeared to be proximity.
Darcy danced the second with Miss Bingley and the third with Mrs. Hurst before he finally approached the object of his affections.
Affections? No, Darcy, that is not appropriate. Do not entertain the thought.
The word lodged stubbornly in his mind, regardless. He had not invited it, yet there it was, insistent and undeniable. He came to Miss Elizabeth’s side and bowed curtly, schooling his expression into something approaching neutrality.
“May I have the honor of the next set?”
She agreed without hesitation, her ready acceptance striking him with equal measures of relief and alarm.
Have I raised her expectations? He thought not.
No, Darcy had been very careful to avoid such entanglements.
He had offered nothing that could be construed as encouragement—no assurances, no declarations, no undue attentions.
Her eagerness says otherwise, his heart reasoned.
The honorable thing would be to extend an offer.
He dismissed the idea entirely, pushing it aside with practiced severity.
Their set began well. He did not speak, content to gaze at her fair features.
The candlelight softened her complexion, caught in the delicate curve of her cheek, the intelligent brightness of her eyes.
He found himself attuned to the smallest details—the rise and fall of her breath, the graceful certainty of her steps, the faint scent of roses that followed her movements.
After some moments of silence, Elizabeth pressed him for conversation. He fumbled for something—anything—to say but could barely form a coherent thought. His usual command of language deserted him entirely.
“Do you spend the festive season in Town?” she asked him when her other prompts received one-word replies.
“Sometimes. I prefer to be in Derbyshire, though I shall spend the holiday in Kent this year.”
She perked up, interested. “I have heard it is a beautiful county.”
“Yes, it is. I look forward to time with my family.”
“Then you will be a merry party.” There was something about how her eyes sparkled that said she was teasing him. “As it happens, my uncle’s heir resides in Kent, very near to your aunt at Rosings Park.”
He frowned. “How do you know that?”
Elizabeth laughed. “He mentioned it in his last letter to Mr. Bennet. His praises were…effusive.”
Darcy did not know what to think. The coincidence unsettled him, and her tone suggested more than mere happenstance.
He had the distinct impression that Elizabeth meant to needle him—to provoke a reaction, or perhaps to measure one.
Was she pressing for more information about his family and connections?
Instead of gratifying her curiosity, he changed the subject, his voice carefully controlled. “You mentioned that your mother was a Bennet. I assumed your father was Mr. Bennet’s brother, and that you shared that surname.” And Brisby cannot seem to locate your christening in the local registers.
“I use the name Bennet while I am in Hertfordshire. It is a way to honor my late mother and simplifies things for my relations.”
The movements of the dance separated them, and Darcy struggled to come up with a way to ask her surname politely and without seeming overly curious. The question pressed at him, urgent and ill-timed. Before he could voice it when they joined hands again, she changed the subject.
“You have a sister, Mr. Darcy?”
Surprised, he responded instantly. “Yes. Georgiana is sixteen.”
“And you are close?”
He immediately grew suspicious. Others had attempted to use a connection to his sister to gain his favor, to pry their way into his confidence. The reflex was swift and unkind. “Georgiana is not yet out,” he snapped unthinkingly.
“I merely sought a thread of conversation we might both enjoy. Forgive me.”
She hid her displeasure well, but Darcy noted the tightening of her jaw and the dimming of her eyes. The warmth that had animated her expression moments before receded, replaced by a careful reserve. He felt instantly remorseful, the sting of it sharp and deserved.
“What think you of books?” He knew she was well-read. Her education was obvious whenever they debated. It was a clumsy attempt at repair, offered too late and with too little grace.
“I cannot speak of books in a ballroom. No, that will not do at all.” Her tone was light, but final. “I am afraid our conversation topics have come to an end. Let us enjoy the rest of the set in silence.”
Darcy blinked stupidly, unsure what to do to fix the mess he had made. He wished to relive this dance in his mind after he left, to bask in the warm glow of the memory. Now it would be tainted—marked by his own poor judgment and sharper tongue.
As the final chords ended their dance, he offered his arm to Miss Elizabeth, escorting her from the floor.
She accepted with impeccable civility, though without warmth.
Spirits low, he skulked to a corner, hiding there until it was time for supper, chastened by the knowledge that he had wounded the very person he most wished to please.