Chapter 5 #2
Georgiana rose with composed deliberation. If she felt the weight of the moment, it did not show in her manner. She inclined her head in acceptance, her expression calm, her voice steady.
“You are very kind, sir.”
Lady Catherine watched them take their places with evident satisfaction, her hands folded before her, her posture conveying approval rather than vigilance. To the room at large, it appeared a natural pairing: rank acknowledged, propriety observed, the evening begun exactly as intended.
She gave a small nod toward the musicians. The quartet began.
As the first figures of the dance were formed, Lady Catherine resumed her seat, already surveying the floor with the keen interest she would never have admitted to possessing.
The assembly had been set in motion; the pattern was established.
Whether it would unfold as she expected remained, for the moment, an open question—but one she believed she had already answered.
Lady Catherine surveyed the room with a look of settled satisfaction, noting the alignment of couples, the exactness of the steps, and—most particularly—the position of her niece beside Mr. George Henry Dashwood.
Mr. Darcy remained standing a little apart, where he could observe both the floor and the circle beyond it.
His attention followed Georgiana’s movements—not with anxiety, but with the vigilant calm of one long accustomed to guarding her interests.
She danced with composure, executing each turn and change with precision, her manner attentive and civil, yet carefully restrained.
Mr. Dashwood’s conduct was equally correct: he spoke when required, bowed when prompted by the figure, and offered nothing that could be mistaken for presumption. If Lady Catherine hoped for more, she did not show it—at least not yet.
When the first figure concluded and the dancers returned to their places upon the set, Lady Catherine leaned slightly forward, her gaze narrowing with intent.
“You see, Darcy,” she said, her voice low but confident, “how naturally they suit one another. A well-matched pair is evident at once—there is no need for haste when propriety guides the choice.”
Darcy did not look away from the floor. “They conduct themselves with civility,” he replied. “That is all that can be said at present.”
Lady Catherine turned her head toward him, her brows lifting. “You are cautious, Fitzwilliam. Caution is admirable in its place, but one must not allow it to impede what is plainly advantageous.”
Darcy met her look calmly. “Advantage is a consideration, ma’am. Consent is another.”
She smiled, thinly. “You speak as though the two were in opposition.”
“I speak,” Darcy said evenly, “as Georgiana’s guardian—and, if you will allow the term, her tutor in society. I will not permit her to be pressed into attentions she has not freely chosen, however suitable they may appear.”
Lady Catherine’s smile held, but its warmth diminished. “Pressed?” she repeated. “I merely arrange introductions. A young woman cannot be expected to govern her own prospects without guidance.”
“Guidance,” Darcy replied, “does not require enforcement.”
On the floor, the dancers crossed again. Georgiana executed the turn with graceful exactness, her expression unchanged, and Lady Catherine followed the movement closely, as though willing animation into being by the force of her attention alone.
“She is enjoying herself,” Lady Catherine said at last. “Observe her composure. Observe how readily she meets her partner’s eye.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “My sister is well taught. She will always meet civility with civility.”
“And nothing more?” Lady Catherine asked.
“And nothing less,” he answered.
The music carried them through the final figure, the quartet concluding with a restrained cadence that marked the end of the dance without inviting display. Polite applause followed—measured, approving, and entirely proper to the company assembled.
When the figures dissolved with practised composure, the ordered movement of the floor gave way to a pause governed by custom rather than convenience.
Couples separated without haste, some retreating to the edges of the room, others lingering in attentive expectation, while the quartet remained poised with lowered bows, instruments at rest, awaiting further direction.
Conversation resumed in subdued currents, carefully moderated, as though no one wished to presume upon a silence that had not yet been formally released.
Georgiana curtsied; Mr. Dashwood bowed; and then, with unexceptionable correctness, he offered her his arm and conducted his partner directly to Lady Catherine.
The lady of the house rose to receive them, her movement measured and assured, acknowledging both the courtesy offered and the attention of the room.
“Your ladyship,” Mr. Dashwood said, inclining himself with respectful ease, “I am grateful for the honour you have done me in permitting me to open the assembly with your niece. Miss Darcy has obliged me greatly.”
Lady Catherine received the acknowledgment with visible satisfaction. “It was entirely proper,” she replied. “I trust you found the arrangement agreeable.”
“Perfectly so,” Mr. Dashwood answered, before bowing again and withdrawing, as etiquette required.
Only then did Darcy’s presence make itself felt—not by movement nor by claim, but by proximity.
He stood where Georgiana could see him if she chose, and she did.
For a brief instant, her expression softened, not in appeal but in assurance.
He returned the look with calm composure, offering neither instruction nor interference.
Lady Catherine, observing the exchange, appeared content to interpret it as nothing more than familial attentiveness.
“I am glad, Fitzwilliam,” Lady Catherine continued, resuming her elevated chair near the hearth, “that we are agreed upon the value of this evening.”
Darcy answered with a formality that was neither yielding nor defiant. “I am glad, ma’am, that Georgiana is permitted to value it in her own way.”
Lady Catherine paused, studying him with an expression in which calculation and resolve were evenly balanced. Then, with a decisive inclination of her head, she turned her attention back to the floor, already adjusting her expectations and considering the next arrangement.
“An excellent beginning,” she declared, with evident satisfaction. “We may proceed just as smoothly.”
At her signal, the quartet prepared once more, and the assembly entered an interval that allowed new pairs to be formed for the next set of dances.
Lady Catherine observed this pause from her elevated seat near the hearth, her gaze fixed upon the open space where the next figures would be drawn together, for new pairs did not assemble themselves at Rosings without direction.
Thus the evening advanced, and with it Lady Catherine’s plans, unaware, as yet, that authority acknowledged is not always authority obeyed.
It was during this interval that Mr. Darcy became aware of a figure approaching him with a confidence born not of intimacy but of presumption, and with an intention he could not yet fully discern. At his side, Georgiana started perceptibly and tightened her hold upon his arm.
Mr. Wickham—known to the Darcys as the son of their late father’s steward—had stepped forward from the outer ring of observers and now advanced with an ease that might, to a less informed eye, have appeared merely sociable.
His coat was cut with care, his manner outwardly polished, and his countenance arranged into an expression of cordial assurance; yet there lingered about him that indefinable air of a man who relied too readily upon charm where discretion would have served him better.
Darcy recognised him at once, and with the recognition came that inward tightening of resolve which experience, rather than temper, had taught him to command.
He did not move from his place, nor did he offer the smallest encouragement, but waited, his posture unaltered and his gaze steady, unwilling to concede even the appearance of welcome.
At his side, Georgiana did not withdraw her hand.
Wickham halted at a proper distance and inclined his head, as though they met upon neutral ground and on equal terms, and spoke with an ease that assumed familiarity rather than requested it.
“Mr. Darcy. It has been some time. Miss Darcy.”
Darcy returned the inclination with measured civility. “Mr. Wickham.”
The exchange, brief though it was, did not pass entirely unnoticed.
Lady Catherine’s attention rested upon them for a moment, not with alarm but with appraisal, as one might observe any unfamiliar interaction among her guests, before returning to the floor in evident satisfaction that nothing had yet occurred to require her direction.
She was aware of Mr. Wickham only in the limited sense that propriety demanded—as a gentleman recently admitted upon her invitation—and whatever history lay beyond that distinction did not enter her consideration.
Others, less exacting in their observations, remarked merely that two gentlemen conversed during the customary interval and dismissed it as a commonplace occurrence.
“I had not expected to see you here this evening, Darcy,” Wickham continued, lowering his voice in a manner that suggested confidence rather than caution. “Nevertheless, Rosings has always been a place of… select invitations.”
Darcy’s reply was calm and deliberately devoid of warmth. “Her ladyship’s invitations are extended according to her own judgment. Your presence here requires no further comment from me.”
“Indeed,” Wickham said lightly. “And yet one cannot help but admire her taste—the company excellent, the music agreeable, and Miss Darcy—” He allowed a pause, as though savouring the name. “—a very graceful dancer.”