Chapter 7 #2
“Not at all, Mr Bingley, but I do thank you. I believe your exertions on the dance floor rendered you in far greater need of it than I, who spent most of the first sets in a less active manner.” She smiled kindly at him, her estimation of his gentlemanly manner still further improved.
“Let us rectify that straightaway! Will you dance the next with me?”
“Oh!” Elizabeth flushed, realising her words sounded like a hint, when in truth, she wished for the precise opposite. A dance, or two, you promised yourself—no, I simply cannot, not with a man so wholly unknown to me.
Mr Bingley stood awaiting her answer, and Jane gave Elizabeth a furtive look of encouragement.
Elizabeth forced a determined smile. “It would be my honour, I thank you.” Her heart began to pound with anxiety over the notion, accelerating as the music began again, indicating the next set would form.
Dancing had always been one of Elizabeth’s favoured activities prior to her marriage, but she had not participated in it since the death of her husband.
How strange it was to take the arm of another man, to be close enough to detect the faint whiff of his fragrance and see the spot on his neck where his valet had nicked him while shaving.
She felt exposed walking towards the set of dancers, beset by guilt and imagining poor Henry looking upon her with disappointment, as though she forgot him and their son so that she might be off with other men.
I cannot do this. Her hand, resting lightly on Mr Bingley’s coat, trembled with nerves she had not even experienced on her first dance as a young girl.
With each step forward, she considered halting their progress and telling Mr Bingley she could not dance, but she would not permit herself such a weakness.
She hoped it would be easier once the dance began, but it was not.
How wrong it felt to permit Mr Bingley to touch her hands—to smile at him and caper about, acting the part of a carefree young maid enjoying a dance with a handsome gentleman.
She reproached herself for the silliness of their conversation: casual banter about Hertfordshire, Netherfield, and other subjects of no consequence.
Did any of it matter? Her breathing became rapid, far faster than was induced by the dance, and she yearned for it all to end before she did something to humiliate herself, such as cry or scream.
She breathed a sigh of relief when it finally ended.
Her gown concealed her shaking knees as she returned to her place where only Mary remained.
Jane had been summoned across the room to her mother, no doubt being chastised for dancing with someone who was not suitable for Mrs Bennet’s elevated pretensions.
As she sat there, her anxiety and sadness began to overwhelm her, and she decided she would do no more.
She had danced one dance; that was enough on this first time out.
It was a relief to remove herself from the crush and find an out-of-the-way spot towards where the matrons sat.
As she rested, regaining some semblance of her equanimity, she noted that Mr Bingley again asked Jane to dance. Two dances! He does like her!
As she watched the dancers, her eye was occasionally drawn back to Mr Darcy, who was strolling around the room looking uncivil.
He had recommended himself to no one; the burgeoning public opinion was that he was a most disagreeable, haughty man.
He had not danced with anyone outside of his own party, no matter that more than one lady sat in want of a partner.
Perhaps I should hope his name is not on Lord Matlock’s list.
He ambled over towards where she sat and paused by a table, seemingly contented to be an observer. She was behind him but quite close, and thus it was that she could not have missed nor misheard an exchange that occurred just moments later between Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley.
Mr Bingley had completed his second dance with Jane, and he subsequently made it his object to enliven his increasingly unpopular and taciturn friend.
“Come, Darcy,” said he. “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”
“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.”
“I would not be so fastidious as you are,’’ cried Bingley, “for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.”
“You were dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I daresay, very agreeable. Do let me introduce you.”
Elizabeth heard this with alarm, not wishing to offend the man by refusing him, especially after Bingley had entreated him so earnestly. Oh no, no, no. I beg you would not induce him to ask me! I cannot, shall not—not now, not tonight.
“Which do you mean?’’ and turning round, Mr Darcy looked for a moment at Elizabeth till, catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, “She is tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt me, and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”
Elizabeth gasped at his comment. Of all the incivility! I do not know that I have ever seen such a rude, disagreeable man! Just who does he suppose he is? I would not dance with him if he did ask!
She rose from her seat and, with her own best haughty appearance, swept by Mr Darcy, using only one lifted brow to make him aware that she had heard his rude comment. Give consequence to me, indeed! Thank you, Mr Fitzwilliam Haughty Darcy, but I already have more consequence than I desire.
Darcy found the evening insufferable. He had little expectation or wish of forming any acquaintance of importance in this town—Bingley might or might not settle herein; at this point, anything was possible—and thus he did not intend to trouble himself overmuch.
Darcy did not have ease among strangers in the best of circumstances.
He was offended by the whispers about his income, his station, and his person that began nearly as soon as he had entered the room, and this further disinclined him to seek introductions.
Moreover, he generally found it difficult to make the polite chat that was expected, and he was fully aware of his tendency to give offence.
In short, it was always far easier for him to stand apart and remain silent in these gatherings.
To consider meeting a new young lady and being required to find subjects for polite, disinterested conversation, as well as dance with her, was unthinkable. Bingley was absurd to even suggest it. Darcy’s intent was to be as disagreeable as possible so Bingley would leave him in peace.
As soon as Bingley left, however, he was struck by remorse, for he realised the young lady in question heard what he had said despite his belief that he had spoken softly.
The lady had risen from her seat, and with a half-amused, half-severe look towards him, she went to join a group of young ladies he assumed were her friends.
With great spirit, she related something to them, causing a general titter of laughter amid surreptitious glances in his direction.
The worst of it, however, was still to come.
As the young lady had brushed by him, her gown lightly caressed the tip of his shoe even as a delicate whiff of her sweet scent filled his senses, and he felt an inexplicable but unbearable pang of longing for her.
His heart pounded madly, and at once, he somehow just knew it—she was the one.
It was she for whom he was destined, and in her, his happiness would reside.
This young lady, whose name he did not know, exacted her revenge for his graceless utterance in the cruellest way imaginable: she made him fall in love with her.
Fall in love with her! Darcy scoffed at himself even as the thought entered his head. Take hold of yourself, man! Love at first sight is the subject of bad poetry—not an actual occurrence, and certainly not an affliction indulged in by intelligent, learnt, and rational men!
I must admit, however, that I am feeling very…odd. Am I ill? It must be a fever of sorts, for what else could explain the shivers going up my back and the curious pounding of my heart.
He had, of course, seen many beautiful women before; had not the most handsome ladies of the ton shamelessly presented themselves to him for years?
When this young woman spoke, she would surely prove herself a simpering, uneducated country miss.
How could I possibly be in love with her? Absurd notion!
Yet, for some reason, despite these sensible arguments, he could not stop looking at her, longing to touch her and speak to her. He felt connected to her, and above all, he wished he had agreed to dance with her.
He spent the rest of the evening in a state of growing enchantment. He alternately stared at her and tried to persuade himself to stop. Several times, he thought to seek an introduction, but it appeared his opportunity had passed, and another did not arise.
I cannot be in love with someone to whom I have not even spoken. But his heart would not agree with him.