Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“You look beautiful,” Jane whispered to her sister. “Is that the necklace Henry gave you?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth choked out. “Yes, he…oh, Jane! This is a terrible mistake.”
The days leading up to the Netherfield Ball were filled with anxiety for Elizabeth.
She vowed nearly ten times a day that she would not attend, and she spent the rest of the day convincing herself that it would be best to go.
She would then recall the few times she had the pleasure of dancing with her husband.
This would inevitably lead to some weeping, during which she would vow not to go to the ball, and then the cycle would begin anew.
At last, she hit on the idea that, if she confronted her memories, they would be exorcised. She sent to her home in London for a gown she had worn to a ball with Henry, as well as the jewels she wore with it, including a necklace he had given her when they were first betrothed.
Now she stood on the threshold of Netherfield’s ballroom, resplendent in all the trappings of Lady Courtenay save for one thing: Lord Courtenay.
She almost expected to see him, laughing about this or that.
He had always been in such a fine, jovial mood, her Henry, loving a laugh and ever of a mind for a good party.
Like her, he delighted in the follies and whims of others, and she imagined his voice in her ear, playfully remarking on the profusion of feathers adorning the ladies in the room or observing that her cousin Mr Collins appeared to be stomping grapes for wine rather than dancing.
The memories accosted her at every turn. She searched the dancers, wondering whether she might find a younger version of herself, gaily dancing with her love.
This will not do. She inhaled deeply, pushing away the tears that stung her eyes and vowing to put any thought of her past behind her so she might endure, if not enjoy, the evening.
Darcy tossed and turned on the nights preceding the ball, alternately permitting and denying himself the pleasure of dancing with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Finally, he came to the decision to allow himself one set—thirty minutes in which he might claim her as his own and indulge himself in the painfully sweet pleasure of seeing her eyes on him, feeling her hand in his, and hearing her conversation in his ear.
Then he would depart Hertfordshire and see her no more; in that, he was resolved.
He roamed the ballroom, awaiting her arrival for what felt like hours. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had obtained permission from his regiment to remain for the ball, teased him mercilessly about his unrest and mocked his pacing, but Darcy was not mindful of him.
Suddenly, he saw her, and for a moment, he could not breathe. She was stunning, extraordinary, the very essence of feminine beauty and grace. He was surprised at the immediate, intense yearning he felt for her.
Some part of him observed the fineness of her dress and her jewels, but these thoughts were forgotten almost as soon as he considered them. She has that look about her, a fragile sort of sorrow. How odd. Why would a young, beautiful lady be sad at a ball?
As he watched, he saw her remove the diffident air from herself.
She inhaled deeply, arranging her features into a picture of confidence.
She raised her chin and assumed a faint smile that had all the appearance of pleasure.
He was puzzled by it but could make nothing of it, and he soon forgot it in favour of studying the pleasing way her hair bounced softly against her neck and her gown fluttered gently around her ankles as she walked.
The music began, signalling the next dance, and couples began taking their places.
Some arrangement for her first dance must have been planned previously, for Darcy saw Miss Elizabeth immediately being claimed by young Mr Philips, her cousin.
He settled himself to the pleasure of watching her dance, all the while considering his plan to request a set.
Elizabeth felt she had gathered her equanimity to the greatest extent possible, and still, as she greeted her hostess and made her way towards the dancers, she was filled with fear and the desire to burst into tears.
She had left nothing to chance for this evening.
Her first dance had been prearranged with her cousin, Mrs Philips’s youngest son, who had been her preferred childhood companion and remained a dear friend.
Philips squeezed her hands in reassurance as they began the dance, weaving through the pattern and chatting lightly of inconsequential things. Slowly, the anxiety began to ebb from Elizabeth’s body.
Then it happened. While moving through the pattern, she chanced to look over at the refreshment table, and a vivid memory fell upon her with ferocity.
The first event we attended in Italy was a ball given in a lovely, old estate just outside the town in which we stayed.
Henry and I opened the ball, but my hand was requested for the next set by another gentleman of our party: Mr Arthur Moore, a wealthy landowner from Yorkshire, also on his wedding trip.
He was an amiable gentleman and a fine dancer, and I was enjoying myself quite well when I happened to glance towards my husband.
Henry stood with his good friend Lord Belmore, a portly, amiable gentleman with a decided bent towards irreverent humour.
Catching my eye, Henry daringly blew me a kiss.
I blushed and looked down as I moved into the pattern, thus my back was turned to the two men.
When I came around again, Lord Belmore nudged Henry’s ribs as he caught my eye and mimicked Henry’s kiss.
I gave Lord Belmore a mock scolding look and then the pattern turned again and my back was to them.
When I faced them once more, the two were acting like schoolboys, conducting a duel in my honour with spoons from the refreshment table. I could not contain my laughter at the sight, and I knew an exquisite felicity that I felt would never leave me.
Lost in her memory, Elizabeth looked towards the refreshment table, almost expecting to see Henry, his daring kiss, and the mock duel.
When truth intruded upon memory, the force of loss hit her all over again.
She stumbled, and Philips caught her, noting her pallor.
“Lizzy, are you well?” Mutely, she shook her head.
“Shall we leave the floor?” Again, she shook her head, summoning her courage and refusing to bow to the intimidation of her own sorrow. She could not fail at this, a simple ball in her home county. If she did, how could she ever face London?
Do not cry, Lizzy, just dance. Look at the flowers. Look at Jane dancing with Mr Bingley. Look at the musicians. Think about anything but Henry.
When the interminable dance ended, Philips escorted her from the floor. “If anyone asks for me, I am taking air on the terrace,” she whispered then turned and walked briskly away, determined to make it outside before her tears began to flow.
Mr Darcy came upon her as she fled. “Miss Elizabeth, if you are not otherwise engaged, would you do me the honour of dancing the next with me?”
Elizabeth did not comprehend what he said—her mind was filled with nothing but the need to restrain her tears. It was as if he spoke through a fog, but whatever he had said, he appeared to expect a reply, so she offered a tremulous smile and said, “Yes, it is.”
She hoped her response matched his question, which she assumed to be something about the ball or the weather or some such nonsense. It hardly signified; she just needed to get away from him before she made a fool of herself by bursting into sobs.
He left her just as tears flooded her eyes, obscuring her vision as she rushed from the room, blindly stumbling through the hall and onto a balcony where the cold night air welcomed her into solitude. Elizabeth was dimly thankful for the chill of the night keeping potential companions inside.
“Henry.” She said his name in a sob, unleashing the anxiety, pain, and loneliness of the past two years. She suppressed nothing, permitting her sorrow to overwhelm her as she soaked her handkerchief, which was soon too wet to be of use.
She startled when she felt a dry handkerchief pressed into her hand, but she did not look at its owner in the vain hope that whoever it was would go away and leave her to her agonies. He did not, and at length, she forced herself to regain her composure.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was looking at her with compassion. When it was apparent he would not go away without some explanation, she admitted in a voice that was hoarse and sounded damp, “Your parents have been so good to me these two years, helping me arrange and manage my affairs.”
“They think very highly of you.” He hesitated and then asked, “How is our young earl?”
Elizabeth shot him a quick look. Disregarding his question, she asked her own. “So you know…?”
“Everything…though I must admit, it escaped me that I might make your acquaintance here in Hertfordshire. I have recently assisted the group from the Home Office that seeks the last man involved in the plot.”
“My husband’s killer.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded silently, and the two fell silent.
Finally, Elizabeth spoke again. “I must go to London in January and remain for the Season. It is not my wish to do so. Except for desperately missing my son, hiding in Hertfordshire has been perfect.”
“I certainly appreciate the desire to avoid the marriage mart. I have been doing so for nearly a decade now.” The colonel laughed at his own joke, bringing a wan smile to Elizabeth’s face.
She looked down at Colonel Fitzwilliam’s now soggy handkerchief, which she was twisting in her hands. “I used to find balls and parties quite enjoyable.”
“But not tonight?”