Chapter Eight #2
“I should be honoured,” Elizabeth said. Mr Darcy responded with a wordless nod and a smile.
They must have spoken of something until it was time to take their places for the dance, but Elizabeth could not remember later what it had been.
It seemed only moments before the time came.
Suddenly, they stood on the dancefloor with the others, and the musicians were beginning the first set.
He had once declined to dance with her, and Elizabeth had never wished it might be otherwise.
Though Mr Darcy was a graceful man, with a sense of controlled power about his movements, she had never thought of how he might dance with so much as curiosity, let alone interest. Tonight, she was simply aware of the eyes of the room upon them, of Mr Darcy’s steady gaze.
Every movement between them was observed.
The set began.
Mr Darcy’s manner was impeccable. He executed each figure with precision, offering assistance where required, maintaining the correct distance, his expression composed but not severe.
Mr Darcy did not attempt intimacy or presume familiarity.
He did not even permit their hands to linger beyond what the dance demanded.
Elizabeth recognised the effort in it. “You are very careful,” she said softly as they passed in the line.
“I would not wish to give offence.”
“To whom?”
His eyes met hers briefly as couples moved around them.
“To you.”
She faltered half a step before recovering. “You believe you might offend me so easily?”
“I believe,” he said, “that circumstances have rendered every gesture only too liable to interpretation.”
Elizabeth looked away, knowing she could not dispute it. When the next figure brought them close, she murmured, “This is considerably more difficult than I had anticipated.”
“The dance?”
“The performance of the dance,” she said. “Being watched.”
“You are doing very well,” Mr Darcy said. From another, more conventional man, it might have meant nothing, but from his lips, Elizabeth believed it was intended as information rather than as empty courtesy.
“You are better at it than I am,” Elizabeth said. “You have always looked composed. It is less conspicuous on you.”
“I am not, perhaps, as composed as I look.”
The figure moved them apart before she could answer, and when it brought them back together, the moment had passed.
The dance then required concentration rather than conversation, and Elizabeth filed the surprising admission away for examination at a later time.
She had acquired rather an alarming number of such things from recent circumstances.
Or, rather, from recent circumstances, and from Mr Darcy.
As the dance concluded, he escorted her from the floor with the same deliberate composure. An appreciative applause sounded for the dancers, making Elizabeth feel like an actress concluding a well-rehearsed scene.
Mrs Bennet descended upon them at once. “My dear Mr Darcy! How beautifully you dance together. I believe I have never seen a pair so well suited.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, but Mr Darcy bore her mother’s effusions with remarkable civility. “You are very kind, madam.”
“No, no, sir, it is nothing of the sort, I assure you!” Mrs Bennet protested.
“Why, you must believe me, for I asked Mrs Long, and she agreed with me. ‘Mrs Long,’ I said, ‘are not my Lizzy and Mr Darcy the most graceful dancers on the floor?’ And she agreed with me at once, without question or cavil, so you see it must be so.”
“I should not wish to contradict Mrs Long,” Mr Darcy agreed gravely. There was not so much as a hint of a smile on his face, an act of restraint for which Elizabeth felt profoundly grateful.
She did not think she could bear to hear more, and so cleared her throat. “Mama, is not that Aunt Phillips just there? Have you had the opportunity of speaking with her tonight?”
“Why, no, Lizzy, how thoughtful you have become of late! I shall speak to my sister at once.” And with that, Mrs Bennet swept away to proclaim her satisfaction elsewhere.
Elizabeth exhaled, relieved her mother had not lingered overlong, though more than a little concerned about what she might say to others, and how loudly. “You acquit yourself admirably,” she said, turning to Mr Darcy.
“I am accustomed to scrutiny.”
She studied him. “Are you accustomed to surrendering yourself to it?”
“No.” He cast his gaze downward.
She had not meant to wound him, yet something in her tone must have betrayed sharper feeling than intended.
He spoke more quietly. “Though I do not consider this a surrender.”
She clasped her gloved hands in front of her. “What then?”
“A consequence.”
She regarded him thoughtfully. There was much more to him than she had first supposed. “And consequences, must they always be borne?”
Mr Darcy nodded gravely. “When they arise from one’s own actions, yes.”
Elizabeth felt again the strange mixture of gratitude and resentment his honour inspired. “You are determined,” she observed.
“I am.”
Another set was called. A gentleman approached, but withdrew when he saw Mr Darcy remain at her side. It was understood, evidently, that her dances were not to be lightly claimed.
“You are depriving me of amusement,” she said lightly.
“I beg your pardon.”
Elizabeth cast a bemused glance over his stiff posture. “You stand guard like a sentinel.”
“If that is how it appears, I shall endeavour to improve the impression.”
“And what impression would you prefer to convey?”
“That I am attentive without being oppressive,” he replied.
Elizabeth looked at him in surprise, for his sincerity was obvious. With a slight effort, she laughed softly. “It is a delicate balance.”
“One I am willing to attempt.”
For the first time that evening, she felt something like real warmth between them, not born of obligation, but of shared awareness and understanding.
They stood in a silence that, if it did not yet have the ease of friendly companionship, was at least not so uncomfortable as it had once been.
Elizabeth gazed out and watched the couples dancing, thinking that even that much improvement was worthy of considerable gratitude: it might have been much worse.
Suddenly, she became aware of Caroline Bingley watching them from across the room.
Elizabeth frowned to herself, feeling the oddity of the circumstance.
Somehow, she did not quite wish Miss Bingley to notice her observation in return.
Elizabeth kept her face turned towards the dancers, and glanced towards Miss Bingley only briefly, as though by simple accident.
Each time, she found Miss Bingley’s gaze already there.
It never lingered. It was always replaced, within a second, by attention directed elsewhere, as though Miss Bingley’s eyes had simply been passing through the vicinity of Mr Darcy and Elizabeth on their way to something more interesting.
There could be no doubt: though not wishing to be caught at it any more than Elizabeth wished to be, Miss Bingley was watching them.
Miss Bingley looked impeccable that evening.
Her gown was the finest and most fashionable in the room.
Her conversation, from what Elizabeth could observe, was informed, amusing, and entirely correct.
She danced twice and smiled brightly and was at every point precisely what a hostess’s sister ought to be. No one could have seen any flaw in her.
And yet, as Elizabeth watched, she found herself thinking about a door unexpectedly locked, with a young woman and Mr Darcy on the wrong side of it.
She found herself thinking about who might have benefitted from such an occurrence…
if, perhaps, a different woman had been on the wrong side of that door.
She had said nothing to Mr Darcy about her suspicions beyond what they had discussed in the corridor.
He had said nothing further to her. By unspoken agreement, they had reached the limit of what two people could determine without evidence, and were waiting.
For evidence, for inspiration, for anything that might show them what step to take next.
Miss Bingley passed near her once in the course of the evening, in the movement between sets.
Mr Darcy was absent for once, having left her to speak with Sir Lucas, and seen her in Jane’s company before departing.
Jane looked to Miss Bingley with a smile, obviously glad for the familiar company.
Elizabeth could not claim to be equally so, or to anticipate anything Miss Bingley might say with much pleasure.
“Miss Eliza.” The warmth in her voice was perfectly calibrated, being enough for civility, but not so much as to suggest friendship.
“You look very well this evening. Marriage agrees with you already, and you are not even married yet.” She laughed lightly.
“I always say that engaged women have a special bloom. Do not you find it so, Miss Bennet?”
Jane looked a little confused at this, likely feeling the undercurrents to the statement and wishing to give them a more positive interpretation than Elizabeth believed they deserved, but answered readily.
“It is their happiness, I think,” Jane said softly.
“Surely anyone who has found their partner in life must be wonderfully happy, and such happiness could hardly help but give them a certain bloom.”
Miss Bingley laughed brightly at this. “How sweet you are, Miss Bennet! And I cannot disagree with you, only I think there is also something more than this. It is not only a matter of happiness, but of certainty. To have one’s future so happily settled must be a great relief.
Do you not think so, Miss Eliza?” Her pause then was extremely brief.
Brief enough to be deniable. “We are all so pleased for you, of course.”
“You are very kind,” Elizabeth said evenly, and met Miss Bingley’s eyes for just long enough to see that they were bright, watchful, and not pleased at all.