13. A Gentleman’s Attentions #2
Jane smiled and resumed to her sewing, leaving Elizabeth to imagine the assembly, the crowd, the music, and a tall gentleman entering a room in Hertfordshire as if the summer had not been very long indeed.
By the second week of September, Netherfield Park was occupied, its windows opened, its stables busy, and every household within visiting distance alive with speculation concerning Mr. Bingley and his guests.
The Meryton assembly rooms had never looked so important.
Every candle appeared to have been lit with unusual ambition, every ribbon hung with more consequence than it deserved, and every family in the neighborhood had come prepared to inspect Mr. Bingley from collar to shoe-buckle.
Mrs. Bennet, having spent the afternoon in a state of agitation that rendered the house nearly uninhabitable, was now engaged in adjusting Jane’s gown for the third time since their arrival.
“My dear Jane, stand still. The lace has gone crooked.”
“It has not, Mama.”
“It has. Lizzy, tell her.”
Elizabeth, who had been fastening one of her gloves, glanced over. “Jane’s lace is innocent.”
Mrs. Bennet made a disbelieving sound. “You are no help. A young lady’s appearance at an assembly is a matter of consequence.”
“Then Jane is safe. She looks beautiful.”
Jane blushed and gave Elizabeth a grateful look. “There, Mama.”
“She does look beautiful,” Mrs. Bennet conceded, immediately recovering her spirits. “So beautiful that Mr. Bingley must be blind if he does not ask her to dance. Though gentlemen are often blind when one most requires them to see.”
Mr. Bennet, who had escorted them as far as the door and then withdrawn home with an excellent display of paternal sacrifice, had left his wife without any proper object for teasing.
She therefore divided her attention among Jane’s gown, Mary’s expression, and the whereabouts of her two youngest daughters.
“Where are Lydia and Kitty?”
“Over there,” Elizabeth said.
Across the room, Lydia stood beside Kitty with the air of a general arranging troops.
Her disappointment in Mr. Wickham’s absence had lasted until the first fiddler began tuning.
Since she had no inclination to dance merely for her own pleasure, she had directed her energies toward securing partners for every other young lady in the room.
Kitty had already been delivered to Mr. Goulding’s nephew with firm instruction not to waste the set by talking of ribbons.
Mary, to everyone’s astonishment, had been introduced to a serious young man from Lucas Lodge who liked sacred music and possessed the patience to hear about it. Mrs. Long’s nieces were next.
Elizabeth watched Lydia seize Mrs. Long’s elder niece by the hand and tow her toward two bashful gentlemen near the wall.
“She is matchmaking,” Elizabeth said.
Jane followed her gaze and smiled. “How very industrious.”
“Wickham’s absence has made her useful. We must inform him.”
“If you do, she will never forgive you.”
“I am willing to risk it.”
Lydia entered some minutes later, cheeks bright and eyes full of purpose. “Mary is dancing.”
“That is a great achievement,” Elizabeth said.
“I know. I told Mr. Ellis she reads improving books and would make him a very rational partner.”
“Mary must have been delighted.”
“She did not hear me.”
“Lydia.”
“What? It worked.”
Before Elizabeth could answer, a ripple moved through the room. Heads twisted toward the entrance. Conversation grew oddly uneven, then sharpened into whispers.
Mrs. Bennet caught Jane by the wrist. “They are here.”
“Do not rush forward, Mama,” Jane murmured.
“I was not going to rush.”
“You had begun leaning.”
Mrs. Bennet drew herself up with wounded dignity. “I am perfectly capable of waiting to be introduced.”
Elizabeth barely heard them.
Mr. Bingley entered first, fair-haired, pleasant-faced, and already smiling as though Meryton had done him a great favor by assembling.
Beside him came a gentleman Elizabeth did not know, likely Mr. Hurst, whose interest in the room seemed unlikely to outlast supper.
Two ladies followed, both fashionably dressed, one with the elegant ease of a married woman accustomed to comfort, the other strikingly handsome and sharply attentive.
Then Darcy entered.
Elizabeth’s fingers closed around her fan.
He looked tired—wearier than she had remembered him in London.
His face bore the same grave dignity, his coat the same excellent tailoring, his manner the same command of self.
Still, there was a restraint about him that did not belong to ordinary reserve.
He held himself like a man prepared to endure a trial in public.
The handsome lady’s hand rested on his arm.
Elizabeth opened her fan.
Charlotte Lucas appeared at her shoulder with the speed and silence of a woman in possession of intelligence.
“The fair gentleman is Mr. Bingley,” Charlotte whispered. “The stout one is Mr. Hurst. His wife is the elder sister, Mrs. Hurst, and the other is Miss Bingley. She has been admiring the room with the expression of a person who means to find fault and is disappointed by abundance.”
Elizabeth’s mouth twitched. “And Mr. Darcy?”
“Oh, you know Mr. Darcy?”
“I had that pleasure in town.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened, but she was too well-bred to exclaim. “Then you will know whether he always looks so unhappy when escorting a handsome lady.”
Elizabeth’s fan moved too quickly. “I believe Miss Bingley may have claimed his arm with more triumph than he feels.”
“That is a charitable interpretation.”
“It may be the single charitable one available.”
The discomfort that moved through Elizabeth at the sight of Miss Bingley’s hand upon his sleeve was absurd. She knew nothing of the lady beyond Darcy’s own admission that her hopes were unpromising. He had said her attachment, if it could be called such, was one-sided. Elizabeth believed him.
Belief did not prevent irritation.
Sir William Lucas soon approached, beaming, with the Netherfield party in train.
He introduced Charlotte first with appropriate paternal pride, then Mrs. Bennet, whose curtsey contained both welcome and calculation.
Jane was presented next. Mr. Bingley’s admiration was so immediate that even Elizabeth, inclined to defend her sister from every premature expectation, could not deny the pleasure of it.
“And Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Sir William said.
Darcy stepped forward before Sir William could complete whatever flourish he had prepared.
“Miss Bennet.” His bow was deeper than mere neighborhood civility required. “I am very pleased to see you again.”
The room did not stop, of course. Assemblies did not halt because one gentleman spoke warmly to one lady. People continued whispering, fiddlers scraped, Mrs. Bennet made a small triumphant noise, and Lydia, from across the floor, stood upon her toes to see better.
But Sir William’s brows rose. “You are acquainted already? Excellent, excellent. How gratifying to discover Mr. Darcy known among us. We are a small community, sir, but not, I hope, without claims to good society.”
“Indeed,” Darcy replied, though his eyes had not left Elizabeth’s face. “Miss Bennet’s aunt and uncle honored my sister and me with their friendship in town.”
“How very delightful,” Mrs. Bennet cried. “Lizzy, you never said Mr. Darcy was coming.”
“I did not know it, Mama.”
Miss Bingley’s smile had become an object of discipline rather than pleasure.
Darcy ignored it. “May I have the honor of the next set, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth’s answer required less thought than propriety pretended. “You may.”
“And the last, if it is not already promised.”
Miss Bingley’s fan snapped open.
Elizabeth felt Charlotte shift beside her, likely suppressing laughter.
“The last is also free,” Elizabeth said.
“Then I am fortunate.”
Mr. Bingley, perhaps reminded of his duty by Darcy’s efficiency, asked Charlotte for the next set and Jane for another later in the evening.
Charlotte accepted with composure. Jane accepted with a blush that made her more beautiful than ever.
Mrs. Bennet looked ready to embrace the whole Netherfield party, including Miss Bingley, though Elizabeth doubted Miss Bingley would survive the event with grace.
The dance was called before further awkwardness could gather.
Darcy led Elizabeth to the set, his manner correct, his presence so familiar and so altered by location that she scarcely knew how to order her feelings.
London Darcy had belonged to Gracechurch Street, Hyde Park, tea tables, and tender farewells.
Hertfordshire Darcy stood beneath Meryton candles, among her neighbors, while every curious eye tried to determine why he had asked her before any lady of higher consequence.
“I hope your journey home was comfortable,” he said when the dance allowed conversation.
“Comfortable enough. Ireland did not send us back by the shortest road, but my uncle insists the longest roads produce the best stories.”
“And did they?”
“They produced one broken wheel, two damp inns, and a landlady in Kilkenny whom my aunt declared the finest woman in Europe.”
“That is a considerable distinction.”
“She earned it by producing dry sheets and edible fish on the same evening.”
Darcy’s mouth eased into the expression she had missed more than she cared to admit. “Then Europe may honor her without protest.”
“Ireland was beautiful,” Elizabeth said when the figure separated and brought them together again. “Wilder than I expected in some places, friendlier in others, and determined to teach English carriages humility. I am very glad to have gone.”
“And glad to be home?”
“Yes.” She looked briefly toward Jane, who was speaking with Mr. Bingley and smiling more than usual. “Very glad.”
“I am glad as well.”
“That I am home?”
“Yes.”
The answer, plain and unadorned, warmed her more than any polished compliment would have done. She lowered her eyes to the movement of the dance before her cheeks could betray her.
“And Ramsgate?” she asked after a moment. “Did it answer Miss Darcy’s expectations?”