Sixth Dance
Once again, the dancers retreated from the floor before the second dance of the set was complete. Elizabeth worried the Netherfield group would acquire a reputation for lacking stamina. She could only hope the next assembly they attended might be less madcap.
Miss Darcy proved a shy but amiable young lady when not suspicious of the evening's nature. She was apparently quite gifted at the pianoforte, and she and Elizabeth shared an interesting discussion about their respective favourite composers. Elizabeth was happy to have someone other than Mary to discuss such things with. Mary was the only other Bennet sister with any slight pretension of musical talent, but her taste in composers ran nearly opposite to Elizabeth’s, and every possible angle of discussion had been exhausted years earlier. With Miss Darcy, she could start anew.
When Mr Darcy returned from his fourth set, he took his station beside her as if daring anyone, Elizabeth included, to send him to the floor again. He had done his duty to both the lady and the assembled residents, and nobody else in Hertfordshire would have the temerity to suggest he do more.
He knew full well he would have to deal with Anne eventually, but he wanted to have a few minutes with his new acquaintances before facing the inevitable results of Anne’s travel.
His aunt would not be pleased, and would no doubt find a way to blame the whole thing on him, as was customary.
Whatever set-down she decided upon would be long, tedious, and entirely pointless, but he would endure it because she was his aunt.
For a time, Darcy listened to the conversation between Elizabeth and his sister, amazed that the Bennet sisters managed such a change in less than an hour, when he and his cousin, along with Mrs Annesley, had worked at the task for months.
Perhaps he should have consulted a woman first, but that thought led him to review every woman he knew in his mind, eventually leading to the obvious conclusion.
None of them, not a single one, could have helped Georgie.
It took a couple of country nobodies with nothing to gain or lose from the friendship but amiability to do what was required.
That would demand thought over the next few days and weeks.
Looking at Miss Elizabeth, he began to think that staying in Hertfordshire might not be quite as much of a punishment as he had originally thought. Not a punishment at all, really.
Anne had apparently exhausted her reserves of both courage and conversation merely getting herself to Meryton, and after their dance she seemed to collapse in upon herself.
Reviewing the past, Darcy wondered what life was like for her at Rosings, and he was chagrined to find he had never really lifted a finger to help his cousin when it was well within his power.
How difficult must it be to put up with Lady Catherine, day after day, year in and year out without respite?
Darcy resolved he would bring Anne to town or Pemberley and get her away from her mother for a time to see what kind of young lady she could become—or perhaps he would keep her here in Hertfordshire with his sister.
That thought struck him like a stone on a bell, and he was quite astonished at how smooth and natural the idea felt. He had already as much as decided his sister would stay here with Miss Elizabeth for some time, and her suggestion of Longbourn was sounding more appealing every minute.
Elizabeth noticed Miss de Bourgh flagging, and since it appeared she would need at the very least a block and tackle to get Jane away from Mr Bingley, she decided she would have to drag the young woman out of her self-imposed exile.
Perhaps attaching Kitty to her for an hour would do the trick?
Lydia would be too much—well actually, Lydia was asleep in a chair in the corner, having apparently made one too many trips to the punch table.
Darcy looked on in amazement as Miss Elizabeth, with the patience of a skilled artisan, started a small, innocuous conversation with his cousin, who had never been known to converse with much of anybody, and gradually pulled the woman out of the shell she was hiding in.
Miss Elizabeth was not a miracle worker, and a quarter hour’s conversation would not transform his cousin’s life, but he began to think that with a little more time, and the help of her sisters, she might.
Even the silly and ridiculous sisters might be helpful, as one could certainly not grumble about a lack of liveliness.
Perhaps he need not deal with Anne at all, aside from diverting the effusions of her Lady Catherine.
The Bennet sisters, along with Miss Lucas who simply exuded sensibility, might be exactly what was needed. Who would have thought it a mere few hours earlier?
For her part, Elizabeth noticed his scrutiny and surprisingly welcomed it.
She quite liked spending time with Mr Darcy, and she could well imagine they might spend a few days together over the next weeks.
Contrary to her initial expectations, it would most certainly not be a punishment.
As for his sister and Miss de Bourgh, she could hardly wait to pry their stories out of them, by force if necessary.
She noticed Mr Darcy paying real attention to her out of the corner of his eye, which she could readily determine, for she examined him similarly.
Elizabeth was glancing around at all her new acquaintances when she was startled by yet another commotion at the entrance. “Good Lord, are we to be visited by everyone in England?”
Many inhabitants of the room still danced and did not notice the disturbance, but everyone in Elizabeth’s little group certainly did. Their eyes fixed on the entrance like hawks spying a den of mice.
Mr Darcy’s response reached Elizabeth rather than her seeing it. “BLAST!”
Fortunately, he spoke quietly enough that only she heard. Oh dear, this was not likely to end well!
The entering pair formed the oddest couple she had ever seen—or at least since Miss de Bourgh and Mr Collins. With their age disparity, they were surely not a couple, but more likely mother and son, or aunt and nephew.
The man was around Mr Darcy’s age. Elizabeth had to own that two hours earlier she might have considered him quite handsome, but something was not quite right about his expression.
He had the countenance of an amiable, upright man, yet something did not ring true.
His smile was too much like a sneer. His hair, tied back in a long queue midway down his back, was too carefully coiffed.
His clothing looked like something he could not quite afford, yet he was unwilling to dress down to his station.
No, she did not trust this man—though she had no idea why.
The lady, a matron older than Elizabeth’s mother, looked so angry she appeared to be debating whether to thump her walking stick on the floor or swing it at random dancers.
The decision must have been difficult, as she stood stock still for a full minute or more.
In addition to boiling anger, a sneer of disgust twisted her features, as if the woman had landed in a pile of—well, she probably should quit chastising Charlotte for that last prank, considering how sweet the revenge had been. Mr Collins, indeed!
The younger man marched quickly across the room, right up to Mr Darcy.
A vein pulsed on Mr Darcy's neck above his cravat, and his fists balled tight, as if restraining himself from violence.
Whoever this man was, he had done Mr Darcy some wrong.
At some point, she would have to wonder why she assumed the wrong had been committed on Mr Darcy, considering the shortness of their acquaintance, but at that moment she would have bet her life on it.
Her other new friends all recognised the newcomer, with various levels of disapprobation.
Miss Darcy had turned white as a sheet; surely the story of Miss Darcy and this unknown man would not be to her liking.
Miss de Bourgh stared at the man as she might a common criminal awaiting sentencing or the hangman.
She clearly held no good opinion. The colonel unconsciously opened and closed his fist while reaching to his side for his non-existent sword.
Elizabeth was uncertain whether to be happy or sad he was unarmed.
In the end, with the looks the man generated, it likely made little difference; he still had his fists.
The man stepped up to Mr Darcy and spoke with an insolent air. “Ah, Darcy, I happened to notice your cousin trying to find you at your townhouse. It seemed odd, so I naturally rode directly to Rosings to tell your aunt what was about. She, of course, asked me to attend her to fetch the tart back.”
He sneered at Miss de Bourgh with undisguised contempt; apparently, there was a similarity of feeling between the two.
He continued blithely, “I say, Darcy, are you not the master of protocol? Will you not introduce me to your new acquaintances? Which is yours: the tolerable one beside you, or the decidedly un-handsome one over in the corner?”
The man was clearly egging Mr Darcy on, probably under the impression he could get away with it indefinitely.
Perhaps they knew each other well, or perhaps he had been taunting him for years, depending on Mr Darcy’s gentlemanly conduct to keep him safe.
What he did not know was that Elizabeth Bennet had no such scruples and was not to be trifled with.
She opened her mouth to deliver the wretched man the set-down of his life.
She had it all worked out in her mind; it was to be the most vicious bit of verbiage ever uttered in Hertfordshire—nay, in all England.
He would cry for his mother before she was through with him, and the set-down would be severe enough to be handed down with all the éclat of a proverb.