Chapter 4
The Assembly at Meryton
Darcy’s early days at Netherfield had passed with a degree of satisfaction he had never anticipated.
The house suited Bingley exceedingly well.
Its proportions were generous without pretension, its situation pleasant, and its distance from London sufficient to justify a temporary retreat from obligations that too often pressed upon his time.
The surrounding grounds, though far from remarkable, were orderly and well maintained, offering ample opportunity for walking and reflection.
More importantly, the house had remained nearly empty.
Bingley’s enthusiasm filled any silence that might otherwise have become tedious, but he never overwhelmed it.
Their conversations were easy and unforced.
Mornings passed in plans for improvement.
Afternoons were spent exploring the estate or riding through the neighboring fields.
Evenings required little more than a fire, a book, and the occasional exchange of opinion.
Darcy had never expected to enjoy it.
He found, to his surprise, that he did.
That agreeable state of affairs ended the moment the carriage arrived.
Its approach announced itself before it came into view—the grind of wheels upon gravel, the increased activity among the servants, and the unmistakable change in atmosphere accompanying the arrival of company fully prepared to make its presence known.
Darcy, standing at the library window, continued to watch as the carriage drew up before the entrance, the door opened, and Miss Caroline Bingley descended.
She did more than arrive; she made an entrance.
Her manner conveyed such certainty of position that acknowledgment from others was almost superfluous.
Her posture, her step, and the inclination of her head all suggested familiarity with surroundings of this kind, together with the expectation that they would accommodate her with equal ease.
Behind her came Mrs. Hurst, whose expression already inclined toward fatigue, and Mr. Hurst, who appeared to have brought little beyond his appetite and a willingness to indulge it.
Darcy closed the book he had been holding and set it aside.
He had no intention of avoiding them. At the same time, he entertained no illusions about what their arrival would entail.
By the time he entered the drawing room, Miss Bingley had already positioned herself near its center, as though it were a stage upon which she had long been accustomed to appear.
“My dear brother,” she was saying, extending her hands to Bingley, “you have quite outdone yourself.”
Bingley received her with effortless warmth. “You like it, then?”
“It is very well chosen,” she replied, her gaze moving over the room with approval. “Though I cannot say it would have been my first selection.”
Darcy braced himself as he approached. “Miss Bingley.”
Her attention shifted to him. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, her tone softening without losing any of its polish. “How fortunate we are to find you here already established.”
“Circumstances permitted an earlier arrival.”
“And we are all the better for it,” she returned.
He did not answer.
The exchange continued around him—introductions repeated, observations offered, the house inspected with increasing familiarity. Miss Bingley moved through the space as though already mistress of it, directing her attention where she chose, her approval implied rather than stated.
Darcy felt the shift within himself as clearly as one might note the closing of a door.
The ease of the previous days receded.
In its place came the composure expected of him—the polished restraint that answered attention with civility, and little more.
Bingley, meanwhile, had begun to speak of the assembly.
“There is to be a gathering at Meryton tonight,” he said. “We have been invited, and I think we must go.”
Miss Bingley paused. “An assembly?”
“Yes,” he said, with unabated enthusiasm. “It promises to be a very agreeable introduction to the neighborhood.”
Mrs. Hurst’s brows lifted slightly. “We have only just arrived.”
“Which makes it all the more suitable,” Bingley replied. “You will meet everyone all at one time.”
Miss Bingley’s expression remained unchanged, though a perceptible coolness entered it. “One might have hoped,” she said, “for a little respite before engaging with the society of the country.”
“You are under no obligation,” Bingley said. “You are welcome to remain here if you prefer.”
Her gaze shifted to Darcy.
“I am certain Mr. Darcy would prefer a quieter evening.”
The suggestion lacked all subtlety.
Darcy regarded her for an instant. He had little fondness for assemblies. The prospect of dancing offered scant attraction. The company, by her own estimation, would almost certainly fall short of her standards.
The alternative—remaining at Netherfield in her exclusive company—was decidedly less appealing.
“I shall attend,” he said.
Bingley’s satisfaction was immediate. “You see? Darcy has already agreed.”
“That was before we arrived,” Miss Bingley said.
Darcy’s expression remained composed.
“I have given my word.”
“To Sir William Lucas,” Bingley added. “You told him you would come.”
“I did.”
Miss Bingley nodded, her smile returning, though any true warmth was absent.
“As you wish.”
Darcy understood her meaning perfectly.
He gave it no further thought.
Darcy dressed with his usual precision, his movements unhurried, his thoughts inclined more toward endurance than anticipation.
When he entered the parlor, Bingley was pacing.
“We are late,” he said with irritation, consulting the mantel clock in visible frustration.
“We are not ready to depart?” Darcy replied.
Bingley nodded. “Exactly. Which is the difficulty.”
Mrs. Hurst sat nearby, her posture composed, her expression suggesting that time was of little consequence. “Caroline is still dressing,” she said.
Darcy took a seat.
Time passed.
Bingley checked his watch, then the mantel clock once again. “We ought to have left half an hour ago.”
Darcy offered no reply.
Another ten minutes elapsed.
Bingley stopped before the door, his patience finally exhausted. “We are leaving.”
Darcy rose.
Mr. and Mrs. Hurst followed.
They stepped outside, the cool evening air a welcome contrast to the warmth of the house. The carriage stood ready, the horses shifting with impatience.
Bingley gave the order.
The carriage began to move.
The door of the house flew open.
“Wait!”
Miss Bingley descended in haste, her usual composure only slightly compromised by urgency. “Surely you would not depart without me,” she said as she entered the carriage.
Bingley made little effort to conceal his frustration.
Mrs. Hurst adjusted her shawl and leaned toward her brother. “Next time, you must provide Caroline with an earlier hour than the one you intend to keep.”
“I shall remember it,” he said.
Darcy took his place by the window.
The carriage set off once more.
Miss Bingley spoke.
Her subject varied—roads, company, expectations—but the tone remained unchanged. Country assemblies were inferior. Country manners insufficient. Country society unworthy of serious attention.
Darcy listened without attending.
The darkness beyond the glass provided a welcome contrast.
By the time they reached Meryton, his patience had worn thin.
The assembly rooms were crowded.
Light, sound, movement—everything pressed upon the senses in an instant. The music had begun before they entered; voices filled the spaces between.
Sir William Lucas greeted them with enthusiasm, two ladies at his side. Introductions followed.
Darcy acknowledged the conversation where required, his attention already divided.
Bingley’s changed expression drew it back.
Darcy followed his gaze. He saw them. Four ladies and a gentleman. Nothing in their appearance demanded notice. Something in their manner did.
Bingley turned to Sir William, asking after the party. Happy to oblige, the portly knight moved without hesitation in the direction of the little group.
Darcy followed.
Sir William proceeded to introduce each in turn. The name—Bennet—hit him before he had fully considered why. Recognition came a moment later.
The boys in the shrubbery. The conversation.
He looked more closely at the gentleman before him. His distraction cost him dearly, and he missed the names of the ladies. Bennet, a surname, was all he had.
Bingley, meanwhile, had no such difficulty. He engaged readily—requesting a set of the eldest, then addressing the others with equal ease.
Darcy remained silent.
When the exchange concluded and his friend departed, he followed. Only afterward did he realize what he had failed to do.
I ought to have asked them to dance. He had been abominably rude.
Miss Bingley came to his side and placed a hand on his arm. “You have left them in no doubt.”
The words made him wince. He had not intended insult, but he had given it.
The music began soon thereafter. Eager to dispense with the need to dance with the cloying woman at his side, he requested her second set.
Miss Bingley's smile faltered, though she accepted.
He then asked the same of Mrs. Hurst, who stood a little way off beside her husband.
Mr. and Mrs. Hurst exchanged a glance that suggested profound boredom.
Each dance was completed with propriety and little emotion. His duty to his host and hostess complete, Darcy withdrew to the wall.
The air grew close. The sound pressed. A faint pressure formed at his temples.
He searched for a chair.
As he glanced about, Darcy saw one of the Bennet ladies seated. There was a dearth of gentlemen in attendance. She almost certainly sat out to give other ladies a chance to enjoy dancing. As he stared, Miss Bingley returned.
“The company is intolerable,” she said. She snapped her fan in her palm. “I wish I had managed to convince my brother to remain at home.”