CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO A Ball at Netherfield
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A Ball at Netherfield
By the first week of February, Bingley decided recovery required a ball.
Darcy called this logic unsound.
Bingley called it excellent. “Everyone has been miserable for months,” he said. “You nearly died. Wickham nearly robbed the regiment. Caroline has been sulking. It has rained for six days. We require dancing.”
“I cannot dance.”
“You may watch.”
“I dislike watching.”
Elizabeth, who stood near the pianoforte at Longbourn while the debate occurred, said, “You have spent half the autumn watching people from the edge of ballrooms.”
Darcy gave her a grave look. “And learned the error of it.”
Bingley pointed at him. “There. Moral improvement. We must celebrate.”
The ball was fixed for the following Friday. Mrs. Bennet entered preparations as if commanding a campaign.
Jane’s white muslin was trimmed anew. Elizabeth chose a deep green silk altered from a gown of Mrs. Gardiner’s. Kitty and Lydia negotiated over ribbons with such intensity that Mr. Bennet threatened to assign colours by drawing lots. Mary announced she might not dance.
Lydia said, “La, Mary, no one will believe you solemn if you dance twice.”
Mary replied, “I do not care what anyone believes.”
“Then dance.”
Mary frowned, discovered she had been cornered by logic from Lydia, and changed the subject.
Netherfield shone that night. Bingley had opened every principal room.
Candles multiplied in mirrors. Musicians tuned in the gallery.
The floors gleamed. Caroline received guests at her brother’s side with elegance sharpened by effort.
She had not apologized to Jane. She had, however, ceased speaking of her as an unsuitable connection.
For Caroline, this represented progress.
Darcy stood with one hand on a cane near the fireplace. Dr. Morrison had permitted him to walk short distances without crutches but forbidden dancing. Darcy believed the second instruction vindictive.
Then Elizabeth entered.
He forgot the physician. Her green gown made her eyes appear darker. Her hair was arranged more simply than fashion dictated, curls escaping near one temple. She was laughing at something Lydia said.
Richard came to stand beside Darcy. “Close your mouth.”
Darcy did not look at him. “It is closed.”
“Then blink.”
Darcy turned. “Leave.”
Richard grinned.
Elizabeth approached. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Miss Elizabeth.”
“You are standing.”
“I have done so before.”
“Not for this long.”
He glanced at the cane. “I am obeying Morrison.”
“An historical occasion.”
His gaze moved over her face. “You look…”
Elizabeth waited. Darcy, who could discuss crop yields with three land agents and contradict Lady Catherine before dinner, failed to complete the sentence.
Richard murmured, “Beautiful. The word is beautiful.”
Darcy glared at him.
Elizabeth laughed. “Thank you, Colonel.”
“I am always of service.”
Darcy said, “You look beautiful.”
Her laughter softened. “Thank you.”
He had seen her blush many times, usually from irritation or exercise. This was different.
Bingley claimed Jane for the first set.
Richard danced with Elizabeth.
Darcy watched. He disliked watching more than ever. Richard knew it and became insufferably entertaining. He made Elizabeth laugh through the entire dance and once, while turning, caught Darcy’s eye and winked.
Darcy contemplated murder.
Georgiana sat beside him. “You are frowning.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“Richard is provoking me.”
“He is dancing.”
“Exactly.”
Georgiana hid a smile.
The set ended.
Elizabeth returned slightly breathless.
Darcy said, “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Immensely.”
Richard bowed. “Miss Elizabeth is an excellent partner.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened.
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. Richard walked away before his cousin could strike him with the cane.
“You are jealous,” Elizabeth said.
“No.”
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Yes.” Her brows lifted. He looked directly at her. “I am jealous.”
The frank admission removed her amusement. “You know Colonel Fitzwilliam is your cousin.”
“I know.”
“And my friend.”
“I know.”
“And not courting me.”
“I know.”
“Then your jealousy is unreasonable.”
“Entirely.”
Elizabeth stared. Darcy’s mouth moved. “Would you prefer I lie?”
“No.”
“Then I am jealous and unreasonable.”
She laughed.
A quadrille began. Darcy looked toward the floor. “I had wanted to dance with you.”
“You once refused.”
“I was an idiot.”
“You were.”
“Do you ever tire of being right?”
“Never.”
He looked at her. “Walk with me?”
“Dr. Morrison said—”
“Across the room. Not to Scotland.”
She offered her arm.
Darcy stared at it.
“You may lean on me,” she said.
“I am heavier than you.”
“I have noticed.”
He placed his hand lightly over hers. They walked slowly around the edge of the ballroom.
People watched. Elizabeth knew they watched. The engagement remained one of the season’s favourite stories. Some saw romance in his accident. Others saw fortune. Still others counted the weeks and wondered why no wedding date had been fixed. Darcy’s hand was warm over her glove.
“Does it trouble you?” he asked.
“What?”
“The attention.”
“Less than it did.”
“Why?”
She looked toward him. “Because it is no longer entirely false.”
He stopped walking.
Elizabeth’s heart jumped. Darcy’s face changed so completely that she almost regretted the words—not because they were untrue, but because hope entered him with dangerous force. She added quickly, “Do not propose.”
His mouth opened. “Not tonight.”
It closed.
Elizabeth smiled. “Come, Mr. Darcy. You were ordered to exercise.”
He obeyed, though he looked happier than a man with a cane had any right to be.