The Quarterly Assembly
The hum of voices struck Elizabeth the instant she entered, warm and unavoidable.
Candles flared from the chandeliers; the floor shone like dark water beneath the dancers’ feet; neighbours turned with smiles already prepared upon their lips.
For one breath Elizabeth stood upon the threshold and felt Longbourn fall away behind her—the shrubbery path, the orchard, the boundaries she had kept since summer as though a gate stood where none did.
No one cried out. No one stared too long.
That alone steadied her.
Her mother moved forward with unhurried grace, her fan resting lightly in one hand, her turban set at an angle of consequence, her spirits held in admirable command.
Her father followed at her side, patient, dry-eyed, and dangerously attentive.
Jane walked before Elizabeth in pale blue silk, so lovely that half the room softened at sight of her.
Elizabeth kept near Jane’s shoulder.
Jane’s hand found hers beneath the fold of their gowns and pressed once.
“You are here,” Jane whispered.
“The room appears persuaded of it.”
Jane’s smile trembled. “I have wished for this all week.”
“To see me crushed in a public room?”
“To see you out of doors and not looking back towards the house.”
Elizabeth turned her eyes towards the company before Jane could read too much in them. “Then I shall endeavour to look only at our neighbours and endure the consequences.”
Jane’s fingers tightened again, then released her.
Lady Lucas approached with both hands extended and all the consequence of a woman first in possession of excellent intelligence.
“My dear Mrs Bennet! An age since we have had the pleasure. Maria sends her compliments to Kitty, and Charlotte charged me particularly to say that Miss Eliza must not hide herself behind her sister all evening.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane.
“Charlotte is impertinent,” Elizabeth said. “I shall thank her when I see her.”
Lady Lucas chuckled. “Then she shall be rewarded twice over. But you have heard, of course, of Netherfield Park?”
“What of Netherfield Park?”
“My dear Miss Elizabeth, it is let at last! To a wealthy young man from the North. Five or six thousand a year, they say—perhaps more.”
Mrs Bennet smiled as though fortune had offered Hertfordshire a pleasing improvement in roads. “Then we may congratulate ourselves upon a new neighbour.”
Lady Lucas lowered her voice by the exact degree needed to be heard by every mother within three yards. “And unmarried.”
The intelligence moved through the ladies with all the speed proper to an unmarried gentleman and five thousand a year.
Charlotte Lucas slipped to Elizabeth’s side with a look of affectionate mischief. “Unmarried, certainly. Handsome and rich as well, I daresay.” She levelled a conspiratorial stare at her mother, who inclined her head, spread her fan, and put it to use.
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “Then we must hope he brings a party of like friends.”
Jane glanced down, hiding a smile.
“His name is Bingley,” Charlotte said, with a knowing look. “My father has already practised the introduction twice before the glass.”
“Then the gentleman is fortunate,” Elizabeth said. “Few men enter a county so well rehearsed.”
Charlotte’s smile warmed. “And you are fortunate to come to-night. The whole room has been waiting to see who would claim the first dance.”
“Then the whole room must prepare for disappointment. I mean to stand by Jane and look severe.”
“You will fail before the second set.”
“I shall fail gracefully.”
Mrs Bennet’s fan opened with a soft snap. “Lizzy, my dear, severity does not become a young lady in a silk gown. Let others look severe. You may look pleased.”
Elizabeth turned her head at the gentleness beneath the correction.
Her mother did not fuss with her sleeve, did not demand colour in her cheeks, did not thrust her forward as bait for any stranger with an income.
She only looked at her—quickly, searchingly—and then looked away before gratitude could embarrass them both.
The room filled and shifted around them.
Neighbours came in twos and threes, all smiles, glances, and softened voices, as though civility might repair what rumour must never touch.
Everywhere Elizabeth heard the same words return in altered order: Netherfield, young, rich, unmarried, handsome, party from town.
The old amusement rose within her, cautious but alive.
She had thought herself done with such rooms. Not by vow, not by tragedy spoken aloud, but by that private alteration which makes former pleasures appear to belong to some other girl.
Yet here stood Jane beside her, bright with relieved affection; here her mother accepted compliments and her father watched every door and made disinterest look like wit.
Perhaps a room might become survivable by degrees.
Jane leant close again. “You are doing very well.”
“I am standing still. That is hardly an accomplishment.”
“It is to me.”
Elizabeth could not answer. She looked instead towards the musicians, who had begun to lift their bows. The first notes hovered, then faltered as a stir rose near the entrance.
The doorman stepped aside.
Conversation loosened, thinned, and gathered again.
The Netherfield party stood framed in the light from the hall.
The foremost gentleman, fair-haired and open-faced, looked upon the room as though Hertfordshire had presented itself for his particular delight.
Beside him stood a fashionable lady with an air of decided consequence; another, no less elegant, leant towards a gentleman whose posture did not conceal his curiosity.
A younger lady, of delicate figure and plainly new to such notice, kept her hand lightly upon the arm of a taller gentleman.
Behind them, an officer in regimentals surveyed the room with the quiet authority of command.
The entrance had all the confusion Meryton could desire: silk, jewels, bows, whispers, and rank guessed wrongly before anyone had crossed the threshold.
“Bingley,” Charlotte whispered near Elizabeth’s ear. “The fair one. Mr Charles Bingley from Scarborough.”
Elizabeth followed her glance. “He looks pleased with his bargain.”
“And why should he not? He has rented a handsome house and entered a room determined to admire him.” Charlotte’s voice dropped lower. “The lady with the fine orange silk is Miss Bingley. Mrs Hurst, his elder sister, stands beside her husband.”
“Then the younger lady?”
“Miss Darcy.”
Elizabeth stilled.
“And that is her brother beside her,” Charlotte said. “Mr Darcy of Pemberley. Fitzwilliam Darcy, I believe. Ten thousand a year, they say, and nephew to Lord Matlock.”
“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth whispered.
She looked at him fully. Tall. Grave. Broader through the shoulders than she had imagined. She had formed another countenance from the voice which had reached her through the wall.
The assembly room narrowed to bare boards, a stool at its centre, untouched food near the wall, and the covered bucket in the corner. Rosewater, tallow, and pomade yielded to damp wood, stale bread, and confinement.
Then candlelight returned.
“What was that?” Charlotte asked.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened once upon her fan.
“You were saying he is the Earl of Matlock’s nephew.”
“Yes.” Charlotte leant a fraction nearer. “The officer behind them is his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Elizabeth’s gaze moved to the red-coated officer. This was the colonel who had sent Serjeant Villiers into the wood.
Her eyes returned to Mr Darcy.
“Are you well, Eliza?”
“Very well,” she said. “I am overwhelmed at the honour our small assembly is being paid.”
* * *
The room received them with every eye Hertfordshire could spare.
Darcy stepped inside behind Bingley, Georgiana’s hand resting lightly upon his sleeve, though she bore the attention better than he had expected.
Her grip did not tighten; no tremor betrayed her.
Fitzwilliam came in behind them with that careless military ease which deceived no man who had ever seen him at work.
Bingley looked about him with undisguised pleasure. “A fine room. Upon my honour, Darcy, this is better than I had been promised. The floor alone is worth the journey.”
“Then Netherfield has secured your happiness cheaply,” Darcy said.
“Rented it,” Bingley returned, laughing. “Let us not make me sound grander than I am.”
Miss Bingley’s fan opened beside him. “Charles has never required grandeur to be happy, Mr Darcy. Only novelty, music, and a room willing to admire him.”
Bingley laughed again, but his attention had already escaped them.
He looked over the room as though each face promised him an acquaintance, each acquaintance a friend.
Darcy had never understood the ease of it.
Bingley entered society as other men entered sunlight—without calculation, and with an expectation of warmth.
Across the room, a cluster near the musicians shifted.
Darcy saw Bennet at once.
The gentleman stood amongst four women, his posture easy enough to seem idle and his eyes attentive enough to make idleness a lie.
One lady beside him, handsome and composed, could only be Mrs Bennet.
Three younger ladies stood near her: one tall and fair, one prim and poised, and one shorter than the others with dark eyes.
Not one of them looked distressed.
That should have satisfied him. It did not.
Darcy kept his attention upon Bennet because Bennet was safe to know. The women beside him belonged, for the present, to conjecture and courtesy. He could not let his eyes choose one before introduction allowed it. A man might betray himself by staring as surely as by speaking.
He turned his head a fraction towards Fitzwilliam. “Bennet and his family are here.”
“I see them.” Fitzwilliam’s voice scarcely moved. “Be introduced. Admit nothing.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “You mistake me for an amateur.”
“I mistake no man who rode off with Wickham willingly.”
The rebuke struck softly, which made it worse.
Darcy inclined his head. “You have fallen to alliteration.”