Chapter 21
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Of all the reasons to dread a ball, Darcy had never before imagined struggling not to propose to the woman he loved.
His suggestion to host a dance had not been considered in advance; if he had, he might have thought the better of it.
Elizabeth was only too lovely and too tempting on ordinary occasions, let alone with the added grace and elegance of a ball.
Each day of her visit to Pemberley had proved both the wisdom of his invitation and the folly of it.
The visit had achieved what Darcy had wished most — protecting Elizabeth from her mother’s ill-judged rancour.
That far, his judgement had been admirable.
Only, he had not considered what it would be to see Elizabeth in his home, looking so entirely right, and to be unable to speak his heart to her.
Darcy had asked himself a hundred times if he was being over-scrupulous.
Perhaps it would not be so very dreadful to propose when she was under his roof.
He would not pressure Elizabeth if she declined.
Even if she chose to go, he would help her on her way, and with as much of his support as she would allow.
But each time the thought arose, Darcy pushed it away.
A man could not believe what he merely wished to believe.
The truth was that Elizabeth would be placed under pressure by a proposal from her host, particularly when her own father’s location was unknown, and her only family close at hand was a younger sister.
Nothing but the highest confidence that she would welcome his proposal could justify it.
And if he judged her feelings wrongly, Darcy could picture the consequences only too clearly.
Not a loveless marriage, for Elizabeth had made it perfectly clear that she would submit to no such thing, regardless of the financial advantages of a match or the pressure brought to bear against her.
But she would be made unhappy, would perhaps feel compelled to leave, and where would she go then?
The Gardiners could not house her forever.
And so it might have been better not to suggest a ball at all, but when Darcy saw the pleasure on Elizabeth’s face at his proposal, he could not bring himself to regret it.
As might have been expected of the first ball Pemberley had hosted in the past decade, hardly a single invitation had been declined. On the evening of the ball, Darcy stood at the top of the main staircase and looked down at his house, and thought that he had never seen Pemberley look better.
Every room in the house had been opened for the event, and the light from hundreds of candles moved through them in a way that made everything look both more festive than ever and entirely like itself.
Mrs Reynolds had overseen the arrangement of a bounty of flowers from the Pemberley gardens, deep summer colours, and the smell of them mixed with the warm air coming through the open windows from the terrace.
The musicians were already tuning in the ballroom, and the first carriages were on the drive.
Darcy had been looking forward to this evening and dreading it in equal measure ever since he had first had the idea.
He had been in love with Elizabeth Bennet since Kent. Or no — since before Kent.
Perhaps since a cold morning in October, when she had stood in a field with mud on her boots and her chin lifted, looking at him as though she was not remotely impressed and fully intended him to know it.
He was no longer certain when it had begun. He only knew that it had been growing until all his heart seemed consumed by thoughts of Elizabeth, and that tonight, watching her in his house at a ball he had arranged for her sake, concealing it would be difficult indeed.
As there was nothing else to be done, he went downstairs to receive his guests.
The neighbours came as neighbours do, in a stream of familiar faces.
He greeted each one in the way of a man who has known most of them since childhood and has developed the appropriate responses for all of them.
The Lonsdale family, the Hargroves, old Colonel Ashton and his daughters, the Haverstock party from the next valley.
He shook hands and said the right things and watched the stairs.
She came down with her sister, both in white. Miss Mary’s expression was quietly content, and Elizabeth’s lit with the pleasure of someone who enjoys a ball and is not going to pretend otherwise.
Her gown was of simple muslin, and not the newest fashion, but it did not matter in the slightest. Darcy thought he had never seen a woman half so beautiful.
She moved through the entrance hall with the ease of someone entirely comfortable in her own skin.
Watching her, Darcy thought that such ease and unselfconscious grace was considerably rarer than diamonds, and considerably more attractive.
He crossed the room. “Miss Bennet,” he said. “Miss Mary. You both look lovely.”
Miss Mary looked rather surprised at that and blushed deeply, but Elizabeth smiled at him with a warmth that made Darcy’s heart skip a beat: the warmth he had been telling himself was simply her manner with everyone, and which he desperately hoped was something more.
“It is a beautiful evening,” she said.
“It is,” he agreed, and meant considerably more than the weather. Darcy had no intention of resisting temptation entirely. “Miss Bennet, will you do me the honour of opening the ball with me?”
As she must be considered the principal guest, and he had intended the ball to be largely in her honour, Darcy had not expected the look of surprise that resulted. “You will not lead out Georgiana?” Elizabeth asked him.
“No,” he said. “Georgiana will not dance tonight. She is not yet formally out, and prefers to remain so.”
“Then I would be delighted,” Elizabeth said softly.
“Excellent,” Darcy said. “I must greet the last guests to arrive, but I will be sure to find you in time.”
Elizabeth chuckled a little at that. “See that you do, Mr Darcy,” she told him, and it took every ounce of Darcy’s willpower not to propose to her on the spot.
The short time before he might return for her and make their way to the ballroom floor seemed unaccountably long. At last it was over, and they were making their bows and leading the way down the floor.
“I have never opened a ball before,” Elizabeth remarked lightly when the forms of the dance brought them closer together.
“You were very greatly admired,” Darcy told her. At her laughing protests, he went on. “You must have heard it. Half the neighbourhood remarked on your grace, and the other half on your lively spirit.”
“You are too generous,” Elizabeth said. “Too generous by half, Mr Darcy. You must not exaggerate so, or I will begin to think far too well of myself.”
“I do not believe so,” he told her. “You ought to think well of yourself, for I have never known a woman with courage to equal yours. Not to mention the grace and vivacity on which my guests remarked.”
The figures of the dance separated them then, and Darcy was not entirely sorry for it.
The depth of his feelings was leading him to say too much.
Elizabeth’s lovely face and still lovelier spirit were only too tempting.
But he must make himself think of what would be best for her, and not only of his own wishes. It would not do to say too much.
When the movements of the dance reunited them, Elizabeth was the first to speak. “Do you know, Mr Darcy, I have been thinking about the last time we danced,” she began.
He winced. “At Bingley’s ball? I wish you would not. I am certain I was dreadfully awkward. If you could, I would have you forget it entirely.”
“I cannot, for I view that evening very differently,” Elizabeth told him. “I believe I owe you both thanks and an apology.”
Darcy looked at her in surprise as they clasped hands and stepped around each other. “Surely not. I cannot be owed thanks for a dance that I am sure brought you no pleasure.”
“You can be, and are,” Elizabeth said. “If I am not much mistaken, Mr Darcy, you asked for that dance because you had perceived how importuned I was by my cousin, though I did not think of it then. Is that not so?”
“It is,” Darcy admitted. “Regrettably, I could think of no more effective way to remove you from his unwanted attentions.”
“There is nothing for you to regret in so gallant an action,” Elizabeth insisted. “But I must have much to regret, for I am sure I treated you with dreadful discourtesy. Having believed something I should not, I hardly spoke two words to you.”
How much damage Wickham’s lies had done! “We did not understand each other then,” Darcy said. “Not as we do now.”
“No,” she agreed. “No, you are quite right.”
It was then necessary to weave through the other couples, and all confidential conversation was necessarily at an end. The dance ended only too soon.
As Elizabeth and her sister of course knew no one but their own party, it was necessary to introduce them to the neighbourhood.
What he felt, watching each introduction, was something he had not expected.
Not the careful social management he usually brought to situations involving people he cared about.
Something simpler than that. Something that, even as Darcy reproved himself for it, he could not deny. He was proud of her.
She charmed everyone she spoke to. Not in the obvious way of someone who has set out to charm, but in the way of someone who is genuinely interested in the person in front of her and listens to them with real attention, which people always recognise even when they cannot name what they are responding to.
Mrs Hargrove, who was reserved and particular and not easily pleased, talked with Elizabeth for twenty minutes and sought Darcy out afterward to tell him his guest was delightful.
He thanked her and moved away before his expression could become a problem.