Chapter Three
The Assembly
Elizabeth recognized him immediately.
Not because of his height, though he was taller than most men in the room. Not because of his face, though every woman in Meryton turned to look when the Netherfield party entered. She recognized the way Fitzwilliam Darcy paused just inside the door.
Young Darcy had always done that.
One heartbeat. No more. A gathering seemed to strike him physically when he entered it, and for one heartbeat he had to arrange himself against it.
At twenty, Elizabeth had called that pause arrogance.
At forty, she understood it as preparation.
At seventy, she had merely squeezed his fingers before entering any large room.
Now he stood beside Bingley, beautiful and young, with black hair untouched by silver and broad shoulders that had not yet begun to stoop.
Elizabeth's breath caught.
Jane touched her arm. "Are you well?"
"Yes." Elizabeth smiled because she could not help it. "Quite."
Darcy looked across the room. His gaze moved, then stopped on her.
His face changed.
Not much. No one else would have seen it, but Elizabeth had spent fifty years reading that face. His left eyebrow lifted perhaps the width of a thread. His lips parted. His fingers tightened at his side.
Shock.
Why?
He did not know her.
Of course he did not.
Unless--
No. Impossible.
Darcy took one step toward her, then stopped when Bingley said something at his elbow. Elizabeth's heart pounded. He looked as though he had seen a ghost.
Grief could invent miracles, she reminded herself.
She smiled.
Darcy went pale.
That nearly made her laugh.
Sir William Lucas approached the gentlemen and introductions began.
Elizabeth watched closely. Darcy was different immediately.
He bowed to Mrs. Long. He spoke to Mr. Goulding.
He answered Sir William with something more substantial than a syllable.
He was still reserved and still looked as though a smile might cost him money, but he was trying.
Bingley noticed too. He kept looking at his friend as though expecting the real Darcy to emerge from behind a curtain.
The first dance began. Bingley danced with Charlotte and then Jane. Darcy did not dance. That part remained.
Elizabeth waited.
She knew the moment.
Bingley approached Darcy. "You must dance."
Darcy's gaze went instantly to Elizabeth.
Too instantly.
Her stomach tightened.
Bingley laughed and followed the look. "You have been staring at Miss Elizabeth Bennet for ten minutes. Ask her."
Darcy stared at Bingley, then at Elizabeth.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
Here it came.
Tolerable. Not handsome enough.
Darcy started toward her.
Elizabeth blinked.
He crossed the room.
People noticed. Of course they noticed.
He stopped before her. "Miss Elizabeth."
His voice, young again, nearly undid her.
She curtseyed. "Mr. Darcy."
His eyes searched her face. Not politely. Hungrily. Confused.
Elizabeth's smile widened before she could stop it.
Darcy's throat moved. "Would you do me the honor of dancing the next?"
She had intended to tease him. Something about tolerability. The words died.
"You dance?"
He almost smiled. "I have been accused of it."
That was one of her phrases.
Elizabeth's heartbeat stumbled. She had said that to him at their daughter's wedding when he complained that everyone expected him to dance. You have been accused of it before.
Coincidence.
Surely.
She extended her hand. "I would be pleased."
Darcy's fingers touched hers. Warm. Young.
He did not squeeze.
Elizabeth almost felt disappointed.
Then his thumb moved once across the side of her index finger.
A tiny unconscious stroke.
She stared at him.
Darcy froze.
They stood too long.
Charlotte, beside Elizabeth, cleared her throat.
Elizabeth pulled her hand away. "Until the next, Mr. Darcy."
He bowed. "Miss Elizabeth."
He walked away.
Charlotte turned. "What was that?"
Elizabeth watched Darcy retreat. "I have absolutely no idea."
Darcy spent the next fifteen minutes trying not to lose his mind. Elizabeth's smile had not been the young smile he remembered from the assembly. It was his wife's smile, the one she had developed when trying not to laugh at him.
Then her hand.
He had touched it and his thumb had moved automatically. A habit. Not the three strokes. Just one.
Elizabeth had looked at his hand as though struck.
Bingley appeared. "What did you do?"
Darcy stared. "What?"
"Miss Elizabeth looked at you as though you had whispered a state secret."
"I asked her to dance."
"Yes. I saw." Bingley's eyes narrowed with delighted suspicion. "You hate dancing."
"I do not hate dancing."
Bingley laughed. "Who are you?"
Darcy looked across the room. Elizabeth was talking to Charlotte Lucas. She glanced up. Their eyes met again.
She smiled.
Not flirtatiously.
Knowingly.
Could she?
No.
He needed proof.
The dance began. Darcy approached and Elizabeth placed her hand in his. They joined the set. For the first figure neither spoke, but Elizabeth's eyes held dangerous amusement. Darcy knew that expression. It had preceded thousands of provocations.
"Are you enjoying Hertfordshire?" she asked.
"More than expected."
"That sounds almost complimentary."
"It was intended to be."
"Then you have already surprised me."
He swallowed. "Have I?"
"Yes."
"You were expecting something else?"
Elizabeth looked toward Bingley, then back. "For you to stand against a wall and offend someone."
Darcy missed a step.
Elizabeth's hand tightened. "Careful."
It was precisely the tone she had used when he was seventy-two and stumbled on the Pemberley terrace.
Darcy stared.
Elizabeth realized what she had done. Her smile disappeared.
They completed the figure in silence.
Darcy said quietly, "Have we met before?"
Her eyes widened. "No."
Too quickly.
"You seem remarkably certain of my habits."
"You appear predictable."
"Do I?"
"Some men do."
Darcy leaned slightly closer when the dance allowed. "And some women?"
Her chin lifted. "Are mysterious."
He almost laughed.
There she was. Or enough of her to torment him.
He decided to test.
"Do you prefer apricot or orange preserve?"
Elizabeth's foot nearly caught her hem. She recovered. "What an extraordinary question."
Darcy's heart hammered. In their first year of marriage he had repeatedly forgotten she hated orange marmalade. By their third, the breakfast staff no longer placed it near her.
"Answer."
"Why?"
"Humor me."
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "Apricot."
Darcy's breath left him.
"Many people prefer apricot," she said.
"Indeed."
She studied him, then added casually, "And some gentlemen put far too much cream in their coffee."
Darcy stopped moving.
The couple behind nearly collided with them.
Elizabeth's face went white.
He had taken coffee that way only after forty. As a young man he drank it black. Elizabeth knew. No one else.
"Miss Elizabeth."
She turned away. "Mr. Darcy."
The dance ended. They bowed. Neither spoke.
Elizabeth walked directly to Jane.
Darcy walked directly outside.
Bingley followed. "Darcy! What happened?"
"Nothing."
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
Darcy stopped in the darkened passage.
Perhaps he had.
The remainder of the assembly gave Elizabeth no peace. Darcy danced again--with Charlotte, to Sir William's astonishment--and spoke to Mrs. Long for long enough that Mrs. Long later informed everyone he was "reserved, certainly, but not rude." Bingley watched his friend with increasing fascination.
Elizabeth watched too.
When Darcy crossed near her after his second dance, Lydia whispered, "He keeps looking at you."
Elizabeth pretended interest in the musicians. "Perhaps something is wrong with my gown."
"Nothing is wrong with your gown. I wanted that gown."
"You wanted every gown in the house."
Lydia considered. "True."
Charlotte, on Elizabeth's other side, said quietly, "He looks at you as though he has misplaced you before."
Elizabeth's head turned.
Charlotte's brows lifted. "That was an odd expression. I only mean he seems relieved each time he sees you."
Relieved.
Elizabeth looked across the room.
Darcy was speaking with Bingley, but his attention drifted back to her as though drawn by habit. Their eyes met.
He looked away first.
Not proud.
Afraid.
The realization unsettled her more than any insult could have.
Later, Mr. Bennet collected his family for the journey home. Mrs. Bennet talked the entire way about Bingley's attentions to Jane, the size of Netherfield, and Mr. Darcy's unexpected dancing.
"I cannot understand him," she declared. "One moment he looks as though no one in the county is good enough to speak to him, and the next he is dancing with Charlotte Lucas."
Mr. Bennet said, "Perhaps he has discovered the county improved during supper."
Lydia laughed.
Elizabeth almost did too. Then she saw Mary smiling uncertainly, unsure whether the joke included her, and Kitty watching Lydia to know when to laugh.
Everything felt sharper now.
Not because her family had changed.
Because she had.
Jane leaned close. "You are quiet."
"I am thinking."
"About Mr. Darcy?"
Elizabeth sighed. "Everyone has become intolerable."
Jane smiled. "Only tonight?"
At Netherfield, Bingley was conducting an interrogation of his own.
"You danced twice."
Darcy removed his gloves. "Yes."
"With women who were not Caroline or Louisa."
"I am aware."
"You spoke to Mrs. Long."
Darcy stared at him. "Is there a point approaching?"
Bingley sat in the chair opposite. "Several. I have known you six years and have never seen you enter a strange room determined to be agreeable."
Darcy looked away.
Bingley leaned forward. "Did someone tell you Hertfordshire mattered?"
Darcy nearly laughed at the accuracy. "Perhaps I decided strangers do not deserve discourtesy merely because they are strangers."
Bingley's expression softened. "That sounds very reasonable."
"Do not sound so surprised."
"I am not surprised by the reason. I am surprised you learned it overnight."
Darcy thought of fifty-five years.
"Not overnight," he said.
Bingley stared.
Darcy immediately regretted the answer.
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing."
"You are terrible at saying nothing tonight."
Darcy looked toward the fire.
Bingley eventually gave up, but not before saying, "Whatever happened, keep doing it. Miss Elizabeth looked pleased."
Darcy's heart reacted with humiliating speed.
Bingley grinned.
"Go to bed," Darcy said.
"Happily."
When the door closed, Darcy sat alone and wondered how many more days he could endure uncertainty before simply asking Elizabeth whether she remembered dying in his arms.