Chapter Text
For a man of independent means and an even more independent nature, Darcy was surprised at how much courage it took to walk across a ballroom. Netherfield park was a fine estate to be sure, but Fitzwilliam Darcy had been to many a finer place than this, and he had certainly never struggled to secure a dance partner. His dislike of dancing aside, in his eight and twenty years he had managed to dance with many women of great consequence. Despite these proofs of his ability, he had as yet been unable to summon the courage to do the thing he so foolishly longed to do. Her lower station notwithstanding, Darcy was now forced to admit that Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire intimidated him.
Although she was a relatively small woman, she occupied a disproportionately large space wherever she was – this was especially true of his own mind. Darcy doubted this was merely his own observation. She had a captivating presence that inevitably claimed others' notice without intention, and she somehow managed to compel people to bend their steps in her direction whenever she was seen, as if she were a great lady holding court. To say she was always well received was a gross understatement. She and her sister Jane were clearly beloved fixtures in their little society. Of all the Bennets, it was these two that were welcomed with effusive enthusiasm wherever they went.
Even as he watched from across the room, two young and handsome officers approached her, smiling, laughing, and likely doing the very thing that he had not found the courage to do. Darcy’s jaw tightened. His majesty's army is brave indeed , he thought bitterly. Darcy shook himself inwardly, these thoughts were unbecoming. The master of Pemberley – and half of Derbyshire – should not care whom Elizabeth Bennet danced with. Yet, quite against his will, something in him felt her undeniable pull. Irrationally, he longed to be near her and, irritatingly, the most plausible means to that end was to overcome his hesitation and walk across this cursed room to secure a set.
After a few minutes of watching this scene in somber silence, Caroline Bingley’s shrill voice startled Darcy out of his thoughts.
“Mr. Darcy, why do your hands fidget so?” she asked with a laugh. “Are you so eager for our amusement to end?”
Darcy glanced at his hands and was surprised to see that a long finger was tapping sharply on the mantle where it rested. He pulled himself up a little straighter and clasped his rogue hands behind his back to still his preoccupied fingers. He made no response to Caroline’s question.
“I confess, I also feel that this night cannot conclude quickly enough.” Said she, leaning close with a small knowing smile.
Darcy did not turn his head, but his eyes slid down to look at her. She had dressed herself with great effort and was therefore predictably a cacophony of silk brocade and pointless feathers.
“I think you have mistaken the matter, miss.” said Darcy, at length.
“Really? Then pray tell me what has made you so out of sorts this evening?” Caroline purred, “you have scarce spoke two words together since the guests arrived.”
He continued to look at her for a moment before saying,
“I was contemplating a dance.”
Caroline’s face flushed with pleasure, her smile broadening – clearly believing that he was contemplating a dance with her.
“If that is the case, you need not hesitate to ask. I’m sure no lady could refuse the singular pleasure of standing up with you .”
Her invitation did not go unnoticed, and yet, her presumption irritated him. So perhaps with some small degree of petulance he replied,
“You are quite correct madam, and so I shall.”
With the sudden motivation to be away from Caroline Bingley, Darcy at last let his feet take their natural course as he made his way purposefully towards Miss Elizabeth. Over his shoulder, Caroline’s smile slipped quickly into an angry snarl as she realized too late her misunderstanding.
As Darcy drew closer, he was instantly taken by Elizabeth Bennet’s glow of joyful good health and her uncommonly beautiful appearance this evening. She needed no extravagance of dress to make her elegant. She wore her simplicity like other women wore fine adornment. The modestly styled hair was accented with lustrous pearl combs and she wore a string of simple green beads draped around her neck. The overall effect was to draw attention to her own captivating features, rather than her attire. Her eyes lifted to his as she noted the direction of his steps and her chin lifted slightly along with one of her brows even as the corner of her mouth quirked upward. He stifled his answering smile as he covered the distance between them and greeted her with a wordless bow.
“Good evening, maam.” He said formally, “if you are not otherwise engaged, would you do me the honor of standing up with me for the next set?”
A brief look of confusion crossed her countenance as her lips parted slightly in surprise.
“I..” she started, “I thank you, yes.”
Not having anything else of import to say, Darcy bowed and turned to hasten his retreat back to his place by the fire.
Mr. Darcy of Pemberley did not eavesdrop. He deplored gossip, and refused to participate in such underhanded behavior. Yet he was later forced to admit that sometimes overhearing could not be helped. He had not made it three strides away from her before he found himself caught in a gaggle of laughing women and red coated officers who were moving in no particular direction. His escape was blocked at every turn and it was this circumstance that meant that he was unable to mistake the low growl of annoyance that issued from Elizabeth. He could hardly help tilting his head to see her out of the corner of his eye. From this angle he managed to glimpse her scowl of displeasure. She had not noticed that he had not gone fully away.
“Oh, Lizzy!” came the consoling cry of her companion, “I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”
Elizabeth gave an unladylike snort of derision, “Heaven forbid! THAT would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable to whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil!”
“Pray, do not be a simpleton.” Charlotte soothed. “He does you a great honor in singling you out.”
“For what purpose?” came Elizabeth’s reply. “My dislike of him is rivaled only by his dislike of me. Let him deride me from a distance and be satisfied.” She sighed, and took her friend’s hand as she continued, “Pray do not distress yourself, Charlotte. I will endeavor to be good – if only for Bingley’s sake. I would not wish to cause him distress at his own ball.”
Darcy heard and yet he disbelieved. As the crowd parted, allowing his hasty retreat, his thoughts were all confusion. He returned to Caroline’s side to enjoy the slightly frosty silence he found there. Just as the wound of injustice was beginning to rise in him, his partner spoke with a sneer.
“Her eyes must be fine indeed for you to pay her such attention.”
Darcy did not speak as he struggled to keep the anger and outrage from spilling onto his face. Even in his distraction, he knew that civility required that he ask Caroline for a set throughout the course of this wretched ball – but at this very moment the idea of dancing seemed as appealing as a march to the gallows.
He spent the remainder of his time waiting for the next set by repelling Caroline’s conversation with cold silence, much to the displeasure of both. In the end, he resolved not to think of what he had overheard until after this cursed ball, and to that end he was marginally successful. That was of course until, a half hour later, he found himself lined up across from Elizabeth Bennet.
He resolved that silence would be his best defense against starting a provoking conversation, and yet, he ought to have known better. As the dance began, she endeavored to make a few uninspired observations to him before realizing that he intended to pass the time quietly. After some minutes spent saying nothing at all, she flashed him an arch look and said,
“It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and now you ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”
His smile overwhelmed his ill humor as he replied, “What should you wish me to say?”
“That reply will do for the present.” The dance parted them briefly, and when she returned, it was with renewed purpose. “Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But now we may be silent.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow at her, willing himself to stay angry and aloof, but his will was weak to that end.
“Do you talk as a rule then, while dancing?”
“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for an hour together; and yet for the advantage of some , conversation must be had so that both parties may have the advantage of saying as little as possible.”
The comment stung in its meaning, but the lively manner in which it was said was vexingly glorious. His emotional confusion was great as he replied, “Are you consulting your own feelings, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”
“Both.” she replied with a wicked and dazzling smile. She lifted her chin as she continued, “I have always seen a great similarity between us, Mr. Darcy. We are each of an unsocial and taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak unless we expect to say something that will amaze the room.”
Her arrow of censure hit its mark with quivering accuracy, and he inclined his head to her as he said, “This is no very striking resemblance to your own character, I am sure. How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say, but you undoubtedly think it a faithful portrait.”
She tilted her head, and raised her eyebrows but made no reply to this. After a long stretch of silence the conversation took a turn that Darcy could not have anticipated and which compounded his misery. Striving to pass the time in some small degree of comfort, he ventured to ask if she and her family often walked to Meryton. She replied in the affirmative, and then shocked him by bringing Wickham into the mix.
“When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”
He blanched, remembering all too clearly the scene to which she was referring. The sight of that gentleman had been a distressing surprise and then as now he found himself struggling to school his features into indifference.
“Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends – whether he may be equally capable of keeping them is less certain.”
“He has been most unlucky as to lose your friendship, and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”
It was as if she struck him a literal blow, and he saw stars as if she had. What manner of falsehood was she laboring under to make such a comment to him? She certainly did not know the truth; that was plain to see. However, the nature of his relationship with that gentleman meant that silence was his most prudent recourse. It was then that a welcome interruption, turned quite unwelcome as Sir William Lucus interrupted their dance to bestow fawning praise for their superior skill.
“I hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event takes place, my dear Eliza!” he said boldly glancing towards Bingly and Jane with a wink. “What congratulations will then flow in?”
As they returned to their dance, another layer of mortification settled on Darcy as the implication of the gentleman’s words sunk in. He had often heard broad hints from Mrs. Bennet of an expectation of matrimony between Jane and Bingley, but it was the first he had heard it from others in the neighborhood.
When he noticed Elizabeth watching him with raised brows and a defiant expression, he ventured, “Sir Williams' interruption has made me forget what we were speaking of.”
“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”
“What think you of books?” he said lamely, in an effort to avoid her noticing the distraction of his thoughts.
“Books? Oh! No. I am sure we never read the same or not with the same feelings," she dismissed him without much effort.
“I am sorry you think so,” he said, stung, yet again. “But if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”
“No – I cannot talk of books in a ballroom. My head is always so full of something else.”
After a few more benign comments she went on the offensive again by asking, “I remember hearing you say once Mr. Darcy that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very careful, I suppose, as to its being created?”
Darcy felt a surge of anger flare at this, and replied only with a curt, “I am.”
The dance took them apart, and when she returned it was to meet his eye with a tilt of her chin and a lift of her brow.
“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”
Darcy looked away to school his features back into placidity before responding, “May I ask to what these questions tend?”
She flashed him a sweet smile that was slightly discredited by her intense gaze.
“Merely to the illustration of your character,” she said, endeavoring to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it out.”
He stifled a snort, “And what is your success?”
She shook her head.
“I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”
If recent events were to be credited, it seemed that she was well on her way to a picture of his character – however unflattering or unjust it might be.
“I can readily believe that reports vary greatly with respect to me,” he said, a turn taking them apart before adding, “I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at present, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.”
Blessedly the set was in its final movements when she replied, “But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.”
The final notes of the song hung in the air along with a sense of mutual dissatisfaction as he bowed deeply over her hand saying, “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.” With these final words he abruptly turned on his heel and stalked away from her, leaving her alone and looking oddly put out.
The rest of the evening saw Darcy in a sour and sullen mood. When he did his duty and stood up with Caroline, he heard from her only one word in ten and spoke only when required by civility. Even then his responses were no more than a monosyllable.
It was with immeasurable relief that Darcy finally took the stairs to his bedchamber as the last guests were helped into their carriage by an ever convivial Bingley. Despite his exhaustion, the closer he came to his bed the further he got from rest.
No sooner than Darcy had undressed and settled himself under the counterpane did he become patently aware that he would not sleep. His weight was still settling into the feather mattress when he released a long breath that trilled through his lips. In the empty quiet of his room, his mind could still hear the sharp staccato notes of a violin echoing from hours earlier, even as the first rays of dawn were forcing themselves through the dense swathe of curtains.
He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose and stifling a grimace. He hated balls. There had never been a morning after a ball where he had reflected on his time with pleasure. This one was no different. In fact, he felt many degrees worse after this ball than any that had preceded it. How some men enjoyed them was beyond his understanding.
Charles Bingley was just such a man, and that gentleman had positively glowed with delight as he spent far too much time imprudently fawning over Jane Bennet. Bingley made no secret of his preference for the lady, and their union had become such a certainty that it had been remarked on quite openly. Although the source of these remarks was far from impartial, a vocal mother’s expectation could, and in this case, almost certainly had , traveled widely through the neighborhood.
Jane Bennet herself was no particular evil. Stunningly beautiful, she was always placid and correct even when surrounded by some of her unsavory relations. To Darcy, she was someone to be admired for her forbearance. But in truth, he also thought she was a touch too unaffected – which at times even bordered on bland. He thought ruefully that her heart was almost certainly untouched. Despite this, he doubted whether her demure nature would allow her to refuse a proposal from a wealthy man – at least, not while her termagant of a mother breathed down her neck.
Darcy did give Bingley credit for at least believing himself in love – just as he had so many times before – but to Darcy’s eye Jane Bennet showed him no particular regard. She accepted his attention much the same as she did anyone – with sweet smiles and generous civility. He was therefore confident that if they were to be separated, neither would suffer for it for any real length of time. Darcy sighed again. He would need to speak to Bingley as soon as he could manage it. If something was not done soon, his poor friend would find himself honor bound to wed, a situation that would no doubt be an error for both parties.
As foolish as his friend had acted in Hertfordshire, he did not view him as the superlative dolt. Darcy himself would claim that honor. Had he always been thus? He could never remember a time in his life where he thought himself a fool. Certainly he had said things that were foolish, ill-judged, or imprudent and as a result felt the sting of humiliation. However, not once did he consider stupidity as part of his character. That is, not until this morning.
Damn the Bennets! He thought angrily. Would that they had never met! His vexations of late seemed to begin and end with that family who were blissfully unaware of their own problematic nature. He tossed and turned for a few hours more, brooding fitfully over his own misapprehensions.