“He is a guest of Mr. Bingley,” Charlotte supplied, in the absence of Elizabeth’s further description. “And a very great friend. He is from Derbyshire, where he has an estate called Pemberley.”
“Mr. Darcy of Pemberley!” exclaimed Mr. Collins. “I know this name. Why, then he is the nephew of my own esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. What a fortunate meeting.”
It was not, Elizabeth felt the need to clarify, precisely a meeting. “Perhaps I might arrange an introduction for you,” she offered. “I do apologize for not taking the opportunity before.” Not that Mr. Darcy had really given any of them an opportunity. He had not approached them for conversation or introductions.
“I see no reason for that, my dear cousin. I shall take the opportunity myself, to pay my respects to him, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.”
“Sir, I beg you do not! Mr. Darcy is a man who feels every part of his very great consequence. He will not appreciate such impertinence.” She knew enough of his pride and intolerance to understand that. “And, besides, it is not necessary. He will be back by-and-by to claim his dance with me, and I shall ask to introduce you then.”
Mr. Collins, however, persisted with the determined air of one who has decided to follow his own inclinations regardless of what arguments might be presented to him.
“Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world of your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of your understanding, but permit me to say that there must be a wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity and those which regulate the clergy.”
Elizabeth exchanged glances with Charlotte, who had hidden her mouth behind her fan.
Mr. Collins went on. “Give me leave to observe that I consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom—provided that a proper humility of behavior is at the same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I look on as a point of duty.”
“What is your duty in such a circumstance, by your reckoning?” she asked.
“Why, to be able to assure him that her ladyship, my patron, was quite well only last week. Given our many connections, not only in the happy circumstances of my patroness, but also through your own apparent acquaintance with the gentleman, I do believe my addresses will be not only acceptable, but warmly welcomed.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to object again, but Mr. Collins barreled on.
“Pardon me for neglecting to profit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young lady like yourself.”
“Perhaps,” said Charlotte with a certain amused light in her eyes, “the opportunity arrives at this moment. Look! Mr. Darcy is alone. Mr. Collins, now might be your chance.”
“Indeed you are right, Miss Lucas!” he exclaimed. “Do excuse me.”
As he scurried off, Charlotte smiled at Elizabeth. “You might thank me later.”
“I will not thank you for helping to make Mr. Darcy find my family more uncouth than ever. But I am grateful to see him go, I will confess, and glad that he does go to vex some other soul. That man has been at my side constantly since his arrival at Longbourn.”
“You are certainly very popular,” her friend said. “Mr. Collins’s attentions, and being singled out for a dance with Mr. Darcy—”
Elizabeth grimaced. “I wish I could have thought of an excuse. Anything short of dancing again with Mr. Collins would have done.”
Charlotte appeared confused. “But why? He does you a great honor, and so early in the evening, too. Do you not wonder what he can mean by it?”
“I—” Elizabeth hesitated, remembering their tête-à-tête beneath the yew. “We met while out walking the other day. It is possible he seeks to finish the conversation we began then.”
Charlotte appeared impressed. “It must have been quite the memorable conversation, for him to be thinking of it still.”
Elizabeth could not hold it in such high esteem. If Mr. Darcy did wish to continue their discussion, she was certain he would have less to say about fairies and farmland more about his mistrust and dislike of Mr. Wickham. And that was a subject that Elizabeth did not wish to hear another syllable about, especially as she blamed Mr. Darcy entirely for the other gentleman’s absence.
“I dare say you will find his company quite agreeable.”
“Heaven forbid!” Elizabeth cried. “That would be the greatest misfortune of all, to find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish upon me such an evil.”
“Oh, Lizzie,” said Charlotte. “I should not send away half so many men as you are determined to.”
“Oh, Charlotte,” Elizabeth replied. “You are welcome to any or all of them. The only gentleman whose attentions I desired this night is not here at all.”
They quieted then and watched as Mr. Collins approached Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth had no hope that the encounter would go otherwise than very poorly for Mr. Collins, and she was not at all surprised to see Mr. Darcy’s evident astonishment at being so addressed. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if she were hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words apology, Hunsford, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
It vexed her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech. At the end of it, the gentleman made no answer at all, merely bowed slightly to the clergyman and moved another way.
For a single moment, Elizabeth wished she possessed a similar presence of mind. Would that she had been able to respond to Mr. Darcy’s unwelcome requests in such a manner! She would not even now be obliged to dance with the man.
Soon enough, however, he came back to claim her dance, and, wordlessly, she took his arm and allowed herself to be led to a very dignified place near the top of the line of dancers. She saw their neighbors glance over with some amazement as she took her position opposite Mr. Darcy as the dancing commenced.
They stood for some time without speaking a word, and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances. Mr. Darcy, at least, moved with distinction and elegance, and guided her through their forms as gracefully as he had ridden his horse through the punishing rain.
Well, before the fall.
But a handsome face and a talent for dancing did not reveal the make of a man, and Elizabeth thought there was no better example of that lesson than in the person of Mr. Darcy. To all the world, he seemed the epitome of a gentleman. A handsome prince, from the faraway kingdom of Derbyshire, who lived in a castle called Pemberley and was all things fine.
But all his riches and consequence only served to make him cruel and proud. She’d seen evidence of that long before she’d even met Mr. Wickham, who only confirmed it.
At first, she was resolved not to break the silence between them at all, but suddenly fancied that it might be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk.
“Was your journey back to Netherfield as uneventful as the first part of your ride?” she asked. “Was Peaseblossom an obedient mount?”
She saw him grimace at the name.
“I did not ride back to Netherfield,” he said as they turned about another couple in their way down the dance. “Not right away.”
“Oh?”
“As it happened, I took the same path you did into the village.”
She glanced up at him with some alarm. “You followed me?”
“I rode to Meryton,” was
all he admitted. “I believe your walk home to Longbourn must have been via a similar route.”
She narrowed her eyes as they circled each other again. “If you were in Meryton when I was, perhaps you also saw the person I met there.”
They were separated for another turn of the dancers, and so it took a moment for him to rejoin her and respond. “We speak again of Mr. Wickham?”
“The very same.”
Darcy wound around her again. “Perhaps it is not always to one’s benefit to carry on a conversation when dancing.”
Having achieved her aim, Elizabeth smiled in triumph. “But would it not look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together?”
They joined hands and began to dance down the line.
“And yet,” she continued, “for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”
“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?’”
“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly, “for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”
“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” Mr. Darcy said, as they circled again. “How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”
Again, the sound of his laughter in the rain rang through her memory, and she was struck by the notion of how she might have viewed a man like that, were he any man other than Mr. Darcy.
“I find I am not able to make a faithful portrait of you,” she found herself saying. “I see and hear such different accounts to puzzle me exceedingly.”
They had reached the end of the line, and now stood directly across from one another, breathing hard. He was so tall, Elizabeth thought. So tall and straight, she had no concept of how he’d ever fit beneath the bows of the yew.
“I pray you do not attempt to sketch my character at the present moment, Miss Bennet,” he said coldly. “There is reason to fear that such a performance would do neither of us any credit.”
“But if I don’t take your likeness now, I might never have another opportunity.”
“Is that what you think?” he replied. “Or can you not wait until the next rain storm and watch me from under the boughs of a yew?”
She colored at the recollection. “Mr. Darcy, I—”
But whatever she had been about to say died in her throat, as she looked over his shoulder and saw, staring at them from the assembled crowd, the face of Mr. Wickham.
Chapter 4
For a single moment in time, Darcy had captured the entirety of Elizabeth Bennet’s attention. It shone like a jewel in a crown, causing the crush of the ball, and even the scent of dancers and beeswax candles and mulled wine, to fade entirely away. He barely even heard the music over the hurried drumbeat of his own heart. He didn’t even care that their congress was an argument.
For a single moment in time, they were alone again beneath the branches of the yew.
And then, somehow, he lost it. Lost her. Elizabeth was distracted for the rest of the dance. She went through the motions with a grace that most ladies he knew—trained by the best dancing-masters in London—would envy, and, yet, her heart was not in it. She was gone somewhere, and it took him a full turn of the form to realize the culprit.
As usual, it was George Wickham. The scoundrel had dared to show his face at Netherfield. He stood there, bold as he pleased, on the ballroom floor, drinking Bingley’s wine out of Bingley’s cups and talking to the young ladies of Hertfordshire as if he were an honorable gentleman.
Darcy, too, forgot to enjoy his time with his partner.
George Wickham laughed.
George Wickham bowed.
George Wickham turned his head and looked in their direction.
Darcy, making another turn around a set of dancers, saw Elizabeth duck her head, her blush growing deeper as she caught the officer’s stare.
His jaw clenched. He’d seen them, the other day, talking in the rain. He’d ridden by, relieved to observe that Wickham appeared to be leaving Meryton in advance of the ball.
Bingley, ever the generous host, had issued a general invite to all the officers in the militia, and only later realized that it would, perforce, include this new recruit. But no one thought he would go so far as to show his face. Indeed, Darcy felt at once that he would rather risk the foolish man assuming the invitation included him than stoop to making sure Wickham knew better than to set foot in this house.
Either he did not know, or he did not care. Darcy was so enraged, he could hardly remember the steps of the dance. He certainly could not muster the wit to continue sparring with Elizabeth Bennet.
As always, Wickham ruined everything he touched.
Darcy hated that Elizabeth found the man so charming. He was not surprised, of course. The notable weakness of the Bennet ladies for men who wore red coats had been spoken of quite often at Netherfield, and, moreover, Wickham’s manners had always been engaging. He joined hands with his partner once more and tried not to notice how the dance had brightened the color in her cheeks and the sparks dancing in her lovely eyes. Her partiality for Wickham was only further proof of her utter unsuitability.
He would do well to remember that.
The set ended, and Darcy delivered Elizabeth back to where she had been, standing with Miss Lucas. Her cousin—a sniveling, obsequious clergyman of just the sort Darcy knew was most suited to Lady Catherine’s tastes—had been talking to Elizabeth’s friend, so Darcy made quick his goodbyes, as he did not wish to further his acquaintance with the man.
He supposed Collins was intended to wed Elizabeth’s older sister, Jane. It would all be very neat—her father’s estate entailed upon her husband, her family provided for in the event of Mr. Bennet’s death. Such arrangements were the usual course of things, to keep fortunes within the family. That was the substance of the heavy hints dropped by his aunt, Lady Catherine, every time he went into Kent.
But as far as he could see, Collins was not paying the eldest Miss Bennet the slightest bit of attention, though he followed Elizabeth around like a little lost kitten. How tiresome it must be!
And where was Miss Jane Bennet—ah, there, standing with Bingley, poor chap. Darcy was sorry to see that his friend appeared utterly smitten. His flirtation with Miss Bennet was carrying on entirely longer than Darcy had ever witnessed in the past, most likely due to her recent and convenient bout of fever. The fever, which had marooned her and her sister at Netherfield for days on end. He had thought Bingley too clever to fall for such a ridiculous trap.
He had thought himself too clever, as well. And yet here he stood, days later, thinking of Miss Elizabeth Bennet entirely too much, concerning himself as to whether she got home safely in the rainstorm, asking her to dance at a ball, seeking her out in every crowd—
Before he quite realized what he was about, he did it again, scanning above the heads of Bingley’s guests to see if he could catch a glimpse of her dark head. Sadly, he knew he could recognize her curls and ribbons from memory.
There—just at the edge of the ballroom, near the doors that spilled out into the gardens. And with her, his arm supporting her gloved hand, stood a redcoat-clad form Darcy also—and more unfortunately—knew too well.
Mr. Wickham.
“Such a shame that the musicians have chosen this moment to rest,” Elizabeth said with a sigh, flicking her fan. “For I believe I have waited all evening to dance with you.”
Her companion laughed heartily. “You have not waited, Miss Elizabeth. You cannot deceive me. For I have seen you already on the dance floor.”
Elizabeth colored somewhat, to realize that Mr. Wickham had seen her with Mr. Darcy. “I confess that I could fi
nd no reasonable excuse to refuse him. At least,” she added, “not one that would have left me free to dance later in the evening.”
“Ah,” conceded Mr. Wickham. “I do admit I find it peculiar that it is considered unseemly for a woman to turn down an invitation to dance from a respectable gentleman of her acquaintance unless she means not to dance at all.”
“There are those who might argue, however, that the gentleman in question should not be considered so respectable.”
“No, indeed,” Mr. Wickham replied. “Then again, the very rich and very great are always given leave to carve the shape of respectability in whatever fashion makes them and those they like respectable, and everyone else the very opposite.” He sighed. “But let us talk no more of it tonight. The circumstances weigh heavily on my mind whenever I am in the presence of my old friend, but that is easily remedied, if we have the courage.”
“The courage?” she asked, somewhat alarmed. “You cannot mean that you anticipate a fight?”
“I cannot say,” said Wickham, and he straightened. “But I shall not shy away from one. And you must recall that I did warn you my presence here might give rise to scenes of an unpleasant nature.”
“Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth admonished, her tone severe, “you must not ruin this party.”
“Ah, but there is a way to ensure the prevention of such an unfortunate turn of events, and you, my dear friend, have all the power to enact it.”
“Me?” she asked. “Why, whatever can you mean?”
He smiled at her. He was not as tall as Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth noted, nor as broad-shouldered, even with the fringed epaulets on his coat. But his face was as handsome, and his manners as charming and amiable as any man she had ever met. How very different he was in every way from the gentleman he had grown up with! From what Mr. Wickham had told her regarding old Mr. Darcy’s interest in his education, the two men had grown up nearly side by side. What a pity that the father’s kindness was not at all in evidence in his son.
In Darcy's Dreams Page 3