by Alyx Silver
"But Father, you cannot imply that you would consider his offer for Lydia."
"If he offers for Lydia, yes, I shall consider it most happily. Only think, Lizzy. Lydia is a very silly girl, and she shall not rest, until she has money aplenty for pins and carriages and dresses. A respectable marriage would be the best way for her to attain such status."
"But Father, to marry such a man–"
Mr. Bennet resumed his book. "Please leave, Lizzy. I believe it will all turn out well."
Mrs. Bennet received a gold–edged invitation that day. She read it aloud to her girls, "If you'd do us the honor, la dee da, la dee da, of bringing your most charming family, and Mr. Collins also to a ball at Netherfield tomorrow evening. Well, seems like very short notice, but we know how Mr. Bingley is so impulsive!" She grinned across the lunch table at her youngest girl but one, "Oh, Kitty, this is a compliment to you, you know."
She didn't notice that Kitty ducked her head and looked doubtful.
"And you shall all have partners girls," she grinned at her brood. "You must have new dresses as soon as possible."
Lydia giggled. "Oh," she said. "New dresses. And bonnets."
Mr. Collins looked to Lizzy and Jane. "I shall look forward to this ball," he said, and leered.
"But should you go, sir?" Lizzy asked. "Would it be quite proper? Would your Bishop approve?"
"Your scruples do you credit, Cousin Elizabeth," he said, and turned the full stomach–churning intensity of his leer on her. "Indeed. But I cannot believe that a ball of this kind, given by a respectable man to well-meaning people can have any evil tendencies. In fact," his leer achieved insulting proportions, "I am so far from objecting that I'll ask for the hands of all my fair cousins for the dance. And I'd like to request yours in particular, Cousin Elizabeth, for the first two." He finished with little hissing sniggers.
Elizabeth was left in grim contemplation of the best method of reinforcing her dance slippers with steel. It was either that or be crippled for life, after two dances with Mr. Collins.
She’d heard that some animals would have a false face in the colors of their feathers, meant to deflect predators’ attacks. For a brief, desperate moment she wondered if there was a way to attach a false foot to her real one, to deflect Mr. Collins’s clumsy stomping. But there didn’t seem any way to managing it that wouldn’t attract stares. And she couldn’t explain to everyone she met it was to avoid the two-left-feet Mr. Collins was blessed with.
No, it couldn’t be contemplated. She would have to reinforce her slippers. Perhaps brass leaves, thinly beaten, applied inside the satin. That might do it.
Louisa Hurst had not seen her sister, Caroline, at breakfast.
Since Caroline was usually an early riser, Louisa very much feared that she might be ill. Therefore, after breakfast, Louisa knocked on Caroline's door.
She was answered by disconnected grunts and mumbled words.
Now, this was quite normal when Louisa knocked at her husband's door. But not Caroline's.
"Caroline? What is wrong?"
More grunts and murmurs.
Could Caroline be drunk? No. She didn't drink. More likely in a fever.
But opening the door, Mrs. Hurst found that her sister was only in a fever of packing.
All ten of the clothing trunks that Caroline had brought with her to Netherfield stood open, and into them Caroline was throwing dresses, hats, plumes and jewelry, in complete disregard of the famous volume The Art Of Good Packing or How Ladies of True Breeding Fold Their Gowns, by Lady Catherine De Bourgh.
"Caroline. What's wrong?"
"Thinks he can– Of all the– Honestly– He shall not have– Give him the pleasure of seeing me– What have I done with my orange scarf? Ah, there it is. He shall never– Never been so humiliated–"
"Caroline, you must tell me what's wrong," Louisa said, alarmed. Her sister's face was marked by recent tears and she looked like she'd spent the night awake. In her fireplace was an enormous mountain of ash. "What have you been burning?"
"Wedding dress," Caroline said.
"Which wedding dress?" Mrs. Hurst asked, fearing her sister had gone distracted. "Whose wedding dress?"
But Caroline only shook her head.
"And why are you packing?" Mrs. Hurst asked. "Surely you don't mean to travel."
But Caroline looked up, and spoke in a very determined fashion, "I have a great desire to be in London tomorrow. I hope you and Mr. Hurst and Mr. Stephen Hurst will escort me. I'll make it worth your while."
Now, here, a parenthetical remark must be made about the relationship between the two sisters. Though they were fraternal twins, Caroline had always held the ascendant over Mrs. Hurst, who found it very hard to deny anything to her stronger-willed sister. To that was added the inducement of making it worth Mrs. Hurst's while.
Louise's dowry had long since been drunk by her husband. But Caroline, by shrewd investment – she was nothing if not a shrew – had so far grown her own portion of her father's estate, that she could indeed make it worth Louisa's while to cooperate with Caroline's schemes.
All Louisa could do was drop on Caroline's still-made bed and object in a thread of voice, "But, we can't go today," she said. "You know Charles counts on us for the ball tonight."
The argument swayed Caroline only slightly. She dropped the lid of the nearest trunk, and sat on it, crushing her finery into submission. "We'll leave directly after the ball, then."
Louisa nodded, wondering how Mr. Hurst and Mr. Stephen Hurst would take these news. Mr. Stephen Hurst had seemed so fond of that insipid girl, Mary Bennet
It was the night of the ball, and Fitzwilliam Darcy couldn't have said what he was feeling, or what had made him dance with Elizabeth Bennet.
He couldn't say, except that he had stood there, all alone, long enough– Miss Bingley not being in talkative mood, Bingley being engaged in conversation with the bewitching Miss Bennet, Mr. Hurst being in rather poor spirits (or rather, having had a lot of good spirits) and Mr. Stephen Hurst being nowhere in sight – to start noticing that the second Miss Bennet had a lovely figure and a sparkling pair of dark, dancing eyes.
From such thoughts to asking her to dance was a small step, such as one takes, in the dark, without thinking, and that lands one in a room quite different from that in which one fell asleep.
He started realizing his mistake as he led Miss Bennet to the dance floor. She was so light, so perfect, her steps so graceful. And her hand in his felt like a feather.
Her other attributes too, nicely encased in a tight lace dress, were no less admirable than those of her younger sister. But in Miss Bennet's case, Darcy found himself admiring more than the fact that she was rounded in places. Her smile, for instance, and the way her eyes sparkled. (Though right then her eyes sparkled in a way that he didn't know would often be employed by B-grade-movie-makers a couple of centuries in the future.) But she wasn't smiling.
After they danced in silence for a while, she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent, wondering at his own feelings and the lightness of her step, and how he could easily allow himself to fall for yet another Miss Bennet and how this time it might be serious.
After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with:
"It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples."
He smiled – her banter was certainly more interesting than her sister's – and assured her that whatever she wished him to say would be said.
"Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But now we may be silent."
That was more like it and the sparkle in her eye looked more like flirting. Knowing himself in danger and fearing to fall, yet he couldn't prevent himself from tempting fate. He grinned at her, "Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing
?"
She seemed to mull it over. "Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible."
He sensed something odd, as though Miss Bennet were deliberately insulting him. But why should she do that? What had he ever done to deserve her disdain?
Yes, assuredly, he'd courted her younger sister. But it should have been obvious to anyone – except perhaps Miss Lydia and her Mama – that he wasn't serious.
In a trembling tone, he asked, "Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?"
"Both," replied Elizabeth archly. "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," said he. "How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly."
"I must not decide on my own performance."
He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he, at a loss for friendly conversation, asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton.
She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, "When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance."
Wickham. She'd been meeting Wickham. She was obviously pleased with Wickham. Darcy stared at the lovely dark eyes, wondering how it would be to have them smile on him. Wickham, no doubt had experienced that.
Wickham with his ease of address, his way of making friends wherever he went. Wickham whom Darcy had thought to emulate, without succeeding in doing more than almost becoming engaged to a hoyden. And yet Wickham, with his common touch, had sparked interest from Miss Lydia's obviously more deserving sister.
The world was not fair. Also, if the fair Elizabeth didn’t take care, she’d find herself in some serious trouble. The idea of what Mr. Wickham might wish with a woman of small means and no connections, didn’t bear thinking. Not matrimony, that was sure. "Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends. Whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain."
"He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship," replied Elizabeth with emphasis. "And in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life."
After that, Darcy could not account for the rest of the conversation. Hell, this obviously intelligent woman preferred Wickham to himself. What could he say for himself? He had lands and money and exceedingly snobbish relatives, but what did all that matter, if he could never – either as a snob or as an easy-going man – attract the attention of worthy women?
He returned Miss Bennet to her place, and bowed to her, all in a confusion of misery.
Miss Bingley caught his eye and, for a mad moment, he considered just asking her to marry him. She wasn't wonderful, but she was probably the best he could ever get.
However, even miserable, Darcy was not that suicidal that he didn't know what life with Caroline Bingley would be like. And, Lord knew, he might not have the good fortune to go deaf at an early age. Besides, Caroline would make Georgiana miserable and that Darcy could never allow.
Instead, he snatched a glass from the traya servant had been carrying towards Mr. Hurst. Darcy drank it down in a single gulp. Some fiery concoction. He wasn’t even sure what. Perhaps gin? “Bring me another,” he told the stunned servant.
Sometime later, in an alcohol induced haze, he heard Mrs. Bennet say, "Ah, when Lydia marries Mr. Darcy, there will be a marriage. And that will throw the girls into the path of other rich men."
This time, when he intercepted the waiter, Mr. Darcy took the cut–crystal decanter and, in a way that would have made his aunt Catherine disown him forever, retreated to the corner to drink directly from the bottle.
All his life, he'd prized sobriety. Maybe it was time he made some changes. Certainly, if he had to marry a woman who thought Shakespeare might be a Derbyshire neighbor, sobriety would forever be beyond his power.
Desperate Measures
For Miss Mary Bennet, the evening had scarcely been less bewildering.
Upon arriving at the ball – quite proud in her new silk gown, and for once sure that she had someone to dance with her – she had been immediately met by a nervous-looking Mr. Stephen Hurst.
He danced the first one with her, and the second one too, and then he suggested they go out into the garden to take in the fresh evening air.
Mary agreeing, they soon found themselves amid the shrubbery.
"Miss Mary, I have to tell you something," Stephen finally said.
The way he said it was such that Mary's heart sank, believing he was about to withdraw his earlier protests of affection. She set her face in her most stern expression, and said, in a pinched voice, “It is said that it is best to grasp the nettle firmly, as it won’t then sting one. Very well. We may speak.”
She knew he was going to start by explaining he had been mistaken in his feelings.
Instead, he squeezed her hand with his sweaty one, "We are leaving for London tomorrow," he said. "And I very much fear I shall never see you again."
"Leaving?" Mary asked, scarce comprehending it. "For London? But Mr. Bingley can hardly leave his house so soon after the ball."
"Not Mr. Bingley." Mr. Stephen Hurst shook his head. "Not Mr. Bingley at all. Miss Bingley, and her sister, my sister, Mrs. Hurst, and my brother. My brother and sister are being paid to go with her. Miss Bingley is in some hurry to leave Netherfield. I do not know why." His voice had degenerated into a whine and there was a glittering suggestion of tears in his eyes.
Mary felt strangely calm and composed. Perhaps because she had never really expected romance, she'd never quite believed it was true. It was all the easier to see it dissolve now. "I see," she said. "I see you did not mean your earlier protestations to me."
"Oh, Miss Bennet, Oh Mary. Oh. I did. I mean them. All of them. I am struck by your beauty and your intelligence, your charm and your highly moral beliefs. You are the woman I wish to spend my life with."
"And yet you'd go to London without me, and perhaps never see me again."
Stephen turned feverish grey eyes to her. "What else can I do? I am a second son. And even the first son in my family has no great fortune. Mrs. Hurst’s money is tied up in some way that my brother can’t touch the greater portion of it, but only the children will get it. How am I to live? Where am I to stay, if I don't go to London?"
But Mary's mind had revived. His voice, the tone of it saying he loved her, the despair of it, as he explained his circumstances. She must – must – secure him. This was true love, like Romeo's and Juliet's.
She’d achieved a pinnacle of romantic interest she’d never thought to touch. Her mother had always told her that she was a blue stocking and unlikely to catch a husband, but here, she had a man desperate to obtain her hand in marriage and crying tears at the thought of being parted from her.
Having realized this, Mary would allow no one to separate them. It truly was like Romeo and Juliet, but she’d have to make sure it had a pleasanter ending. She didn't approve of suicide. Poison and a dagger. So very messy. And silly really. There were other ways around things.
And Miss Mary, who read so much, found herself thinking through her problem with a lawyerly calm. "If we were married," she said. "Then perforce your brother would accept me. I am, after all, a gentleman’s daughter, so how could he not? And Mr. Bingley would probably continue to support you in your studies. You saw how much he fawns on my sister Jane. Why, chances are we'd be doubly related. He'd not allow you to starve."
Mr. Stephen Hurst stared at Mary, uncomprehending, "
Yes, but how are we to get married, like this, with no consent? We are both underage." He stopped and his eyes widened further.
Because Miss Mary was smiling and her smile both made her almost as beautiful as her sister Jane and gave her something almost as roguish as Miss Lydia’s demeanor. "I think I have just enough saved," she said. "To hire a carriage to Gretna Green."
"Mary!" he said and blushed. "But reputation in a woman is as beautiful as it is fragile. You cannot be too guarded towards the undeserving of the other sex."
Mary smiled and took his arm. Her lace dress rustled seductively. And even she could tell that all of Stephen Hurst's resistance melted as she whispered in his ear, "Aw, Stevie, you're not at all undeserving."
Darcy woke up.
The room was dark and empty. Well, empty of all save Bingley, who paced back and forth across the ballroom's polished floor, his steps echoing with the force of little explosions.
Darcy's head ached. The room smelled of stale wine and sweat. "Bingley," he croaked. "For the love of God, stop that infernal noise."
"Oh, there you are, Darce. I wondered where you'd got to." Bingley stopped pacing two steps from Mr. Darcy. "What noise?" he asked.
"That," Darcy waved weakly. "Stomp, stomp, stomp."
Bingley looked puzzled. "Were you drinking?"
Darcy managed to open his eyes – a hard feat as someone seemed to have set a large stone on each eyelid and poured sand between eyelids and eyes – and gave Bingley a blood-shot glare. "It's no business of yours."
Bingley cackled. "By God, you were."
Darcy scowled. "I don't see why this amuses you."
Bingley grinned, his smile brilliant enough to light a thousand rooms. "Because perfect Darcy, Darcy the model of morality has got himself stinking drunk. Tell us why, Darce? Did the lovely Lydia refuse you? I noticed she left halfway through the ball."
"Lydia? Who is Lydia? What is Lydia?"
"Miss Lydia Bennet. The girl you like."
Darcy's head pounded. He wasn't sure he'd ever like another human being again. Right then and there he viewed them as noisy, inconsequential creatures put in the world in order to aggravate his headache.