An Assembly Such as This fdg-1

by Pamela Aidan

  She was talking to one of the officers as they made their way to the ballroom before him. He could not see her face, but her form was unmistakable to him. Her hair was caught up with delicate ribbons entwined with the daintiest of flowers, leaving three delightful curls to swing enticingly about her neck. He quickened his steps, only to be blocked by some callow youths who, looking distinctly uncomfortable in their dress uniforms, stopped and gawked about them as if they had never been in polite society before. Darcy maneuvered around them, determined to reach Elizabeth before she was once again swallowed up in the crowd. She had not gone far. She was, in fact, only a few yards away, apparently listening to the officer, a Mr. Denny, most earnestly.

  The young officers he had overtaken pushed past him, all now holding the hands of females whom Darcy was able to identify as Elizabeth’s younger sisters. They encircled her and Denny and, one of them pulling on that officer, bore him away to the ballroom. Elizabeth turned, waving them off with a wistful smile. As she did, Darcy finally saw her complete. The sight utterly ravished him. It was, suddenly, painful to breathe. The roaring of the blood through his veins caused the world about him to go silent.

  Part of my soul, I seek thee and thee claim

  My other half…

  Where had he read that? He mused as he stood unmoving, mesmerized by the vision before him. “Part of my soul…” He commanded his limbs to move. He took a step toward those marvelous eyes alight with so much life. “I seek thee…” Another step and he thought their eyes met, but it could not have been, for she was turning away. “My soul…”

  “Miss Elizabeth!” Darcy called in a voice that was at once low and carrying. She had heard him, for she stopped, and after the briefest hesitation, she turned back.

  “Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth made him her curtsy as he did her his bow, but the countenance she then raised to him was nothing like that which had filled his senses only moments before. The coolness he found in the tilt of her chin contrasted bewilderingly with the snap in her eyes. Miss Bennet was not best pleased, that was certain; but the cause eluded him, as did all of the little speeches he had composed in the hope of gaining her favor. In confusion, Darcy retreated to a safe inquiry after her health.

  “I am quite well, sir.”

  “And your sister Miss Bennet has suffered no relapse?”

  “I am happy to say that Jane enjoys as good a health as myself, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Ah, I am glad of it.” Darcy fell silent, the contemplation of her charming features rendering his mental faculties nigh useless. One of her delicate brows lifted at his lack of further words.

  “My sister’s joy in this evening, then, will be complete.” She curtsied again. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, and left him standing in the gallery. Her cool abruptness surprised him, but the pleasure of watching her figure as she walked away was compensation enough for the present. He lightly brushed the front of his coat, listening for the rustle of paper.

  Milton! The source of the phrases came to him in a rush. The book she had been reading in the library! He smiled to himself as he sauntered toward the ballroom. Adam’s paean upon first seeing Eve. How fitting! He entered the ballroom and stationed himself where he could obtain the best view of the dancing. Elizabeth was to one side, already deep in conversation with her friend Miss Lucas. “To have thee by my side…” A sigh escaped him as he shifted his weight and clasped his gloved hands behind his back. How fitting. How very true!

  The musicians struck a chord announcing that the dancing was to begin. Bingley, Darcy observed, had already claimed the hand of Miss Bennet and was even now escorting her to the head of the line, a singular honor that would escape no one. Caroline Bingley followed on the arm of Sir William, her sister and brother-in-law in her wake. He slanted a glance at Elizabeth, who was still engaged with Miss Lucas, only to have his view of her obscured by a gentleman of vague familiarity and decidedly odd parts. Darcy frowned to himself as the man bowed over Elizabeth’s hand and the lady cast her friend a helpless look. They took their place in the set, and Darcy circled round to satisfy himself as to the man’s identity.

  Ah yes. Her cousin from Kent…the clergyman. He laughed quietly to himself at the pursed lips and set chin of his fair tormentor as she struggled to acquiesce gracefully in standing up with her cousin. The music began, and in only seconds Darcy had to look away to prevent it from causing him to break into an unseemly display of mirth. The man truly was no dancer! Darcy’s less admirable self drew his eyes back to Elizabeth’s misery. At the next turn in the dance, the man went in the wrong direction, then compounded the confusion he had created by profuse apologies where only his attention to the steps was wanted. He next very nearly bowled over a large, stately dame when, head down, he launched prematurely into the weaving of the hey, causing Elizabeth to hiss him instructions while she flushed crimson in mortification. Then, possessing himself of her hands, he wheeled her about with such enthusiasm that Darcy almost feared for her safety and that of those about them.

  It can only be his clerical garb, he surmised as he watched in amused fascination, that keeps the indulgent smiles upon the faces of the others in the set. All, that was, save Elizabeth. Her face offered no such charity to her cousin. Humiliation suffused her being, and when Darcy unwittingly caught her eye in a turn, the force of it rocked him. His responding impulse to go to her aid was so strong that only his doubt of her welcome of his intervention prevented his taking more than one step in her direction. That step was subtly redirected, and Darcy strolled down the line of dancers, feigning a nonchalance that he rather wished he truly did feel. The emotions Elizabeth Bennet had stirred within him this night were unfamiliar and supremely unsettling in their power. Distance was called for.

  He reached the other end of the room and turned round just in time to witness another faux pas of Elizabeth’s absurd relative. The dance ended, he abandoned his partner and proceeded to present his apologies to the other members of the set, leaving her without escort off the floor. The look she directed to his back would have singed his clerical collar to a ring of ash were it possible. And you would deserve it, stupid man!

  Darcy considered his plan of surprising her into accepting his hand and despite his uncertainty, still found it, the most likely to answer his objective, but not yet. He would only draw her fire. Let her recover from the clergyman. Then…One of Forster’s lieutenants brushed past him and advanced upon Elizabeth with determined strides. Darcy waited long enough to watch her accept him for the next dance before beginning a search for Bingley amid the swirling gowns, polished brass, and competing waistcoats.

  “I believe you may safely rate your ball a success, Bingley,” he told him, upon finding his friend between dances. “Mayhap too successful!”

  “Too successful? A crush is what you really mean.” Bingley laughed back at him. “To be honest, I could do with a few less officers who seem to have nothing better to do than dance attendance upon women with whom I wish to converse!”

  “Women? Bingley.” Darcy swept a speaking glance about them. “From the look of it, you are well supplied with any number of women who would gladly —”

  “Woman, Darcy! Confound you; do not pretend to misunderstand me!”

  “Bingley, I understand too well.” Darcy dropped his voice. “You opened the ball with her and danced the entire set together. Anything more will be remarked upon to such a degree that the whole shire will expect to hear the banns announced on Sunday.”

  “Well, at least I have danced — and I expect to do quite a bit more — while you have done nothing but stalk about being civil or stare at Elizabeth Bennet.” Bingley paused to nod and smile a return of a greeting from a newcomer. “And do not poker up at me, for it won’t wash. I know you too well, my friend.”

  “Slings and arrows, Bingley, slings and arrows quite misflung. I do, indeed, mean to dance this evening, when the time is right.”

  “When the time…Darcy!”

  “Ask me no questions —”<
br />
  “And you’ll tell me no lies.” Bingley shook his head despairingly. “When will the time be right? At the twelfth stroke of midnight? What are you planning, Darcy?”

  “A surprise attack, Bingley, and more I will not divulge.” Darcy moved off before his host pried too closely into his plans. The music was almost ended for the country dance that separated the sets, and he would need to reach Elizabeth before another red coat whisked her off. A shiver of apprehension traveled down his spine as Darcy remembered his valet’s fears and predictions for the evening, and he looked briefly at the waistcoat Fletcher had pressed upon him. Well, we shall see, shall we not, my man.

  When he reached her, Elizabeth was once again engaged with Miss Lucas and not aware of his approach. At Miss Lucas’s discreet “ahem,” Elizabeth whirled about, almost into his chest.

  “Miss Bennet.” He bowed quickly and, barely waiting for her curtsy, pressed an advantage that was all he could have wished for. “Would you do me the honor of standing up with me for the next set?”

  Elizabeth’s mouth opened and then shut, her discomposure satisfyingly evident in her every aspect. She stared at him, then looked to her friend. Darcy waited patiently.

  “I did not…that is, I was going…sitting…” She looked up into his eyes. He lifted an inquiring brow. “Yes,” she assented in a tight, little voice. Darcy bowed his appreciation and strode away, savoring the wonderful confusion of her mind and the impending realization of all his planning. Just before attaining his former post at the edge of the floor, he chanced a backward glance, and with it all satisfaction fled. She was clearly agitated. In growing apprehension, Darcy watched her from under hooded eyes as she spoke furiously to Miss Lucas, a high flush on her face, her eyes darting about the room. The sight continued to baffle him as he approached to claim her hand for their set, driving his weeklong anticipation of pleasure to the edges of his consciousness. He bowed stiffly; she curtsied. He extended his hand; she placed hers in it but would not look him in the face. Any ease he had ever felt in her company deserted him as he led her to their places.

  The murmur of surprise that swept the room as they faced each other, while expected under the circumstances, only served to impress upon him what a fool he was making of himself over a woman who was, even now, regarding him with indifference. He had imagined her flustered; he had imagined her piqued. But in all his imaginings she had quickly and prettily turned into an engaging partner. The creature before him exhibited no such dulcet inclinations. What had happened to the lovely, beguiling Eve?

  Darcy favored Elizabeth with the most formal of bows, bending deeply. As he rose, he trained his eyes past her left cheek, but not before flicking over her a surreptitious glance. “To have thee by my side…” He stifled the thought. There was not a hint of pliancy from the stone maiden before him. Come, fool, complete your folly! he growled to himself, feeling the familiar coldness grip his chest. They joined hands and turned, facing the near end of the ballroom. Her tension, communicated to him through their conjoined fingers, increased perceptibly as they stepped forward into the pattern of the dance. Though he dared not look, Darcy could sense that she was peeping up at him. With what object, he could not guess and, until he knew something of her mind, decided that silence was his best course. Whatever solace he might derive from her company would, it appeared, be found only in the heady touch, release, and cradling of her gloved fingers. It must needs suffice.

  Elizabeth’s hand stirred slightly in his grasp. “This choice of dance must seem rather out of fashion to one accustomed to St. James’s, Mr. Darcy.” In equal parts encouraged and alerted by her sudden bid for conversation, he looked down upon his partner. Whatever had caused her complaint of him she now seemed willing to overlook, but knowing her as he did, he was not confident of her true intent.

  “As I told Sir William, I do not dance at St. James’s and, therefore, do not know what is considered dernier cri,” he replied cautiously. “The choice is well enough, in my opinion.” The pattern separated them for a few moments, but the respite afforded Darcy no inspiration. He rejoined her in silence.

  “It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy,” she advised him pertly. “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.”

  Darcy peered down into her face with relief. Here, now, was the Elizabeth he knew. “Miss Bennet, pray instruct me! Whatever you wish me to say shall, on my honor, be said.”

  Elizabeth acknowledged the gallantry of his remark with a curl of her lips into a reluctant little smile. “Very well; that reply will do for the present.” Darcy braved her devastating eyes until the last second as she circled him in the figure. When she reappeared on his other side, it was she who looked him a challenge. “Perhaps, by and by, I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones.” He reached for her hand as they both turned again to face the end of the room. “But now we may be silent.” The tension in her fingers was abated; they rested more easily now in his palm.

  Darcy fully realized her condescension to silence was, in truth, a command to him to pick up the threads of the conversation. “Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?” he countered, indulgence in her little conceit being, surely, the safest response.

  Her brows arched at that, and Darcy thought he detected a glint in her eyes that belied the return of severity to her lips. “Sometimes.” His instructress paused as Darcy circled her. “One must speak a little, you know.” This time it was her hand that sought the clasp of the next figure. “It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together.” She regarded him as if considering a point of logic. “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.”

  There was the sting of half-truth in that one! “Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case,” he parried, smoothly if not with grace, “or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?” The sharp little intake of breath by his partner told him the sally had found its mark, but a response was rendered impossible as the pattern separated them once more.

  “Both,” she replied, to his complete surprise, when they were joined again. His astonishment was to increase. “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.”

  Darcy could not tell whether she was trying to provoke him to laughter or to ire. Again, he parried and feinted. “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure.” He offered her the requisite demibow of the pattern, then waited, motionless, as she circled him. “How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”

  She returned to her place and took his outstretched hand. “I must not decide on my own performance.”

  But I must decide upon it! Darcy thought to himself as they went down the dance, silent now by mutual consent. How strangely she behaves! Why? He glanced at her repeatedly as they worked their way through the figures, looking for some indication of her temper. Does she, in truth, think me such a curmudgeon? Or does she give offense merely for amusement? The more he considered her comportment toward him, the more he found his irritation growing. Is this, then, your vengeance for Meryton! Tit for tat!

  With some acrimony, he moved toward his partner to regain her hand from the gentleman on his right, causing the paper in his breast pocket to rustle gently. Georgiana’s letter! All but forgotten, its contents now forcefully recommended themselves to his conscience, and for the sake of his sister’s regard for him, Darcy resolved to try once more to bridge the torrent of Elizabeth’s ill-use of him.

  “Miss Bennet,” he began when she was secure in his possession for the next figure, “Bingley and I were on our way to Longbourn when we
had the felicity of meeting you in the village last week. Do you and your sisters very often walk to Meryton?”

  “Indeed, sir, we do.” She looked up at him closely. “When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”

  Wickham! The anger he had felt upon seeing that face on the streets of Meryton returned in full measure: the insolence of his bow, the smirk on his lips, the knowing look in his eyes! Darcy’s jaws clamped tightly, and he looked fixedly ahead for some moments, unwilling to betray his disconcertment. At length, when sufficiently in command of himself to venture a response, he looked down into her countenance.

  “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,” she answered him heatedly, “and in a manner he is likely to suffer from all his life.”

  Darcy’s mind reeled at her charge. Unlucky to lose his friendship! What could he possibly have to say for his infamous conduct? What monstrous falsehood was he peddling? Helpless to stop the roiling anger that again smote him, Darcy could give her no reply. The rest of their dance might have been conducted in silence if Sir William had not intruded on their separate reveries with fulsome admiration of their dancing.

  “It is evident that you belong to the first circles, Mr. Darcy,” he complimented. “Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza, shall take place.” Darcy followed Sir William’s nod and found himself apprehending Bingley and Miss Bennet dancing together once again. His eyes narrowed in displeasure at Bingley’s complete disregard of his warning. “I appeal to Mr. Darcy — but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”