An Assembly Such as This fdg-1

by Pamela Aidan

  What remained of the evening Darcy passed in careful scrutiny of the Bennet family. His first object was to make a determination of the extent of his friend’s infatuation and of Miss Bennet’s affections. Fully cognizant of Charles’s tendency to enthusiasm, Darcy could not conclude with certainty whether Bingley was truly “in love” or had only succumbed to the allure of a pretty face and gentle manners. Miss Bennet was another matter. Under Darcy’s close observation, she appeared to receive Bingley’s attentions with becoming grace and modesty, but the joyful intensity of Bingley’s intercourse was not mirrored in her own face or deportment. She seemed pleased by him, to be sure, but untouched; and Darcy could detect no more in her manner than a proper acknowledgment of the honor his friend did her by his singular regard. No, he decided, she had not the look of true attachment about her. If Charles believed so, he deluded himself.

  The supper over, entertainment was requested with a general cry from the gentlemen for song from the ladies. Darcy leaned back into his chair, experiencing in equal parts hope and fear that Elizabeth would answer the call. A glance told him that she was in no state to perform. Her eyes were downcast in a study of her gloves, her lips almost bloodless as they pressed close. Only when a general wave of movement from among the younger ladies resolved itself into the figure of another Bennet daughter did she look up.

  “Oh dear…Mary Bennet.” Darcy heard a whisper come from behind him, which was then answered by a soft groan. “Screw up your courage now, lads” came an admonition from a lieutenant down the table to his fellows nearby. “Survive this and the Frenchies’ battle cries won’t bother you a bit.”

  Darcy shot an alarmed glance at Elizabeth lest she have heard the ill-mannered comments that floated on the tide of general expectations. Her eyes were closed in what looked like pain. Her lips moved, but no sound issued forth. Polite applause recalled his attention to the performance at hand, and he turned, preparing himself for whatever might come.

  The longer Miss Mary Bennet sang, the more grave his manner grew. In contrast to her elder sister, this Bennet female had a voice remarkable only for a weakness that she attempted to mask with affected movements suited more to the stage than to a private supper. Neither her inability to sustain the melody nor the ridicule her performance excited deterred her, for she needed but a modicum of applause at her finish to encourage the selection of another song.

  Such eagerness to make a spectacle of a lack of talent and modesty was no less distasteful to Darcy than it was incomprehensible. Had no one thought to restrain such immodest tendencies in the girl? Her mother he discounted immediately, but what of her father? Mr. Bennet was reputed to be a peculiar sort of man, who but for the silent salute at Squire Justin’s, had remained largely unknown to him. He obviously exerts little influence upon his wife. Darcy grimaced to himself. Does that disregard extend to his daughters as well? He discreetly searched the room and discovered the gentleman in question making his way to the front. A very masculine sense of relief at the sight of a father taking command of his family gave him pause, and Darcy allowed himself a glimpse at Elizabeth, hoping to discern a lessening of her anxiety.

  “That will do extremely well, child,” he heard Mr. Bennet admonish his daughter. “You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.” Stunned by the baldness of Mr. Bennet’s words, Darcy could not believe what his ears told him. But the truth of it was testified by the fresh wash of pink that rushed over Elizabeth’s face. He quickly trained his eyes on the floor. Such withering remarks to address to one’s own flesh! And in public, no less! Darcy’s embarrassment at merely playing witness to such an exchange was nearly as acute as his opprobrium at its display.

  “If I were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an air.” The vaguely familiar voice stirred Darcy out of his reverie. He looked up to behold his aunt’s fawning vicar. “I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to…”

  Are we now to have a sermon in the midst of a ball! The disbelief under which Darcy labored verged upon the fantastic. He received the clergyman’s glances toward him with a growing dread.

  “…as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance that a clergyman should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards everyone, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment.”

  Do not do it, man! Do not address to me…

  “I cannot acquit him of that duty,” Mr. Collins continued, and then, with an ingratiating smile, he turned to Darcy. “Nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the family.” To Darcy’s horror, the room lapsed into complete silence as the vicar bowed deeply to him. Fortunately, the man looked for no response but took his seat. After a few moments the room concluded that there would be no acknowledgment of the strange clergyman’s speech and turned to other entertainment.

  Darcy allowed himself to breathe again and motioned to a servant to refill his wineglass. Grasping it in fingers cold with outrage, he rose and walked swiftly into the meager shadow of the hearth’s great mantel. He took a generous sip from his glass and then turned to observe Bingley’s guests. His original assessment had been all too correct! Fuming, he took another gulp. Country society and its idea of manners fell appallingly wide of the mark. Ever since his entrance into its provincial precincts, he had been insulted, presumed upon, or toadied to by its chief inhabitants. The rules of good society were unknown, young women were allowed to run wild, and at any moment one could be subjected to stupendous indecorum, even at a ball!

  Darcy’s narrowed gaze traveled over the crowd until he found Bingley in a far corner, his head bent close in private conversation with Miss Bennet while the ball swung crazily out of control. No! Darcy shook his head. For Charles’s own sake, it must be stopped! Despite her mother’s assertions, Miss Bennet had no claims beyond being the daughter of a gentleman, no connections that would benefit his friend, and little dowry to add to his income or property to increase his estate. Rather, she would bring to him an impossibly vulgar mother-in-law, four — no, three — unremarkable sisters he would be expected to foist upon Society, a caustic recluse for a father-in-law, and untold numbers of relations in the professional class. It was a script that presaged disaster. Darcy knew the extent of his influence with his friend, and this might well test its limits, but he must, he must, disengage him from this ruinous course.

  He downed the last of his wine and, with gathered purpose, placed the glass on the nearest table, prepared to set the wheels in motion when sounds of rustling paper interrupted his thoughts and sent them rushing back to the hopes with which he had begun the evening. What had he wanted to come from this night? Merely Elizabeth Bennet’s good opinion? Darcy stepped back into the shadows. She was still at her chair, listening respectfully to a lady whose talents hers far eclipsed. Her color was still somewhat high, but it became her. The singing ceased, and the supper room began to empty in favor of more dancing. Elizabeth arose with the others and made her way to her friend Miss Lucas.

  Her respect. He had wanted her respect, her friendship — an oasis of wit and grace in a desert of provincial dullness. He wanted the aliveness he felt in her presence, which flowed through him like fine wine. He wanted those marvelous eyes turned upon him with something deeper than amusement or rivalry. Elizabeth and Miss Lucas drifted out of the room; Darcy’s eyes followed them, a pang forming deep within his chest. The letter in his breast pocket crinkled again as he unwittingly brushed the spot. There would be no winning of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s good opinion now. What he meant to do, what he must do, for Charles’s sake, would secure her animosity irrevocably.

  “Caroline, I beg you not to require my opinion or assistance on anything further tonight.” Bingley addressed his sister after the door closed on
the departing Bennet family. “The entire evening was splendid, my dear.” He paused in his compliment as the hall clock struck the half hour. “Is it really two-thirty? Good heavens! Darcy, if we are to be off tomorrow, I must find my bed immediately.” Bingley stopped at the foot of the staircase, unsuccessfully suppressed a yawn, then beamed disarmingly at his sister. “Truly, Caroline, you are to be congratulated. They will be talking of this night for weeks to come. Well done, and good night to you all!” he called to the nearby servants, who yet worked to restore the now empty public rooms to order. “Darcy” — he nodded to his friend — “you will have to help yourself to the brandy tonight. I shan’t be able.”

  “To bed, Charles. Should I require it, I know where it is. Tell your man to have you ready by noon or I’ll come for you myself,” Darcy threatened lightly.

  “On that dire note, I bid you all a good night” — Bingley shuddered — “except for Darcy, who I hope tosses and turns the night through.”

  Darcy grimaced in response to his jest and wondered how accurately Bingley’s wish for him would be fulfilled. That sleep would elude him tonight he did not doubt. The task ahead lay uneasily upon his mind.

  “Louisa, you and Mr. Hurst must not wait for me. I have a small duty left to me still this evening.” Miss Bingley smiled wearily to her sister. Darcy saw that Mrs. Hurst appeared too fatigued to question the propriety of her sister staying downstairs with only himself for company, and for once, he was glad of it. His design for separating Bingley from Miss Bennet required a confederate, and in Miss Bingley he knew he would find a most willing one.

  “Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bingley turned to him as soon as the Hursts had mounted the stairs. “Charles is still in her toils! I looked for you to speak to him!”

  “I am most sorry to disappoint you, Miss Bingley. There was no opportunity that would have answered. I could not very well take him by the collar and shake him like an errant puppy.” Darcy looked down upon her coldly. “And you know how he would take a lecture on this subject, even from me.”

  “He will listen to nothing but praise of Miss Bennet.”

  “Precisely,” Darcy replied sharply. “But if you are able to follow my instructions, I think we may yet save him from committing a disastrous error.”

  “Anything, Mr. Darcy. Anything within my power.”

  Darcy’s blood ran cold at her words, so like those Charles had pledged to him only a few days before. What was he doing? Such duplicity as he contemplated was entirely repugnant to his character. He forcefully quelled the wave of unease that rose in his vitals, reminding himself of the fatal nature of his friend’s inclinations.

  “Mr. Darcy, what do you want me to do?” Miss Bingley pressed him.

  “Wait a few days until after we have left for London. Then dismiss the servants, close up the house, and follow us to Town. But do not let Charles know that you have arrived. When I am satisfied that my plans have borne fruit, I will send you a note. Only then should you make him aware of your arrival. You need only affirm to your brother what I have told him, but in the lightest of tones. Do not bedevil him! Can you do this, Miss Bingley?”

  “Y-y-yes, it shall be as you say, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bingley shivered at the intensity of his manner.

  “Very well, Miss Bingley. Then I, too, bid you good night.” He bowed and turned abruptly for the stairs, but paused at the first to fix her once more with his imperious eye. “One more thing. You should send round a letter to Miss Bennet. Tell her that Charles will, in all likelihood, stay in Town and that you have gone to join him. Tell her that none of you will be back to Netherfield before Christmas. Indeed, that you may never return. Say all that is polite, but make the material point very clear. Charles will not be coming back! Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Miss Bingley nodded quickly, her eyes wide. Darcy bowed to her again and continued on his way to his chambers. It was now hard on three in the morning, and each step to his rooms testified to how profoundly exhausted the tensions and emotions of this night had rendered him. The knob of his chamber door turned even as he reached for it, the door quietly swinging open to reveal a gravely silent Fletcher against the illumination of a single candle at the bedstead.

  “Mr. Darcy, sir.”

  “Fletcher.” He sighed as he sat down. “I did not think a country ball would end so late.”

  “Do not concern yourself, sir. I have put the intervening time to good use and packed up all your belongings, sir,” the valet replied as he pulled the emerald stickpin from Darcy’s neckcloth and began to unravel the knot. As he unbuttoned the controversial waistcoat, Darcy peered curiously at the head bent in service.

  “All my belongings?”

  “Yes, sir…and sent notice to the stable to crate Master Trafalgar for Pemberley. Will you wish to ride Master Nelson on your journey, or shall he be sent down as well, sir?” Fletcher dropped to his knee and carefully removed Darcy’s dancing pumps.

  “Send Nelson to Pemberley. Fletcher, you knew I would not be returning?”

  His valet looked askance at him. “Of course, Mr. Darcy. Do you still wish to depart at noon, sir?”

  Darcy regarded his valet uneasily. “Perhaps you should tell me!”

  “Oh, no, sir. That would be quite beforehand of me and worthy of dismissal, although I have heard that Lord ——— is very dependent upon the judgment of his man, who accompanies him, I believe, even to the gaming table.”

  “So I have heard as well,” Darcy replied slowly. “Then I shall rephrase it. What time would you suggest, Fletcher?”

  “Noon is the latest acceptable time, sir, as that will bring you to Erewile House somewhat late but not excessively so. It also recommends itself by being the earliest possible time that Mr. Bingley’s man may contrive to have him ready. May I remove your coat now, sir?”

  Darcy struggled out of his chair, shrugged off the coat and, as Fletcher reached for it, the waistcoat as well. He was certain he heard the man sigh as he laid them both across an upholstered stool. Darcy watched him from under hooded eyes as he unbuttoned his cuffs and those at his throat.

  “Noon it shall remain. You cannot be sorry to leave Hertfordshire, Fletcher?”

  The valet did not answer immediately as he poured out hot water from the copper kettle kept warm by the fire into the basin on the washstand, but his countenance turned wistful.

  “Sorry, sir? London has its pleasures, and Pemberley is the fairest spot on God’s green earth. Hertfordshire? Hertfordshire, I have found, has its own treasures, sir; and what man is not loath to leave behind a treasure?”

  “What man indeed?” whispered Darcy, visions of his first sight of Elizabeth that evening arising before his eyes: the comely form, the impudent curls, her flashing eyes, and, later, her troubled brow, chastened voice, and anguished gaze. Darcy closed his eyes wearily.

  “Mr. Darcy?”

  “The man who knows his duty and, against all natural inclination, performs it. That man, Fletcher, will in the end know no regret.”

  “As you say, sir.” Fletcher’s face betrayed no reaction to Darcy’s assertion as he motioned to the basin and the bedclothes lying across the counterpane. “Is there anything more you require tonight, sir?”

  “No, no, that will be all. I have kept you up long enough. If I am not stirring by ten, please rouse me.”

  Fletcher gathered up the discarded evening clothes and, bowing in acknowledgment of his dismissal, retreated to the dressing room door. “Mr. Darcy, sir.” He paused at the threshold. Darcy finished pulling his shirt over his head and looked at him inquiringly. “There is some brandy on the table next to the fire should you desire it. Good night, sir.”

  Darcy looked over at the table as the door quietly clicked shut. He had not intended to partake at this late hour, but the idea now held an appeal. Perhaps it would still the competing voices in his head long enough to allow him to fall asleep. He poured himself a tumbler but left it on the table in indecision while he finished his ablutions an
d assumed his bedclothes. It stood there still when he had done, shining invitingly in the firelight. His hand closed around it, and with a quick motion, he downed half the glass. The liquid fire burned satisfactorily on its way down, its false warmth flooding his body within moments.

  His duty! Yes, he knew his duty quite well — and the consequences of neglecting it. Georgiana had only just been rescued from his one instance of neglect of his duty. He would not fail Charles similarly. Not for all the “treasures” of Hertfordshire.

  Darcy quickly downed the rest of the glass before her face could arise before him again and set it down on the tray. He walked over to the bed and pulled back the sheets, still warm from the heating pan, and slid between them, arranging his limbs in a position most likely to encourage sleep. He blew out the candle. Darkness enfolded him as the effects of brandy drunk too fast made themselves felt. A pair of fine eyes looked down upon him in confusion and sorrow, and Darcy turned in to his pillow to avoid them.

  “Dear God,” he whispered into the depths of the night, “I pray I do right!”

  Chapter 11