“But, Papa . . . what is the point? I shall not dance, and what other purpose is there to attend? I . . . I promise I will leave the house tomorrow. Yes . . . I will call on Charlotte and have a nice long visit. Truly, I promise, Papa, just please do not make me go to the Assembly.”
Jane shifted uneasily in her chair, her guilt now weighing heavily on her. “It will not be that bad, Lizzy, honestly. No one will force you to dance; we only wish your company. I am sure it will turn out to be a most enjoyable evening. Please, Lizzy, attend for me.”
Elizabeth turned her eyes back to her embroidery, refusing to look at either her father or her sister. Resigned that her pleas were falling upon deaf ears, she released a shaky breath. “I will attend if I must, but I assure you, Papa, I shall not dance and I shall hold you to your promise. I will not be prevailed upon to attend another social function for a full year.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The night was ripe with anticipation. Mrs. Bennet was eagerly awaiting the arrival of Mr. Bingley as she stood beside Jane and fussed over her.
“Stand up straight, Jane. Pull your shoulders back. A man could go a long way without seeing a figure like yours, if you would only make the most of it.”
Elizabeth sat some distance away between her friend Charlotte and a potted plant. She tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible as she watched the dancers whirl before her.
She had insisted on getting there well before the Assembly started so that she might already be seated by the time the others had arrived.
Delighted to see her friend, Charlotte could hardly wait to engage Elizabeth in conversation. After relating all the latest news and gossip that she could think of, she waited with much patience for some response, but Elizabeth did not seem the least bit interested in anything she had to say.
Charlotte’s several useless attempts at discourse on various subjects received only monosyllabic responses. It was hard to believe that this was the same Elizabeth who once talked incessantly with unveiled enthusiasm. She was at a loss as to what topic might engage her friend.
“Would you like me to get you some punch, Elizabeth?”
“Charlotte, all I would like is for this evening to end so that I may go home.”
With an exasperated sigh, Charlotte looked over to her mother and sister. She watched as they conversed with Jane and Mrs. Bennet, and then a sudden hush descended over the Assembly.
A party of five, consisting of three gentleman and two ladies, entered. The ladies were finely dressed; their attire was obviously not purchased in the country, but more likely in the fashionable modiste shops found on Bond Street in London.
Elizabeth looked up, and her body tensed. She unconsciously leaned closer to the potted plant.
“Look,” observed Charlotte to her friend, “It is the party from Netherfield.”
Elizabeth remained silent as her eyes fixed upon the man whom she had once fantasized about. Five years ago she had thought of him often. But as the years passed and her hopes of walking normally faded, so did her dreams of him. She had not thought of him at all for almost a year, not since the day Dr. Graham had given his final verdict.
Well, maybe that is not entirely true. I may have thought of him once or twice since then . . . .
“Mr. Bingley is the younger, lighter haired gentleman. And the ladies are Mr. Bingley’s sisters I understand. One of them is married to one of the other two gentlemen.”
Elizabeth stared across the room and unknowingly held her breath.
Charlotte made no further attempt at conversation, as obviously this topic, too, was undeserving of a response from her friend.
The two women sat side by side wordlessly as one set concluded and dancers lined up for the next. The music started up again, and the gentlemen bowed as the ladies across from them curtsied.
“Do you know to which gentleman she is married?”
The question had so suddenly invaded the long silence between them that Charlotte was momentarily startled. Had she finally happened upon a subject that was of interest to her friend?
“I believe it is a Mr. Hurst, the shorter of the two gentlemen.”
Elizabeth began to breathe normally again and immediately chastised herself. You are not a naïve fifteen year old anymore, she scolded herself. Leave your childish dreams in the past where they belong.
Yes, he had been part of her childish dreams. But life had given her more than a dose of reality.
No one will ever want me like this, least of all . . . him.
Elizabeth knew that aside from all the obvious requirements a man of Mr. Darcy’s wealth and consequence would demand, any woman he might consider a suitable match must surely also possess pulchritude and perfection in her manner.
Perfection begets perfection.
If she could have magically disappeared, she would have. She had to find a way to get through the evening without betraying her situation. If he remembered her at all, she wanted him to remember her as she once was—the most perfect version of herself.
She observed as Sir William led Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy over to her mother and Jane, introducing them. When her mother looked about the room to point out her other four daughters, Elizabeth felt her heart race. Please, Lord, do not let my mother entreat me to join them, she silently prayed.
She was relieved when her mother did no more than wave a hand in her direction. She wanted to turn away before his eyes met hers but found herself anticipating his gaze. As he looked over at her, he narrowed his eyes and stared for a moment. She looked for signs of recognition in his countenance but could discern none. Before she could even acknowledge him, he had already turned away. Obviously, he did not remember her at all. She sighed. It is as it should be. Who am I to be remembered?
Charlotte observed the change in colour of Elizabeth’s complexion as her eyes met those of Mr. Darcy’s. Was he what had finally piqued her friend’s interest?
At the start of the next set, Mr. Bingley and Jane took to the dance floor, and Elizabeth could not help but observe Mr. Darcy as he danced with one of Mr. Bingley’s sisters. He was hard to miss, as his height made one’s eyes automatically draw towards him. His hand reached for his partner’s and when they clasped, Elizabeth felt a slight dip in her stomach—an irrational reaction, as she tried unsuccessfully to look away.
When the set had ended, Mr. Darcy headed for the punch bowl while Mr. Bingley brought the rest of his party over to Elizabeth and Charlotte for an introduction. As it turned out, the woman Mr. Darcy had danced with was Mr. Bingley’s unmarried sister, a Miss Caroline Bingley, whose curtsy was perfectly executed. The other couple was Mr. Bingley’s married sister, Louisa, and her husband, Mr. Hurst.
Charlotte and Elizabeth stood as the introductions were made. Mr. Bingley was indeed convivial as he endeavoured to put everyone at ease. His sister Caroline displayed a certain air that Elizabeth was unsure if she resented or envied; it was a confident manner that Elizabeth only vaguely recalled possessing.
Mrs. Hurst merely stated, “A pleasure, I am sure,” as she curtsied, and Mr. Hurst appeared incapable of speech as a stiff bow was all he produced.
With relief, Elizabeth sat down as the party retreated. However, Mr. Bingley turned to Charlotte and requested the pleasure of her company for the next set.
Darcy observed his friend on the dance floor, and then began a cursory scan over the room, briefly resting his eyes on Elizabeth. Had it only been five years ago that they met? For some reason, it seemed so much longer since he had been that naïve young man.
He observed her sweet smile as she looked out over the dancers. She had definitely matured since last he saw her. The prettiness and appeal he had recognized in that young girl all those years ago had been transformed into a rare loveliness that was hard to describe. She was not beautiful, at least not in the classic sense, but everything about her seemed to petition his very soul. If he had to choose one word to describe her . . . it would be . . . yes . . . beguiling. He fo
rced his eyes away from her.
As he started to move about the room, his gaze next fell upon Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, who were whispering between themselves, no doubt conversing on their obvious disdain for the unsophisticated company around them.
Caroline Bingley was not an unattractive woman, at least not in looks. She was tall, and her figure was thin and willowy. However her face, though unblemished, always had a look of disapproval, except when she looked upon him. In those instances, she would produce a pleasant façade, which he supposed was meant to be appealing, but had quite the reverse affect.
He passed Mrs. Bennet and Lady Lucas and heard snippets of conversation that included phrases such as “ten thousand pounds a year” and “a large estate in Derbyshire.” He was used to hearing such things whispered about him, but usually it was in the more elegant ballrooms of London.
Once again his eyes sought out Elizabeth Bennet. He observed her pose unchanged. She still looked straight ahead, the same smile upon her face. As he considered her countenance, he recognized her smile as a familiar one—one he had often displayed himself. It was in place, just as a mask might have been, hiding whatever true feelings were lurking beneath.
He had been quite reluctant to attend tonight’s Assembly, given his natural dislike of social situations. However, upon Bingley revealing Mr. Bennet’s belief that he had met two of his daughters several years ago, an image of the young, dark-haired girl had flashed before his eyes, and before he knew what he was about, he had agreed to attend the country dance.
There had been something about her even then that had attracted him; something that had made her prominent in his memory. And now as he observed the unwavering, complacent smile that continued to grace her expression, she intrigued him even more.
What could such a pretty young girl possibly be hiding behind that mask of a smile, he wondered?
He continued casually traversing the perimeter of the dance floor, keeping his eyes unfocused as not to look directly at anyone. This innate ability had served him well over the years. Yes, he had perfected many of these useful ploys; a mask of a smile to hide any true emotion and an unfocused gaze that kept the world at bay were the two that he most often employed.
However, try as he might, his eyes seemed drawn to one particular woman. It seemed he was also unconsciously moving in her direction.
Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth watched with trepidation as Mr. Darcy made his way across the room.
Stop! Stop! Please do not come any closer. But as she watched him approach, it seemed yet another of her silent prayers would be ignored.
“Good evening, Miss Bennet. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
So he did remember their prior acquaintance. She stood and steadied herself, then responded to his bow with a slight curtsey. “I am delighted, as well, to see you once more, Mr. Darcy.”
“When Mr. Bingley told me of a Mr. Bennet’s visit to Netherfield, I had wondered if he was a relation.”
“I am surprised you remembered the name, sir; after all, it has been five years.”
“I remember everything about that day, including your kindness to my sister.”
“She looked so fragile that my heart could not help but go out to her. I trust she is well?”
“She is quite well. I will let her know that you asked after her. She speaks of you often, as well as your aunt. The events of that day are indelibly in our thoughts.”
“Yes, I would imagine so,” said Elizabeth softly as they briefly held each other’s gaze.
He then turned in the direction of the dance floor and nodded towards Miss Lucas.
“Now that you have lost your friend’s company, perhaps you would honour me with the next set?”
And just like that, the easy conversation stopped.
Elizabeth looked uncomfortable as her hands started to fidget at her sides. She turned her eyes away from him as her mind went in all directions.
Was this not the very fantasy she had dreamed of at fifteen? The music playing so heavenly around them; him standing so close to her that she could feel his warmth, smell his unique scent. All she would have to do was acquiesce, and he would touch her. Perhaps his hand would rest at the small of her back as he led her towards the dance floor, or he might clasp her hand to guide her into an intricate turn. If the set were to include a reel, he might even secure his hand at her waist. Her breath left her momentarily as she let her imagination picture such things. She then turned her gaze back to his.
“I’m afraid I do not dance, Mr. Darcy.”
He eyed her curiously for a moment, wondering if she did not dance or if she just did not wish to dance with him. He could not recall any woman ever having declined his offer to dance before.
“I admit I am not that fond of dancing either,” he said, assuming that was her reason.
“Oh, I am very fond of dancing, sir. I simply choose not to.”
He studied her pensively, not knowing what to make of her. Was she dismissing him?
He could not even gauge his reaction to her refusal, so singular was the event. He rarely asked young ladies to dance and was never refused.
He was now quite at a loss as how to reply to such a refusal, having no experience to draw upon. This was one of the many reasons why he so fastidiously avoided social situations; he simply was not good at the coy games young men and women played to flirt and tease each other. A man of his wealth and position had no need of such silly games; most women were more than agreeable to his company.
Now feeling somewhat awkward, he endeavoured to take his leave with as much of his dignity intact as possible.
“Another time perhaps,” he said, the coldness in his voice almost tangible. He bowed and turned abruptly.
Yes, go. Go back to your perfect dance partner. Leave me before you learn of my secret.
She watched as he returned to the rest of his party. It was best this way. She would rather him think her ill-mannered than for him to know the truth. For once he knew the truth, she would witness the look of pity that would surely follow, and she would be left with nothing, not even her fantasies. At least now she could still pretend—pretend that she was perfect, at least in his eyes.
As the Assembly was nearing its end, guests were now departing, and Elizabeth watched as the party from Netherfield spoke with Sir William, most likely saying their goodbyes.
Darcy was aware of her presence, sitting alone where he had left her nearly two hours before. She had not danced the entire evening, though more than a few gentlemen had approached her. Perhaps her refusal had been genuine; perhaps she was merely not inclined to dance this evening. Or perhaps by refusing him, she had relinquished her privilege to dance with others. He found himself stealing a final glance at her as he left the Assembly Room.
After the Netherfield party had gone, Mrs. Bennet gathered up her three youngest daughters, and then sent for their carriage. Elizabeth observed Charlotte and Jane as they conversed, and after a few minutes her sister looked over and called to her.
“I will wait outside with mother for the carriage, Lizzy. I will let you know when it is here,” she said, knowing Elizabeth wanted to be the last one to leave the Assembly for the same reason she had wanted to be the first to arrive.
Elizabeth nodded, thankful for her sister’s understanding.
She stood and looked around the now empty room. She was glad the evening was over. She just wanted to be home and put it all behind her. At least now she would have a full year’s pardon before she would be prevailed upon to attend another social function.
She steadied herself and took a deep breath. She made her way around the row of chairs, looking down and concentrating on her steps. When she reached the cloakroom, she retrieved her pelisse and waited for her sister’s return.
When she heard the door open, she looked up . . . and stared straight into the mesmerizing, dark brown eyes of Mr. Darcy.
They stared at each other for a long moment as they both see
med to be taking in every aspect of the other’s countenance. “Miss Bingley forgot her wrap,” he offered by way of explanation for his return to the Assembly Room. “And I offered to retrieve it for her.”
Elizabeth numbly nodded.
Once he had the wrap securely in his hands, she waited, hoping he would turn and leave, but he offered her his arm instead. “May I escort you to your carriage, Miss Elizabeth?”
“No!”
She closed her eyes for a brief moment and took a breath.
“I mean . . . I am not ready to leave yet, sir. I . . . I am waiting for someone.”
It was hard to miss the look of distress which appeared upon her face, and for some strange reason he had an impulse to comfort her. He wondered where such a thought had come from, as he acknowledged that for the second time this evening, Miss Elizabeth Bennet made it quite apparent that she wished him gone from her company.
Although somewhat affronted, years of breeding and good manners automatically prompted his response which he accompanied with a curt bow. “I will take my leave then and wish you a goodnight, Miss Bennet.”
She responded with the most perfect curtsey she could manufacture. However her voice came out shaky and just above a whisper. “Goodbye, Mr. Darcy.”
CHAPTER SIX
Normally he would have secluded himself in his library to avoid the mundane talk of dances, gowns and lace, but tonight Mr. Bennet was particularly interested in the events that had occurred during the evening. As the family returned home from their social engagement, he sat in the parlour with a book in his hand and tried to maintain a look of indifference. His concentration, however, was not on the page before him.
He listened as his wife sang the praises of their eldest daughter, declaring her much admired by the eligible Mr. Bingley.
“And his friend, Mr. Darcy, as he calls himself, is rumoured to be the richest man in Derbyshire—ten thousand a year!” Mrs. Bennet mouthed rather than spoke the last four words, as if she did not wish this information to leave the parlour.
The Last Waltz: . . . another pride and prejudice journey of love Page 4