by Meg Osborne
“Perhaps,” Darcy said, drily. He was pleased to see Charles, hoping that his friend might prove a worthy buffer in between him and Caroline, yet the presence of another lady on Charles’ arm would lend their party an altogether romantic air he did not entirely rejoice in. Perhaps he would attempt to engage this young lady in conversation and leave Charles to his sister for a few moments. He frowned. The notion of engaging another young lady - a stranger to him, and one so richly attired and sociable as the Miss Parker on Charles’ arm appeared to be - there, she stopped to speak to yet another couple that passed, and not merely a “good afternoon” as Darcy so often insisted upon. She was stopping to speak for several moments and with great animation. Darcy shuddered. The appeal of trading the familiar, if tiresome, Caroline Bingley for this new young lady plummeted with his heart into his boots.
“Good afternoon, Charles,” he said, as they drew level with the couple. He nodded, curtly, to Miss Parker, certain they must have been at least introduced, for their party seemed to have arrived at the park together, and separated quite naturally, although Darcy possessed no memory of either event, and felt quite certain he had never laid eyes on Miss Parker before in his life. I have met others like her, though, he acknowledged, thinking fleetingly that she was a poor comparison to Jane Bennet. He blinked. Where on earth had such a thought come from? Had the very intention of bringing Charles to London not been to separate him from Miss Bennet? Surely if Charles formed an attachment to another that could only aid in the breaking of that first, foolish match.
Yet even as he thought this, he recognised its inaccuracy. Was Charles really so foolish to forfeit affection with Miss Jane Bennet? She was pretty - prettier even than this new Miss Parker, and in an altogether more pleasing manner, it seemed to Darcy. Miss Parker’s features were rather too strong for her face and rendered still more so by the sheer quantity of jewels that sparkled about her. Her clothing was too bright, almost garish. Better suited to a ballroom than a walk, and he wagered, from the pinched nature of her smile, that her shoes were not designed for walking.
“Caroline!” Miss Parker tottered over, throwing her arms around Caroline Bingley as if the two were long-lost sisters. Caroline, he noticed, with a smirk, did not return the gesture with half so much enthusiasm as that with which it was offered. “Isn’t it a beautiful afternoon?”
“Beautiful.” Caroline’s response was wooden and offered as if through clenched teeth. Darcy noticed she did not meet her friend’s smile, but that her eyes were fixed on Charles, who stood limply to one side, watching the interaction yet scarcely appearing to notice it at all.
“You were so kind to invite me, and Mr Bingley and I have been having a fascinating conversation,” Miss Parker continued, blushing at the words “Mr Bingley” as if she could control the reaction almost entirely. Darcy frowned, wondering if this performance was fooling Caroline. It certainly seemed to be having little enough effect on Charles or, indeed, on him. Miss Annabelle Parker was, it seemed to Darcy, the very kind of woman he had first imagined Jane Bennet to be. She was determined upon snaring Charles Bingley for her husband and was bald in her attempts to win his heart. It was straight out of the manipulative young lady’s handbook, of which Darcy was certain Caroline had a copy. Had she not tried almost this very approach with him? First, flattering one’s conversation as witty, or intelligent, or fascinating. It did not really matter which. Secondly, dropping the name of every fashionable or respectable person one had ever come into contact with, even claiming them as friends who one had scarcely passed one quarter-hour’s conversation with. Miss Parker was helped here, of course, by virtue of their being in St. James’ park and faced with a passing parade of the elegant and respectable upon whom one might hang such a narrative. Next would surely be an invitation to call.
As if his thoughts had been spoken aloud, Miss Parker cleared her throat.
“Dear me, it is so very cold this afternoon!” She shivered, with great effect, and eyeballed Charles. He hardly noticed. “Do not you think, Mr Bingley?” Miss Parker tried again, but Charles studiously avoided being brought into the conversation. “I said, I do think it so very cold -”
“Yes,” Caroline snapped, then smiled, attempting to wrangle control of her temper once more. “Yes, Annabelle dear, it is very cold. Why don’t we find somewhere we might shelter for a while?”
“Oh! Well, my dear, I was just going to say, why not return to my house, for it is quite close by.”
Caroline’s eyes narrowed, and Darcy fancied he could read her thoughts.
Close by? I very much doubt it.
“I know of an inn but two minutes’ walk from the park,” he offered, wanting for reasons he could not quite articulate to relocate somewhere out of the glare of the entirety of London, and thinking that if he could not shake off the attentions of Caroline Bigley and Annabelle Parker, at least he might not be forced to endure them without refreshment.
“What say you, Charles? The Stag. It is pleasant enough for the ladies, don’t you agree?”
“Eh?” Charles glanced up all of a sudden as if called back from obliviousness by Darcy’s question. He frowned. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“The Stag, Charles.” Caroline tossed her head. “Mr Darcy is suggesting we might move to an inn and take some refreshments.” She turned to Darcy and smiled, a strange, knowing smile, that commanded a response, but he was not sure of what nature. Instead, he willed his features to remain impassive, neither rewarding nor punishing Caroline for her acquiescence.
A FEW SHORT MOMENTS later, the party was contentedly nestled around a small table in one corner of the inn, which was pleasantly busy, and not populated by anyone that either lady might seek to impress. These were good men, gentlemen and barristers, the sort that Darcy might not lament being forced to converse with. They none of them cared for matters of marriage or society gossip and it was for that reason that Darcy had suggested it as a destination, being aware of several tea shops just as close to the park where their small party would have garnered more than a passing interest from the gossips and maiden aunts who frequented such places.
The ladies fell to discussing their hats, and thence the critical assessment of the fashions adopted by their compatriots that afternoon. Once he could be certain that their attention was fully engrossed in one another, he leaned closer to Bingley and spoke, in a low voice.
“It is good to see you taking some exercise. What a shame there is no shooting to be had, eh?”
This topic was specifically designed to attract Bingley’s attention, for Darcy recalled more than one occasion when the two gentlemen had gone shooting and his friend had proved enthusiastic, if not well-skilled.
“Yes.” Charles raised his glass to his lips. “Tis a pity. But I dare say it is for the best.” He darted a glance towards his sister as if waiting for her to contradict him.
The two gentlemen fell into silence once more.
“Miss Parker seems a...pleasant creature.” Darcy voiced this carefully, determined to show no partiality in either way towards the mention of Miss Parker.
“Is she?” Charles frowned. “I mean, yes, yes. Amiable. Pleasant. Very much.” He sighed.
Darcy raised his eyebrows. Charles must be suffering indeed if he was so difficult to goad into conversation. Generally, in his experience, Charles was harder to quiet than he was to encourage in speaking.
“Has Miss Bingley heard any news from Hertfordshire?” he asked, at last, wondering why he felt a sudden compulsion to mention the family both he and Caroline had up until now intended to ignore. “From Miss Bennet, perhaps?”
“Miss Bennet?” Charles darted a wounded glance towards Darcy. “No, there has been no word, at least, none that Caroline has shared with me. Have you - have you heard anything?”
There was a note of desperation in Charles’ voice that quelled Darcy’s desire to laugh at the suggestion that he, of any of them, might have received letters from Longbourn. He shook his head.
“Mind you, it is Christmas.” He might have been an accomplice to Caroline Bingley in separating Charles from Jane Bennet, but he could not so easily tolerate seeing his friend so bereft. He began to wonder if he had been too harsh, too hasty. Just because certain women - and he included the engaging Miss Parker in this assessment - sought to secure Charles Bingley in an effort to secure his fortune and their own future, he wondered, not for the first time, if Jaen Bennet could really be included among their number. Had it perhaps been a throwaway comment that had steered him in this direction, pitted him against her? Certainly, her sister did not share the intent of marrying for wealth and position, or she might have acted rather more warmly towards him, seeking to overcome any disagreement, rather than being pitched to continue it. A wry smile crept onto his features. No, Miss Elizabeth Bennet did not intend to make herself agreeable to any gentleman of wealth in order to secure marriage. Her other sisters, too, seemed hardly to care what others thought of them, if their behaviour at Meryton was anything to go by. He had been horrified by their common flirting and laughter, but now he was forced to admit they were at least the actions of honest young ladies. Who knew but that Miss Parker was predisposed to just the same activity, only she had kept it firmly under control whilst in the presence of her potential beau? He blinked, startled to see his thoughts taking such a turn. Since when did he approve of young women making a spectacle of themselves over polite comportment befitting their position? And since when was honesty more important than appearance? Must one choose between the two characteristics? he thought, with a sigh.
“Dear me!” Caroline’s voice broke through his confused thoughts. “Between you and my brother, Mr Darcy, we are half a very sorry table indeed.” She laughed, but it was not quite so musical as she evidently intended it to be. Darcy shifted in his seat and managed to summon up a polite smile.
“Charles,” Caroline barked. “I do not think you have heard a word dear Annabelle has said this past ten minutes! Do not disappoint poor Miss Parker, for I have assured her you are a most avid conversationalist.”
Suitably chastened, Charles straightened in his chair, and turned his attention, reluctantly, towards Annabelle Parker. His features became serene, once more, but Darcy noticed they lacked the animation they had possessed whenever Charles was pressed into society with Jane Bennet. What he had considered merely a passing flirtation was clearly far more, at least as far as Charles was concerned. With Darcy’s mounting doubts over his hasty assessment of Miss Bennet, he wondered if he and Caroline had acted wisely in removing Charles so immediately and completely from their circle.
He turned to Caroline to ask if she, too, had received no word from Hertfordshire, surprised to find the suggestion that she, herself, write was on the tip of his tongue. She spoke before him, however, and silenced any suggestion he might make.
“Mr Darcy, I do hope you plan to attend the Parkers’ ball tomorrow night. It should be a most enjoyable occasion.”
“I do not believe I have had the pleasure of an invitation.” Darcy was not too disappointed to have been thus overlooked. His response caught at Annabelle Parker’s ear, though, and she turned, with a too-wide smile, towards him.
“Oh, indeed! Mr Darcy, you must come!” Her eyes slid momentarily towards Caroline and then back to his. “I was sure you were invited, for my parents are eager to see you again.”
Eager to see me again? Darcy swallowed a groan. He had spoken but four words to Mr Samuel Parker in all their association, and less than that to his wife. But he knew they were fond of exploiting what connections they had, and no doubt intended on including him towards that end. Their whole London set would likely be there, and so he must go or face being discussed at length in his absence.
“In that case, I will gladly attend.” Darcy’s words belied their truth. Gladly, no. But attend, he would, if only to offer Charles some solace from the so-far, so-unsubtle matchmaking being played out before him by that gentleman’s sister and the very lady whose home would host their gathering.
Caroline’s smile could only be described as radiant, as if Darcy had paid her the highest of compliments in acquiescing to the invitation of her friends. Too late, Darcy felt a sense of foreboding steal over him. He had played unwittingly into their trap, he was certain of that now, yet what the end result would be remained a mystery.
It will all be revealed tomorrow night, I expect, he thought, attending to his meal with grim satisfaction. And no doubt I will rue my attention to convention. Another ball, another party. How I loathe London at Christmas time!
Chapter Six
Almost immediately, the ball was upon them, and Darcy felt certain he had but blinked and been transported from the inn to the front steps of the Parkers’ townhouse, which was ostentatious in its appearance, far outstripping his own modest abode. There was something lacking in the taste applied to the house’s design, however, so that it stood out from its companions for all the wrong reasons. The adornments were too much, too striking, and it gave the house an almost comical appearance, that had not been helped by the great swathes of additional decorations that had been applied to it in celebration of the festive season. Darcy swallowed his groan as he approached the front door, but could barely succeed in mustering a grimace, let alone a smile.
“Mr Darcy! Jolly good to see you again. And how do we find you this evening?”
“You find me as content as ever I could be.” He bowed, already irritated by Mr Parker’s too-warm welcome. “And you, sir? How is your family?”
“Well, well!” Mr Parker grasped him in a hearty handshake such that Darcy struggled to free himself from straight away, and was instead wheeled around and paraded in front of at least half a dozen of Mr Parker’s other guests, none of whom he particularly wished to speak to.
“Come in, come in. My Annabelle is wild to see you!”
Indeed, Darcy thought, mentally readying himself for the spectacle of a wild Annabelle Parker. Fortunately, this description had been all artistry by her father, and he spotted her arm in arm with Charles Bingley, already monopolising him with every ounce of her abilities. Darcy was poised to rescue his friend, when he noticed Caroline Bingley standing on Charles’ other side, surreptitiously scanning the crowd. She must be watching for his own arrival. He hesitated but a moment, wondering if it would be possible to speak to Charles without attracting the notice of his sister, but had scarcely had time to formulate a plan before Caroline called out to him, waving enthusiastically. There would be no escape for Darcy that evening, and he sighed, forcing his grimace into something approaching a smile, and went to join his friends.
“Miss Parker, Miss Bingley.” He dismissed the ladies with a nod and fixed what remained of his attention on Bingley. “Charles, how do you fare this evening?”
“Well enough, Darcy.” His friend actually smiled. “Though it does me good to see you here. Goodness, will you dance, as well?”
“I believe that is the occupation one must seek, at a ball,” Darcy remarked, with grim acknowledgement of his evening’s fate. His answer delighted the ladies, and Caroline hovered expectantly to his left. It would be a trial to dance with her, for she would take his invitation with far more weight than he intended. Yet would it be any more a trial than attempting to select a partner from a roomful of practical strangers? He glanced about him, and seeing no immediate alternative he preferred, offered his arm to Caroline. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Miss Bingley?”
“Oh!” she trilled, her cheeks flushing with modesty he fancied was manufactured. “Oh, well, yes! Yes, Mr Darcy, I would very much like to dance with you.”
He nodded, curtly, and they took their places in the crowd of other dancers, with Charles and Annabelle Parker on their other side. Darcy was pleased to see the promise of some activity lift Charles’ spirits a little, although the ghost of disappointment still lurked around the edges of his friend’s features.
He could not help but recall another dance
that they had attended when Charles was more eager for Darcy to dance than Darcy himself was: the Meryton Assembly, the first time he had laid eyes on any one of the Bennet sisters. He had formed an immediate, and unflattering, opinion of Elizabeth Bennet, and shared it freely, though he had come to repent of it even before the evening was over. He had been so used to being surrounded by ladies such as those that occupied this particular ballroom that seeing anyone who deviated from their set pattern was unusual to him and unfortunately provoked perhaps the worst of all his personal failings: his habit of rushing to judgment. He was not often proved wrong, yet in those cases that he was the results could be dire indeed. He recalled discovering the relationship between Georgiana and George Wickham, which he had been certain was a rumour, only, passed on by a well-meaning but mistaken friend. How shaken he had been to discover the truth, but how fortunate that he had done so in time to prevent anything more serious taking place.
“You are quiet this evening, Mr Darcy,” Caroline remarked, as if he was usually anything otherwise.
“Merely reserving my attention for the dancing, Miss Bingley,” he responded. “I did not realise my conversation was required as well as my feet.”
Caroline laughed, although his comment had not been entirely humorous. She lapsed into silence, though, taking his response for a command. He was gratified, in a way, to be left alone to his thoughts, but to some degree could not help but contrast her behaviour with Elizabeth Bennet’s, who had not taken such a rebuttal to heart, and continued for the duration of their dance to attempt to engage him in conversation. It had worked poorly, but even he had been a little disappointed at how resigned they had been to silence. He had found Elizabeth interesting, although he would no more admit that to himself than he would declare it aloud to his friends.
“Oh!” Caroline exclaimed, theatrically lifting her hand to her forehead. “Oh dear! I feel dreadfully faint.” She wobbled, clutching tight hold of Mr Darcy’s arm, and peeled away from the crowd of dancers. “The heat!” she murmured, directing them both towards the wide windows that opened onto a dark terrace. “Oh, it is so dreadfully warm. Here, let us take a moment for some fresh air.”