One Thread Pulled: The Dance With Mr. Darcy (10 page)

Elizabeth, he noted, hardly knew he was there, although she was clearly enamored with Apollo. He watched, much as he had the previous morning, as she kissed the top of his dog's snout and scratched his ears. He thought of his own mother and how affectionate and warm she had been and considered the great happiness that trait had brought to his father. If nothing else, Elizabeth Bennet could serve as an excellent standard by which to compare legitimate prospects for marriage, for if he could find one such as her who had the requisite fortune and connections, he would count himself a lucky man indeed.

He quickened his pace and caught up with Elizabeth, engaging her in conversation, which seemed to flow effortlessly for her, yet was as witty and fascinating as the lady herself.

Chapter Twelve

The Stuff of Dreams

W
hen Elizabeth returned to Jane's room after her walk, she found her sister fast asleep. She was pleased to see the familiar healthy blush of color had returned to Jane's cheeks. In addition, Jane was sleeping soundly rather than fitfully, as was her previous state.

Retrieving the book from the dresser, she continued her study, for study it was, as she pondered on the application of the book's themes. Justice, she considered to herself, was an elusive object, one she had spent little time considering in her short life. The only serious question of justice to consider at the moment was many miles distant. It would be a happy day indeed when Napoleon was brought to justice; but even then, could justice in his case ever truly be served, considering the evils he had wrought?

Elizabeth sighed. Lack of experience in life may make it difficult to own an opinion on justice, she reflected, for she had never even known a true criminal, or even a scoundrel. No, Meryton had its share in quarrels and strife, and petty crimes did occur from time to time, but overall, her world did not much depend on the scales of justice balancing.
 
If I met a scoundrel, would I know him as such?
She answered her own question almost immediately, for Elizabeth prided herself on an ability to take the measure of a person in her first impression of them.
Of course I would know him, for evil would be in his countenance and I would discern it in a glance
.

She read for a while, but as soon as Jane stirred, she set the book aside and went to sit on the bed next to Jane.

“Awakening without a kiss, Jane?” Elizabeth teased her sister, “Horrid behavior for a princess!”

“Lizzy, I am no fairy-tale princess as you well know” Jane murmured with a smile. “Although if my dreams were true, I would feel as though I were.”

“Dreams, Jane? Of what have you been dreaming?” Elizabeth wiped a loose strand of hair from Jane's brow.

“To be true, I know not how much is dream, and how much is real. It seemed real, although I know it cannot be.” A tear escaped the corner of Jane's eye and trickled down her cheek.

“What cannot be, Jane?” Elizabeth tenderly wiped the tear away.

“Mr. Bingley.” Jane nearly choked on his name. “In my dream...,” Jane stopped and looked forlornly at her sister. “Mr. Bingley....”

“Hush, Jane.” Elizabeth soothed, “You must not be melancholy! Mr. Bingley is well and inquires after you whenever I see him, which is often. You may be sequestered in this room, but you are not forgotten.”

“Oh, Lizzy, how I long to see him again … he came to me in my dream and was ever so gentle and kind....”

“Then you must hurry and get well, dearest Jane, for if I am not wrong—and I am never wrong—he longs to see you again as well.” Elizabeth patted her sister's hand. “But I must prepare for dinner now. Although I would rather stay here with you, I am to dine downstairs tonight, with the rest of the residents of Netherfield. Mr. Bingley is a joy to know, so cheerful and amiable! It is no wonder he suits you so well. Oh, but his sisters—Jane, I do not understand how you can tolerate them; they are so imperious and superior—I cannot predict how many more days of their airs I can endure.”

“Lizzy, they are not as bad as you say.” Jane chided. “They are from town and are not accustomed to our ways here in Hertfordshire. We must make them feel welcome.”

“As for Mr. Darcy...,” Elizabeth continued, “I suspect that there is no one who really knows that man, for he is ... he is ... he is ... I suppose I do not know
 
what
 
he is. He is proud, that is certain, but other than that, his character is enigmatic. There is nothing of warmth or generosity in his manners to make him compare with Mr. Bingley. I believe that is it, Jane. He is a cold, passionless man in company, who is so closed off that he has rendered himself unknowable. He does seem to have a tender regard for his sister though, which could mean, but it is by no means certain, that underneath that icy expression and fancy waistcoat he wears, there may actually beat a heart after all.”

~*~

After dinner, Elizabeth again retreated to Jane's room, hoping to spend the evening in quiet conversation with her sister. She picked up the needlework that Mary had thoughtfully brought to her that morning and, aided by the meager light of a candle, set to work, cheerfully sharing selected events from the past few days with Jane.

It was not to last, for barely an hour had passed before Elizabeth was summoned to join those who had assembled for the evening in the drawing room.

“I wish you could come too, Jane, for they like you better than me, and if you were there to delight them, I could sit quietly in the corner and say nothing.”

“I should so like to come! My headache has gone, but I am still lightheaded, Lizzy, and it would not do to faint. I would not wish to gain a reputation for swooning, after all, not in front of Mr. Bingley.” Jane sighed and then giggled, “Although he might be forced to catch me, and that would be
 
very
 
exciting.”

“Jane, I do believe you have been too much influenced by the scheming of my mother!” Elizabeth laughed uncontrollably, causing Jane to join her in a fit of giggles.

~*~

The laughter had raised Elizabeth's spirits, and she entered the drawing room with a light heart, determined not to let her evening be spoiled by anyone.

She need not have feared, for Miss Bingley had noted Mr. Darcy's lack of interest in cards, and so the card table was nowhere to be seen. Mr. Hurst, disgruntled at this affront to his favorite pastime, was already stretched out on a sofa, sleeping. The others were engaged in their own pursuits. Mr. Darcy was sitting at a desk, writing a letter; Mrs. Hurst appeared to be daydreaming as she fiddled with her bracelets and rings. Mr. Bingley was working on the fire. Caroline Bingley was pacing back and forth, stretching her neck to try to see what Mr. Darcy was writing. Elizabeth, who had brought the needlework with her, sat down in the corner, where a candle gave her ample light, and resumed her stitching.

Several minutes passed before Miss Bingley commented to Mr. Darcy on what fine penmanship he had. Elizabeth could not hear his response, but she grinned to herself when she noted that he adjusted his position in order to block Caroline's view of the paper.

“To whom do you write, sir?” Caroline was undaunted. “Your letter appears to be very long.”

“To my sister,” Darcy replied, not looking up.

At this, Elizabeth found herself drawn into listening more carefully, for she was very curious about Mr. Darcy's sister.

“Oh! Dear Georgiana! How I do miss her. I simply yearn to see her! Please extend my fondest greetings and regards to her. Tell her I hope to see her when we next go to town and that....”

“Perhaps a letter written in your own hand is in order.” Darcy interrupted. “There is not room left for me to do your raptures justice.”

“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” Caroline swept past him, her hand trailing across the desk. “I will just have to save my 'raptures,' as you like to call them, for when I see her next, for I hope it will be very soon—just as soon as I can convince Charles that there is nothing to keep him here, I am sure we will be off to London.
 
I think if we stay, I shall go mad.”

Elizabeth smiled to herself again. Was Caroline Bingley so dense that she did not perceive the set down from Mr. Darcy, or was she so desperate for him to notice her that she did not care?

“Why do you smile, Miss Eliza?” Caroline's voice dripped with venom, “Pray, is there something droll upon your mind to entertain us all?”

Elizabeth looked up from her work as she pulled the thread through to finish the stitch. “There is indeed something droll on my mind, but I fear it is for my entertainment alone, Miss Bingley.”

Bingley laughed. “Miss Bennet, do tell us what is on your mind, for if you do not, we will all be bored, and find ourselves much as Mr. Hurst is.” He laughed again as he turned to poke the log in the fire.

Mr. Darcy set down his pen and turned in his chair to look at her, as if he too wished for insight into what amused her.

“I hate to disappoint, but my thoughts are, after all, my own, and if I keep them, then they cannot betray me, nor can they offend any of you.” Elizabeth demurred.

“Offend us?” Caroline was sneering. “Now I must insist on knowing, else I shall be offended indeed.”

“Would you be offended then, when offense was not my intent?” Elizabeth replied. “Such a position does you no credit, for it is foolish indeed to perceive a slight where none exists. It is only you who suffers for it, for the one giving offense has no knowledge of it, and hence, no pain from it. What is the point in that?”

“In refusing to answer, you have declared your intent, and so the slight indeed exists,
 
Miss Eliza
.” Caroline retorted.

Elizabeth set her handiwork down and looked directly at Caroline. “Miss Bingley, would you grant me such power over you that I may offend with a word unspoken? That is folly indeed.”

Caroline stared at Elizabeth, her jaw slack as she found no ready response. “I am bored with this.” She finally sputtered. “Keep your secrets if you have them.” Caroline picked up a book from the table, found a seat near Mr. Darcy, and began reading.

Darcy, who had sealed his letter, also picked up a book and began to read. Elizabeth once again occupied her hands with stitching, glancing up periodically at the other occupants of the room. She noted that Mr. Darcy kept looking up from his book at her, forcing her to return her focus to her work. She also found that Caroline Bingley was barely reading at all, for she kept looking at Mr. Darcy and frowning whenever Mr. Darcy looked at Elizabeth. It also did not escape her notice that the book Caroline was holding was from the same series as that of Mr. Darcy's, but this time she suppressed any outward expression of her amusement, lest the previous scene be repeated.

In a short while, Caroline laid the book aside, and invited Mrs. Hurst to join her at the pianoforte so that her sister could play while she sang. They started their performance, which it truly was, for Mrs. Hurst's skill on the keys was impressive, and Miss Bingley put the same airs into her singing as she did into everything else. Elizabeth tried hard to ignore them. Miss Bingley started with some arias, in Italian, but Elizabeth knew that the lyrics were somewhat risqué and found herself somewhat embarrassed on behalf of Miss Bingley, for she was certain that Mr. Darcy well knew the translation. They switched, eventually, to some Scottish airs, which Elizabeth found much pleasanter, although she did not realize that she had begun lightly tapping her toe to the rhythm of the music.

She also did not realize, until he was standing beside her, that Mr. Darcy had vacated his seat and had moved to a position next to her chair, looking down upon her.

“Have you come to inspect my needlework, Mr. Darcy?”

“No.” He replied, “I was wondering if you were, perhaps, feeling an inclination to dance a reel?”

Elizabeth smiled up at him, blinked a few times, almost imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to her stitching.

Darcy fidgeted briefly and repeated the question.

“Oh, I heard you the first time, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth replied, although her eyes remained upon her embroidery. “I just was not certain how to respond, for as much as
I
love to dance, I know that
you
do not enjoy it. It was gallant indeed for you to offer, sir, but it would seem a waste of your sacrifice to spend it upon me tonight.” She looked up at him, one eyebrow cocked, with a half-smile on her face, “Therefore, I must decline your offer. Perhaps the next time there is a ball in Meryton, if I am not already engaged to dance, you would oblige me then.”