An Assembly Such as This (12 page)

Darcy sanded and blotted his letter, folded it into precise thirds, and peered into the interior of the desk for a stick of sealing wax. Locating one in the far reaches of a cluttered drawer, he lit it, allowing a few drops to descend upon the letter’s edge and, deftly withdrawing his seal from his waistcoat pocket, secured his letter to his sister. This pleasant duty discharged, he leaned back in the chair and contemplated his situation, absently tapping the letter in his hand into the palm of the other.

Miss Elizabeth occupied a settee only feet away, engrossed once more in the needlework she had briefly abandoned during their lively sortie earlier. She presented to him a picture of the earnest needlewoman, her full lower lip caught between dainty white teeth, as she brought needle to cloth with practiced ease. An inexplicable surge of contentment coursed through him as his gaze lingered on her concentrated aspect and the elegant way she plied her needle, her smallest finger crooked just so. This pleasurable sensation slipped rapidly into dismay as he considered the current state of their acquaintance. Sighing to himself, he rose and placed the letter into the silver servier from whence posts were collected.

How could he regain her good opinion, if he ever had it? Should he compliment her needlework? Unprofitable ruse! She would merely say her thanks and they would again be
point non-plus.
He was looking about the room, desperate for inspiration, when his eyes alighted upon the pianoforte tucked into a corner.
Perfect!…if she will consent.

“Miss Bingley, Miss Elizabeth,” he began a trifle awkwardly, “would you condescend to indulge us with music this evening?” Miss Bingley’s languid features brightened at the invitation, and she rose with grace and alacrity. So eager was she to satisfy his request that she had nearly gained the pianoforte before remembering that he had also addressed Elizabeth. Politeness required that, as hostess, she offer her guest the first opportunity to entertain. She turned back to the room slowly and with a brittle smile invited Elizabeth to precede her.

To Darcy’s disappointment, Elizabeth firmly declined the offer, but she did put away her embroidery. This he wished to interpret as an indication that she would oblige him when Miss Bingley had done. As Elizabeth drifted toward the instrument, Darcy could not prevent his eyes from following her, each step and rustle of her gown commanding his full attention. Miss Bingley began her first selection. A desire to engage Elizabeth in some manner warred with Darcy’s repugnance at playing the fool, as fool he would certainly appear in any attempt, on his part, to embark on a flirtation.
A flirtation?
The thought shocked him as much by its novelty as by its revelatory nature. A flush crept up his neck even as Elizabeth’s eyes made brief contact with his. Hooding them, he dropped his gaze to his hands, only to discover that he was twisting his ring furiously.

Miss Bingley came to the end of the mellow Italian love song she had chosen and received the appreciation of the room with grace but little apparent satisfaction. It was likely, Darcy suddenly realized as he joined in the applause, that she had chosen the song with hopes its words would direct his attention to herself. The smile on her lips clashed with the glitter in her eyes, telling him that his lapse instead into a brown study had been duly noted.

She turned her attention to Elizabeth. “Songs of love can be so tedious when one does not know the language,” she drawled in malice-edged condescension. “Do
you
not find this so, Miss Eliza?”

Elizabeth paused in her exploration of the music books lying on the pianoforte. “Oh, Miss Bingley, that is too unfortunate! Especially as you played them so beautifully. Please, permit me to translate them for you!”

Darcy almost choked as comprehension of the neat turn that her insinuation had been given flooded Miss Bingley’s face. “I did not mean…that is…that will not be necessary,” she sputtered. In silent fury she snatched her music sheets from their resting place and embarked on a loud and lively Scotch air.

The mischievous dimple Darcy had so admired at Sir William’s made an all too brief appearance. Its effect was, however, in no wise diminished by its lack of longevity. He rose from his chair with no consciousness of having done so and, before he had fully regained command of himself, was at her side. “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?” The words tumbled out, surprising himself as much as anyone in the room.

Idiot!
he castigated himself.
Dance a reel! What are you about?
Darcy knew her well enough now to be forewarned by the smile that played across her features. He had not, however, anticipated her silence. He repeated his question. It sounded even more ridiculous the second time, but to retreat now was unthinkable.

“Oh! I heard you before,” Elizabeth assured him, “but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply.” Her chin tilted up dangerously as she paused. Darcy once again felt the air between them electrify and promptly forgave himself his awkward address. He schooled his face ruthlessly against the effects of the thousands of charges flying betwixt them. “You wanted me, I know, to say yes, that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste,” Elizabeth challenged, “but I always delight in overthrowing those kinds of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all; and now” — she fixed him with an imperious look — “despise me if you dare.”

Magnificent!
It was the only thought Darcy could lay hold of as he watched the flow of wit and emotion mingle with the charm of her pleasingly formed person. She did not yet interpret him aright, but if such delight as this followed, what did it signify? He placed his hand on his chest, as if acknowledging a hit direct, and solemnly bowed.

“Indeed, madam,” he replied as he straightened, his face softened by the wry smile that lit it, “I do
not
dare.” He bowed again and left her side. With a murmur of apology to the others, he left the room as well and sent for his man. Relief for his disordered thoughts and heightened senses was, he knew, to be found only in activity out-of-doors. Once changed, he would take his hound out for a run and discipline his own mind by engaging it in the dog’s further training.

Some minutes later he left his chambers, pulling on his gloves as he made for the stairs and almost ran down them. Once outdoors, though, he slowed and sauntered toward the pens that hugged one side of the stables.
Bewitching minx!
he mused, unable to banish her from his thoughts.
With your impudent manners and lively mind! Yet so sweetly faithful to your sister — nursing her through the consequences of her own mother’s folly.
The image of that lady came, then, forcefully to his mind. A moment’s contemplation of the woman’s vulgarity and avarice served to steady him, somewhat, in his fascination with her daughter.

He reached the hound’s pen and swiftly released the latch but did not open the gate until the animal within, beside himself with joy at his master’s appearance, displayed a proper decorum. Trafalgar quieted himself sufficiently to be granted his freedom, although his true opinion of the moment was betrayed by the rhythmic twitches of his tail. Darcy opened the gate, and the hound shot out, racing in a wide circle around him before loping up to throw himself at his feet. Darcy stooped down and fondled the dog’s ears. He was rewarded with a quick, surreptitious lick across his chin.

“I swear to you, old man,” he addressed his adoring suppliant, “she is so out of the common way that if it were not for the inferiority of her connections, your master should be in
some
danger.” The hound’s muscles suddenly bunched. “Trafalgar!” Darcy warned and tried to rise.
“Down!”
he shouted, but with an exultant bark the hound leapt up and toppled him over onto his back into the dirt.

B
y the time Darcy had finished making himself presentable after Trafalgar’s exuberant and unrepentant faux pas, there was little opportunity before dinner to inspect the package that had arrived for him during his valet’s ministrations. He was fairly certain what it contained, and the anticipation of what lay between the pages of the two slim volumes made his hands fairly itch. Tearing open the paper wrapper, he held the handsome morocco-bound books up to the light from the window.

Yes, just as he had hoped!
The Siege of Badajoz: A Chronological Narrative of Wellesley’s Great Challenge,
the title of the first volume glinted back at him in shiny gold leaf. The second, with equal glitter, proclaimed,
Triumph at Fuentes de Oñoro: Impressions of a Gentleman-Soldier.
He had placed his order for these immediately upon the rumor of their publication being conveyed to him by the owner of his favorite bookshop, who being well acquainted with his tastes and interests, kept him apprised of all new works. Like the rest of England, Darcy had followed Wellesley’s campaigns in the newspapers as the reports came back from Spain over the summer, but these volumes were the first complete accounts to be published after the events and by an anonymous author reputed to be one of the great man’s own general staff. Darcy had been eagerly awaiting them for months. Determinedly tucking them under his arm, he walked through his chamber doorway as Fletcher opened it, resolving to decline any distractions that might be offered him after dinner.

Fortunately, dinner was a quiet affair that evening, the only excitement occurring when Miss Elizabeth announced that her sister would take her first steps out of her sickbed and join them in the drawing room later in the evening. Miss Bingley was all delight at the news and, calling a footman, adjured him to see that the sofa in that room was drawn closer to the hearth, “so dear Jane may not suffer the slightest draft or chill.”

“And how shall we entertain her, I wonder?” she asked, turning to Darcy. “A game of whist or loo, perhaps?”

Darcy set his fork down and reached for his wineglass. “Perhaps, but that question is better answered by Miss Elizabeth, who knows her sister’s pleasures and strength. I, for one, do not wish to play this evening. Bingley,” he addressed his friend. “The narratives of the summer campaigns have arrived at last.” He motioned to a small table beside the door.

“Indeed, Darcy! May I?” At Darcy’s nod, Bingley retrieved them and settled back into his chair. Knowing well his friend’s care of his books, he wiped his hands on his napkin, gently opened the first volume, and lightly turned the pages. “Outstanding!” he breathed, coming to an engraving that depicted heroic British and Spanish forces arrayed against the ciudad. “The engravings alone are worth the price of the book! I do not wonder why cards hold no allure for you this evening. May I borrow these when you are done?”

Darcy’s smile of assent turned to apprehension as Miss Bingley snatched the second volume before her brother could lay his hand upon it. “Mr. Darcy, will you not allow me to read this while you are enjoying the other? I could not bear to wait until Charles is finished; he reads so seldom, it will be a year before he is through. And,” she added demurely, “I think it a sacred duty to acquaint oneself with the true gallantry of our brave soldiers.”

There was no alternative but to release the long-desired tome into her keeping, and Darcy did so with a clipped “Of course, Miss Bingley. A noble sentiment, indeed.” He took a slow sip of wine, wincing as he watched her lay his book down among the crumbs and stains of the tablecloth, and made a mental note to send to London for another copy. This one would undoubtedly be returned to him looking as if it had been present at the battle it chronicled.

The ladies then excused themselves and left the gentlemen to their port. Bingley handed back the book he had been examining to Darcy as the servant set the tray of liquor and glasses down on the table near the three men. “Hurst?” Bingley handed his brother-in-law a well-filled glass and then poured two more of smaller volume for himself and Darcy. Their conversation was, on the whole, inconsequential, and Darcy longed for the time when they could adjourn to the drawing room, where he could peruse his book without appearing rude. Bingley, too, seemed anxious to end the male ritual as soon as possible, his eyes straying to the doors every other minute as if he could see through them. By mutual but unspoken consent, they both rose and sauntered to the drawing room, Hurst trailing behind.

The ladies of the house were gathered around Miss Bennet in a pretty show of concern and good cheer. Miss Elizabeth sat a little apart, ostensibly working at her embroidery but watching the tableau at the fireside with a tender amusement. Bingley was, of course, before him in offering his congratulations to Miss Bennet on her recovery. Darcy then extended his with a sincerity of expression that was accepted graciously by Miss Jane but seemed to give rise to a look of surprise in her sister. Puzzled by her reaction to his correct behavior, he almost forgot the book in his hand as he watched Elizabeth’s face relax once again into those soft lines of the loving sister he had seen at first.

He turned away from her, found a chair next to a bright lamp, and opened the long-awaited account of the summer’s dearly bought victory.

“Is your chair quite comfortable, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley asked.

“Quite, madam. Thank you.”

“And the lamp…it is bright enough?”

“Perfectly bright, Miss Bingley. Thank you.”

“It is not smoking? You will get the headache if it smokes.”

“No, it is not smoking.” Darcy’s words were all politeness as he manfully restrained the impulse to grind his teeth in irritation at Miss Bingley’s persistent interruptions, but a delicate snort of suppressed amusement from Miss Elizabeth’s direction indicated that his true feelings were apparent, at least to some. Miss Bingley, it seemed, did not notice, and after a few moments of blessed silence in perusal of the book she had been so mad to read, she tossed it aside, expounding as she did in his direction on her fondness of reading and an evening so spent.

Darcy declined to respond to her gambit. Instead, he took a tighter grip on his book and sank lower into his chair in what was likely a vain hope of escaping further overtures. Cautiously, he peered over
Badajoz’
s cover and saw that, miraculously, Miss Bingley had turned her attention to her brother. With relief, he plunged back into the forward positions outside the Spanish city. It was so quiet he could hear the majestic ticking of the clock against the wall opposite him.

“Miss Eliza Bennet” — the syllables rolled penetratingly off Miss Bingley’s tongue in the fashion employed by members of the ton to be heard in a crowded room — “let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.”

Darcy’s head came up out of his book in some surprise at this invitation, and when he saw Miss Bingley cast Elizabeth a look of appeal, his curiosity overcame his caution. Unconsciously, he closed his book.

“Mr. Darcy, will you not join us, sir?” Miss Bingley invited as she encircled Elizabeth’s arm with her own. Darcy wondered what Elizabeth made of Caroline’s sudden, effusive attention. He wondered, also, what he was meant to make of it.
Better to remain an observer,
he decided as he lay aside the book and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. A decidedly mischievous notion then came into his head.
If I am not to be left to my book in peace…

“Thank you, Miss Bingley, but I had rather remain where I am. I can imagine only two reasons for your choosing to walk up and down the room together, in either of which my joining you would certainly interfere.”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose at his statement, and Darcy’s lips twitched in pleasure as she struggled not to indulge her wonder at his words. Miss Bingley had no such qualms. “Mr. Darcy! What can you mean? I am dying to know your meaning!” She tugged lightly at her companion’s arm. “Miss Eliza, can you at all understand what he means?”

“Not at all,” she answered airily, having admirably mastered her curiosity. “But depend upon it, he means to be severe on us.” She looked at him with a mocking eye. “Our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.” Darcy returned her setdown with a roguish glint in an eye.

“Oh, that will not do, Miss Eliza!” Miss Bingley tittered. “A true lady never disappoints a gentleman. And a gentleman,” she addressed Darcy, “never disappoints a lady, especially in such an intriguing manner. Come, tell us what you mean.”

“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” Darcy protested. “You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other’s confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss” — he paused and templed his fingers before fixing Elizabeth with his regard — “or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking.” Elizabeth’s reaction to his bold assertion was all he could have wished. Her eyes widened, and a blush spread over her face and shoulders. “If the first,” he continued nonchalantly, “I should be completely in your way; and if the second” — he paused again delicately, allowing her time to recall his second reason — “I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire.” Feeling a bit wicked, Darcy briefly considered that he had perhaps overstepped the bounds of a countrified sense of propriety. But true to his initial expectations, the lady rallied and treated him to a classically governesque purse of her lips that contrasted wonderfully with the fire in her eyes. All in all, he was rather pleased with his foray into the unfamiliar realm of flirtation.

“Oh, shocking! I never heard anything so abominable,” cried Miss Bingley, livening to his rare exhibition. “How shall we punish him for such a speech?”

“Tease him,” Elizabeth responded decisively, her chin lifting. “Laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done.”

Laugh at me?
Her words caused a frisson of pique to travel a crackling path down Darcy’s spine, and the humor he had found in their exchange evaporated. The amusement left his face, replaced by a taut wariness.

“Tease calmness of temper and presence of mind!” exclaimed Miss Bingley. “No, no; I feel he may defy us there.” The disbelief on Elizabeth’s face said plainly she would not be satisfied. Although his eyes never left her face, Darcy shifted uneasily in his chair, wondering what form her offensive would take.

“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at! That is an uncommon advantage.” Her eyes pierced him. “Uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to
me
to have many such acquaintance.” She turned to Miss Bingley. “I dearly love a laugh.”

All inclination for their former banter deserted him in her bald attempt to reduce him once again to an object of ridicule. Darcy’s manner reverted to those forms that had served him in the past. The cool, practiced logician replaced the drawing room beau, and he swiftly marshaled his defenses and line of attack.

“Miss Bingley has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men — nay, the wisest and best of their actions — may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke.”

“Certainly,” Elizabeth agreed coolly, “there are such people, but I hope I am not one of
them.
I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”

Darcy knew he was checked. Who could claim to behave always in the most wise and circumspect manner?
Checked…but not mated yet!

“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone.” He gave her the point but then fixed upon her steadily. “But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule.”

“Such as vanity and pride,” she drolly suggested.

So, we are returned to the assembly in Meryton!
Darcy seized upon her ulterior motivation, too tempted by the prospect of victory to heed the small voice that warned of battles won but wars lost.

“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride — where there is a real superiority of mind — pride will be always under good regulation.”

She turned away at his words, whether in defeat or anger he could not tell.
Confound it, man; you have been too harsh!
He bit his lip and tried to discover from the attitude of her shoulders what she was thinking, but with no success.

“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” Miss Bingley queried. “Pray what is the result?” She cast Darcy a commiserating grimace.

“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defects.” Elizabeth rounded on him. “He owns it himself without disguise.”

Down, but not defeated!
Darcy shook his head, not sure whether to be amused or affronted by this new attack. “No, I have made no such pretension,” he replied evenly. Deciding to try another tack, he continued in a voice subdued in its sincerity, “I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding, certainly too little for the convenience of the world. It would, perhaps, be called resentful. My good opinion once lost is lost forever.”

“
That
is a failing, indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “You have chosen your fault well. Implacable resentment is a fault at which I cannot laugh.” She put her hands out before him in a show of surrender. “You are safe from me.”

Darcy stared at her, his lips compressed in indecision as to the best response to such a wild accusation, and concluded he could only continue to press his point home. “There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”