Pamela Aidan - An Assembly Such as This

“Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.” With the ease that came with long acquaintance, Sir William possessed himself of Elizabeth’s hand and turned to present it gallantly to Darcy. The opportunity to hold her hand in his and repeat that contact throughout a form was a serious temptation, which Darcy, though surprised by this good fortune, was well inclined to entertain. He stepped forward, but before he could assure her of his willingness, she drew back.

“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing,” she hastened to inform Sir William. “I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.” Darcy sensed her fear at once again being presented to his notice only to be dismissed.

“Miss Bennet,” he interrupted, gravely summoning up every ounce of propriety he possessed, “I would be most gratified if you would allow me the honor of your hand.” Her expression told him plainly that she believed no such thing.

“You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you,” Sir William wheedled. “And though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half hour.”

No objection in the least, thought Darcy, suddenly in more charity with Sir William than he would have thought possible only moments ago.

“Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling in anticipation of emerging from this encounter the winner.

“He is, indeed: but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a partner?”

It was a question for which neither party was prepared to venture an answer. Elizabeth looked at Darcy archly, eyes sparkling in triumph and, murmuring her regrets to Sir William, turned away. Although disappointed, Darcy could not help but admire her poise and amusement in the awkward situation into which they had been drawn. Miss Elizabeth Bennet was so much more than he had expected to encounter in the savage hinterlands of Hertfordshire. His admiration deepened as the picture she had earlier presented at the pianoforte flashed through his mind. A touch on his arm awoke him from these pleasant thoughts.

“I can guess the subject of your reverie.” Miss Bingley’s bored tone assured Darcy that his thoughts had not been read on his face.

“I should imagine not,” he replied.

“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner — in such society.” She sighed a commiserating sigh. “And, indeed, I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise — the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all these people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!” She tucked one hand inside the crook of his arm and with the other smoothed away imaginary wrinkles in his coat sleeve.

“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged.” Darcy politely but firmly removed her hand. “I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”

“Indeed, sir!” she returned with a careful indifference. “And which lady may be awarded the credit of inspiring such reflections in one so inured to flirtation?”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” came Darcy’s unguarded reply, and in such a straightforward manner as to give her no clue concerning the seriousness of his regard.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet! I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favorite? And pray when am I to wish you joy?”

Refusing to be drawn into saying anything that might fuel her suspicions, Darcy replied vaguely and ignored her continuing drollery. He wished only for the evening to end. A desire for a glass of brandy, a crackling fire in the hearth, and a comfortable chair from which to enjoy both while he contemplated the new pieces of the puzzle of Miss Elizabeth Bennet occupied his thoughts to such a degree that Charles could get no more than a few syllables out of him. Whether out of gratitude for Darcy’s forbearance with his preoccupation with the eldest Miss Bennet that evening or out of a sense for Darcy’s need of solitude, he arranged for the rest of their party to return to Netherfield as they had come.

As they settled in for the journey, Bingley cleared his throat a few times, only to be ignored. “Darcy, is there something the matter? I’ve never seen you so.” He laughed nervously.

“The matter? No, Charles, nothing is wrong. At least, I do not think so.” His voice trailed off as he looked out the carriage window into the cool, starry night. After a few moments he gathered himself together and turned back to his friend. “Your little foray into the country has brought more than we expected, I daresay. That is all.”

The evening with Colonel Forster and his officers had been, in Darcy’s opinion, a welcome one. Although not of a military bent himself, he appreciated the company of gentlemen whose ideas of honor and service, king and country, were not unlike his own. He listened with more than polite attention to the colonel’s stories of his campaigns against Napoleon and even more so when the man recounted a meeting with Admiral Nelson himself, a hero of Darcy’s from his youth. Even Charles had allowed himself to enjoy the evening once he arrived and downed a glass of good port toasting the ladies of Meryton along with the younger officers. Their journey to the rented rooms that served as the officers’ club had been punctuated with vituperation at the perfidy of his sister in inviting Miss Jane Bennet to Netherfield on a night she knew him to be engaged elsewhere. The evening’s dreary, wet weather had mirrored Bingley’s mood, tempting Darcy to come short with him. But knowing Bingley’s rare bad tempers to be mercurial, he had held his tongue and merely cocked an eyebrow at his more extreme vows of revenge.

They were now on their way back to Netherfield in a rather mellowed state of mind and quite ready to seek the quiet comfort of their beds. Thus, the degree of noise and activity among the servants that greeted their arrival home was beyond what either gentleman expected or desired. Catching Stevenson flying through the hall, Bingley demanded of him the reason for the unsettled state of his home.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but Miss Bingley’s guest was taken very ill and —”

“Miss Bennet! Do you refer to Miss Bennet?” cried Bingley.

“The very same, sir.”

“What has happened? What is being done? Good heavens, man, do not keep me in suspense!”

“The apothecary is sent for, sir, and we await his arrival at any moment. We thought you were he.” In light of his master’s agitation, Stevenson unbent and continued in a sympathetic tone, “I do not know any of the particulars, sir. If you applied to your sister…?”

Without a backward glance Bingley bounded up the stairs in search of Caroline, leaving his friend to fend for himself. Darcy followed him up the stairs but at a more sedate pace and with the object of seeking his own rooms. He laid his hat, gloves, and stick on a table in his sitting room while acknowledging his valet’s greeting.

“It seems there has been some excitement here tonight, Fletcher.”

“Yes, sir. A young lady became ill at dinner, sir.”

“A problem in the kitchen?”

“Oh, no, sir.”

Darcy waited a few seconds before raising his brows, signaling his desire to know more. Fletcher, betraying no surprise at his master’s interest in the health of a country miss, supplied more detail.

“I had heard that she arrived at Netherfield quite damp, sir. A result, no doubt, of traveling on horseback for three miles in the most appalling downpour.”

“On horseback!” Darcy’s incredulity encouraged his valet to continue.

“Yes, quite, sir! Mr. Bingley’s sisters were astonished as well. The young lady was supplied with dry apparel immediately but fell seriously ill in the midst of supper. I understand they are awaiting the apothecary, or what passes for one in this place, sir.”

His face grave, Darcy nodded his comprehension. “Fletcher, there is no question that the lady is indeed ill?”

“I would not know, sir.”

Darcy snorted his disbelief. “Come, come, Fletcher!”

His valet evidenced some hesitation but then confessed, “I have heard talk among the upstairs maids which would indicate genuine concern that the lady has become feverish, sir.”

As Fletcher helped him out of his clothes, Darcy puzzled over such strange behavior. To set out on a journey of three miles on horseback in threatening weather did not seem, to him, a course of action that the gentle Miss Jane Bennet would undertake. The inducement of an evening at Netherfield he acknowledged to be great for a country-bred girl. But a country-bred girl would be equally aware of the folly of chancing a soaking. Why had she not taken her father’s carriage? Surely he would supply her any means in his power for furthering her acquaintance with the Bingleys. Mr. Bennet was, without a doubt, a curious fellow but not one to disregard the welfare of his daughter. Therefore, to what purpose or by whose design had she come in this manner?

Now dressed in his nightclothes, Darcy dismissed his valet and carried the candle into his bedchamber. Setting it down, he dropped gratefully onto the welcoming bed and slid beneath the downy coverlet. He reached over and cupped the candle’s flame, blowing it out with a sigh. As he stretched out his long limbs and plumped his pillow, a new aspect of the matter struck him. If Miss Bennet became so ill she might not be moved, would her next eldest sister not come to see her? He was certain of it, and that prospect he reflected upon with some satisfaction until sleep claimed him.