Near the servants’ entrance, Darcy stood in quiet conference with the butler, his dark coat marking him asdistinctly separate from the guests. She had observed him throughout the evening—directing the footmen, ensuring the refreshment tables remained properly supplied, addressing the small crises that inevitably arose during such gatherings. His competence was evident in every gesture, yet something about his isolation amongst the festivities stirred an uncomfortable sympathy in her chest.
Like many highborn ladies, she tended to forget about those who made the ball what it was. The servers, cooks, footmen, and everyone else below stairs. They could be invisible to those who were so used to being served and tended to. Not that she was ungrateful, but she had been so accustomed to their presence, she often did not see them. Mr Darcy had changed that. She could not help but notice him.
“Lizzy!” Jane appeared at her elbow, her cheeks flushed with the exertion of dancing and something else entirely. “Was that not the most delightful set? Mr Bingley is such an accomplished partner.”
“Indeed, he seemed quite accomplished,” Elizabeth agreed, studying her sister’s glowing countenance. “Though I suspect his talents extend beyond mere dancing.”
Jane’s colour deepened further. “He has asked me to reserve the supper dance. Is that not… that is, you do not think it too particular?”
“I think it exactly particular enough,” Elizabeth replied, linking arms with her sister. “Come, let us take some air. The room grows rather close.”
They made their way towards the terrace doors, pausing near the windows that overlooked the gardens. Elizabeth’s attention drifted once more to where Darcy stood, now speakingquietly with one of the grooms about some matter of apparent urgency.
“How odd it must be,” she mused aloud, “to have one’s childhood companion elevated to guest whilst one remains in service.”
Jane followed her gaze. “You refer to Mr Darcy and Mr Wickham?”
“Precisely. They were raised as almost brothers of sorts, if I understood correctly. Yet tonight Mr Wickham dances and drinks wine whilst Mr Darcy ensures the candles remain lit.” Elizabeth frowned. “It seems rather cruel, does it not?”
“Perhaps,” Jane said gently, “but it is simply the way of things, is it not? Mr Bingley extended the invitation to Mr Wickham as his guest. Mr Darcy’s position here is different entirely.”
Elizabeth knew Jane spoke truth, yet the knowledge did little to ease her discomfort. “Still, I cannot help but feel it must sting. To watch one’s equal enjoy privileges whilst one labours.”
“Equal?” Jane’s eyebrows rose slightly. “But surely they are not truly equals now, whatever their childhood circumstances. Mr Wickham holds a living, after all. I have noticed he paid you much attention this evening already.”
“That is precisely what disturbs me.” Elizabeth touched the fan hanging from her wrist, using the motion to mask her continued observation of Darcy. “He is undeniably charming, accomplished in conversation, and handsome enough to turn any lady’s head. Yet…”
“Yet?”
“Something feels calculated about his manner. As though each smile, each compliment, has been measured for effect.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Perhaps I am being overly suspicious. He has been nothing but pleasant.”
“Your instincts about people are usually sound,” Jane observed. “Though I confess he seemed quite genuine during our tea at Longbourn.”
“Truly, he did. Which only adds to my confusion.” Elizabeth’s attention was drawn to the pianoforte, where Mary had taken her place despite the obvious reluctance of several guests to pause their conversations for her performance. “Oh, dear.”
Mary’s voice rose in a rendition of a popular ballad that would have been better served by silence. Her pitch wavered uncertainly, her timing lagged behind the accompaniment, and her dramatic gestures suggested she believed herself quite the accomplished performer. Yet not a single guest dared voice objection. Such was the power of her father’s title that Mary’s musical shortcomings were endured with painful politeness.
“She means well,” Jane murmured, though her own discomfort was evident.
Their mother’s voice carried across the room with unfortunate clarity as Mary’s song mercifully concluded. “Mrs Long, what a charming gown your daughter wears this evening. Though perhaps a touch ambitious for a girl of her… limited prospects. Still, one must admire her optimism.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. “Good heavens.”
“Oh la, Mrs Phillips,” Lady Hartford continued, her tone suggesting kindly advice, whilst delivering cutting observation,“how fortunate that your Lucinda has such a pleasant disposition. It will help overlook her lack of accomplishments.”
“Mama grows worse each year,” Elizabeth whispered to Jane. “She mistakes unkindness for consequence.”
“Indeed,” Jane replied, her gentle nature clearly pained by their mother’s public unkindness. “Though I fear it shall only intensify once we remove to London.”
“London?” Elizabeth turned to her sister with surprise. “When was this decided?”
“This morning, apparently. Mama told Papa we must remove to London after Christmas, so we can take part in the festivities of the New Year. And secure husbands for us all.”
Elizabeth sighed as her gaze swept across the ballroom, taking in Lydia’s increasingly loud laughter as she commanded the attention of several young officers, Kitty’s desperate attempts to match her sister’s boldness, and Mary’s preparations for what appeared to be a second musical performance.
“We are becoming quite insufferable,” she said quietly.
“We?” Jane’s voice held gentle reproof.
