Mary, perceiving the exchange with solemn attention, regarded Mr. Darcy with a gravity that mirrored his own, though her thoughts dwelt upon the propriety of such requests rather than any personal interest.
“It is true,” she said, her voice measured and reflective, “that Elizabeth has promised to assist me in recalling the steps, for I find the figures sometimes wanting in the elegance that moral improvement might bestow upon them.”
Mr. Darcy’s brow contracted faintly, a flicker of surprise—and perhaps a touch of mortification—passing across his features as he considered this unexpected refusal, his mind turning upon the possibility that her indifference proceeded not from capricebut from a deliberate choice to withhold her favor. He bowed again, his manner correct yet betraying a subtle stiffness.
“I would not wish to interrupt such a commendable exercise,” he replied, his voice steady though his thoughts dwelt upon the perplexing nature of her reserve, which stirred within him a curiosity he had not anticipated. “Another time, perhaps, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth smiled with composed grace, though her eyes danced with private amusement at having so neatly deflected him.
“Another time, sir,” she echoed lightly, turning back to Mary as if the matter were already concluded.
Mr. Darcy withdrew with measured step, his reflections upon the evening—and upon the lively intelligence that seemed determined to elude him—deepening into something that resembled, though he would scarcely admit it, the stirrings of a challenge unmet.
He had taken scarcely a few steps when a sharp cry rang out behind him.
“Fire!”
Lydia, whose spirits were rarely governed by either caution or reflection, darted across the room with heedless speed, intent upon securing a place nearer the dancing floor. In her haste, her elbow struck a candle set carelessly upon a narrow shelf; it wavered, toppled, and fell—its flame catching at once upon the edge of a nearby curtain. The fabric darkened, then flared.
Elizabeth, who stood nearest her sister, acted without pause. With a quickness born of instinct rather than calculation, she seized her shawl and struck at the flame, drawing Lydia sharplybehind her even as she attempted to smother the fire. Mary, pale but composed, stepped forward to restrain the curtain and prevent the damage from spreading further.
A startled cry rose, followed by confusion—the scraping of chairs, anxious exclamations, and a general movement away from the danger.
For a moment the room was a tangle of raised voices and startled motion—calls for water, hurried commands, and the rustle of frightened silk—when Mr. Darcy, who had been standing nearest the servants’ door, moved with sudden and decisive purpose.
Seizing a large ornamental vase that stood upon a side table—filled, by fortunate habit, with water arranged for flowers—he crossed half the room in a few long strides and dashed its contents full upon the burning curtain. The flame faltered but did not wholly subside. Turning at once, he intercepted a footman hurrying forward with a bucket, took it from his hands without ceremony, and returned to the curtain, casting the water with such force and thoroughness that the fire was extinguished entirely.
But in so doing, the water struck not only the wall and the scorched fabric, but Elizabeth herself.
It soaked her gown from waist to hem; it clung her hair against her temples; it ran in visible streams from her sleeves to the carpet below. For a heartbeat, the room fell utterly silent.
Elizabeth stood motionless, her breath arrested less by the chill than by the sudden, collective attention directed upon her. A dark curl, freed from its pins, brushed damply against her cheek; the muslin of her dress, now heavy and clinging, betrayed the full extent of the mishap. She felt the heat rise sharply to herface and was acutely conscious of every eye fixed upon her—not in blame, but in that uncomfortable sympathy which so easily resembles scrutiny.
Never had she felt herself so conspicuous, nor so foolishly displayed.
She cast Mr. Darcy a look of mingled indignation and humiliation.
Mr. Darcy turned toward her—and in that instant perceived not merely the consequence of his own action, but the mortification it had occasioned. The extinguished danger had left another, subtler discomfort in its place, and his expression altered at once, gravity yielding to resolve of a different kind.
He turned again to the footman.
“Bring another bucket.”
The young man hesitated, startled, then obeyed at once, returning with it filled to the brim.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy said, his tone even and perfectly composed, “but this seems a consequence borne with very unequal justice.”
Before anyone could fully apprehend his intention—or protest—he lifted the bucket and tipped it deliberately over his own shoulder and head.
The effect was immediate.
A collective gasp, half shock and half disbelief, rippled through the room, followed almost at once by laughter—first uncertain, then free. Water streamed down his coat and collar; his carefully arranged hair darkened and fell in an unguardedlock across his brow. For the moment, he was unmistakably, undeniably undignified—and entirely unconcerned by it.
“If Miss Elizabeth must suffer for the safety of the company,” he continued, with the faintest trace of dry amusement touching his voice, “it is only equitable that the inconvenience be shared.”
The tension dissolved as completely as the flame had done. Lydia clapped her hands in delighted applause, declaring it the finest entertainment she had witnessed all season; Kitty echoed her glee with eager laughter. Mary burst into tears—of relief rather than alarm. Mrs. Bennet, who had hovered between reproach and panic, was diverted into astonished exclamations mingling gratitude with disbelief. Jane’s relief softened into a smile at once affectionate and sincere.
Elizabeth, for her part, stared at him—and then, to her own surprise, laughed outright.
