He did not see her again for some time. Elizabeth, ever occupied, passed from room to room, smiling, exchanging a few words with the parents or brothers of the pupils, all of whom she now knew. The orchestra played; the dancing had long begun. She paused for a moment to take in that brilliant, cheerful crowd. She was satisfied; everything had gone to perfection. Mr Clinton came now and then to thank her. Mary was everywhere—elegant, blushing, and happy. In the distance, she saw Jane, personally invited by Mr Clinton, dancing with Mr Bingley, and for a moment, she believed all was perfect indeed—both in the world and in her own heart.
Then a voice sounded behind her, and she closed her eyes for an instant, overwhelmed.
“Will you do me the honour of this dance, Miss Elizabeth?”
She turned, and in his eyes her love met his own. She answered, “Yes,” with quiet resolution.
Were they breaking the rules? Only they knew what truly passed between them—that their love was profound and mutual. For once, in perfect accord, they resolved to do what was right for themselves…to grant that single chance to live, for the space of one dance, their love as though it were their whole life.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered, and she laughed, looking at him—far removed from that evening at the Meryton assembly.
“You do not look ill yourself,” she returned with that boldness he so adored.
“I am exceedingly glad that you live here…” Darcy let his eyes wander for a moment around the room. Yet it was not merely the ballroom he beheld, but her whole life—her new life—and he was proud of her, content that in such surroundings she was to lead a fulfilled existence.
They rejoiced sincerely in that brief moment, as long as a dance, and no pain or frustration shadowed it.
They looked at one another for the last time; he kissed her hand once more while she curtsied, and they saw each other no more that evening—for that was all they had asked of the universe: a single moment together, in love.
∞∞∞
Late that night, after the last carriage had departed, Mr Clinton offered Elizabeth his arm.
“Let us take a few turns in the garden.”
She accepted willingly. It was a magnificent night, with a slender new moon scarcely visible upon the starlit sky. The flowers about them exhaled a heady fragrance, and in the stillness that had settled over the house, one might still hear, far away, the rumble of departing carriages.
“It has been delightful. Everyone was in agreement—at least those who already have daughters here—that it was the most successful ball held in recent years. I thank you. The Academy has been revived under your direction.”
Elizabeth pressed his arm lightly in acknowledgement but said nothing.
“I do not know why you resolved to remain for five years,” he continued, “but I sincerely hope it was not out of sorrow.”
Elizabeth rejoiced in the night that surrounded her and that concealed her countenance. She answered calmly, wishing to appear as composed as possible; the hardest part of the evening had passed with Mr Darcy’s departure.
“To what do you refer?”
“In Kent…I observed that Mr Darcy admired you greatly. Indeed, I feared for a time that I should lose you; for the decision to invite you to join the Academy was made as soon as I made your acquaintance. You were precisely what I required—something I had not found in London for years.”
“I thank you. I hope you have not overrated me.”
“Not in the least. Whatever you do not yet know, you learn with astonishing rapidity, and I admire that you already make decisions with confidence. But even then, in Kent, I could easily imagine you as Principal of the Clinton Academy, and Mr Darcy appeared a threat to that design; he seemed quite ready to ask for your hand. Forgive my indiscretion, but I begin to regard you as family. I even saw you dancing together this evening.”
“Mr Darcy asked me to marry him in Kent.” Elizabeth was determined to reveal a part of the truth that would prevent further questions from arising.
“Oh!” Mr Clinton exclaimed. “And?” He laughed then, for the answer was plain enough; he, too, had heard that the young gentleman was betrothed to another lady.
“And I refused him,” Elizabeth replied, smiling at the evident conclusion.
“An interesting story. I suspected nothing. On the contrary, I supposed that he had become engaged to another lady, and that this had caused your sadness…and led you to resolve to remain for five years.”
Elizabeth’s laugh floated delicately in the air, convincing Mr Clinton how mistaken he was.
“I am somewhat relieved,” he went on, “for it means you required that time to understand what I ask of you.”
“Exactly.” She was glad that the conversation had taken the turn she desired. Her secret was safe now.
She would have preferred to retire and rest, yet Mr Clinton led her towards a more distant path—a sign that he had still something further to say.
