Elizabeth stepped down with steadier composure than she felt.
Within, the room glowed with candlelight. Chandeliers cast a softened brilliance across silk sleeves and polished boots. The floor had been newly waxed; its surface reflected motion in fragments – a turn of muslin, the gleam of a buckle, the flash of a fan.
The air was warm already. Too many bodies, too much expectation. She noticed several unfamiliar faces in elegant evening dress – perhaps visitors from London.
She paused only a moment beside Jane, long enough to take in the arrangement of the room. After greeting the hosts, she allowed herself to drift a little from her family. Officers in scarlet stood in confident clusters. Local matrons surveyed the company with practised vigilance. Young ladies affected indifference while watching the door.
Elizabeth did not search the room for anyone in particular. She had done with anticipations that relied upon appearances. Instead, she observed.
Mr. Bingley was immediately engaged – smiling, bowing, entirely at ease. Jane’s countenance brightened almost imperceptibly when he welcomed them, though she maintained her composure. Elizabeth felt a small, private satisfaction at that.
Inside the big parlour that now served as the main ballroom, she became aware – not by sight at first, but by the curious shift in attention that follows a man of consequence – that Mr. Darcy had entered the room.
He did not advance at once. He stood a little apart, as was his habit, surveying the room with an expression that might havebeen mistaken for indifference by those who did not know him better.
She found, to her irritation, that she did not look away immediately.
The candlelight altered him. The severity of his features softened in movement; reserve became something nearer to reflection.
His gaze travelled until it met hers. She felt it distinctly.
There was no hauteur in it. No challenge. Only awareness.
Before she could look away, he bowed to her. She was rescued by a gentleman from the neighbourhood, who asked if she was engaged for the first set.
The musicians struck the opening notes of the first set. The sound cut through conversation like a summons. Partners were claimed with increasing urgency. Gloves adjusted. Fans snapped open. Murmurs rose and fell.
Elizabeth drew a steady breath. Whatever the evening held, she would meet it alert. She would dance. She would observe. She would judge more carefully than she had done before.
And if Mr. Darcy asked her for a set… she surprised herself with the thought.
The final figure of the set concluded amid polite applause and the scrape of shoes upon the polished floor. Elizabeth made her curtsy, accepted the compliments of her partner with composure, and withdrew toward the side of the room.
Mary, smiling, was led away by Mr. Collins, who straightened himself as if he had just discharged a matter of considerable importance.
The air was warmer now; the candles burned lower; the hum of conversation had risen a degree.
She had not long to wait.
Mr. Wickham approached with his accustomed ease, as though no interval had elapsed since their last exchange. He had ventured to attend, emboldened by the absence of any public reproach from Darcy at their last encounter.
“Miss Elizabeth, it is a joy to be in your company again. I fear the exercises take up too much of my time,” he said, bowing with that warmth which had once appeared sincerity itself. “But I hope I have arrived in fortunate time.”
Elizabeth returned the bow. “Indeed, sir. Your timing has often been fortunate.”
He smiled, taking the remark for encouragement.
“I trust you will allow me…”
Behind him, across the floor, Mr. Darcy had taken a step forward – then halted. He had not anticipated Wickham’s presence. For a moment, something very like irritation crossed his features before discipline reasserted itself. He did not advance. But neither did he withdraw. His gaze remained fixed upon Elizabeth and Wickham.
Elizabeth saw Wickham’s extended hand. She did not place her own in it. “Before you say anything, Mr. Wickham,” she said lightly, though her eyes did not match her tone, “there is a small matter of clarity I should like resolved.”
His smile faltered – only slightly. “Clarity?”
“You once informed me,” she continued, “that you had been denied a living most unjustly.”
He inclined his head, adopting the expression of injured dignity he wore so well. “I did.”
