Not far from the center of the set, Charlotte stood with a gentleman Elizabeth did not immediately recognize. He was neither showy nor particularly striking in appearance, but his attention to Charlotte was steady and sincere, his manner marked by attentiveness that set him apart from the more animated company. When Charlotte spoke, he bent his head slightly to listen, and when she smiled, it was with a satisfaction that did not escape Elizabeth’s notice. Elizabeth suspected, with a small measure of amusement, that this must be Mr. Tipton.
Before the beginning of the next set, her friend approached, bringing the man with her. Elizabeth had an agreeable conversation with Mr. Tipton and felt certain he was asenamored of Charlotte as she was of him. They would be very happy together.
The second set began. This time, Lydia and Kitty took their places among the dancers, their movements lively, their enjoyment evident in every step. Elizabeth followed as she could, though the room beyond her immediate reach had begun to soften further, the edges of figures blurring together into shifting shapes.
She turned her head again—just slightly—to bring the nearer portion of the room into clearer view.
Mr. Darcy remained where he had been. Still, silent and observing. For a moment, his gaze—she thought—shifted.
Not toward her. But across the room toward the dancers. Elizabeth did not attempt to follow it further.
The ache behind her eye sharpened. She drew a breath and let it out slowly.
It would not do to rise. Not now. Not when Jane danced and when Lydia and Kitty moved with such evident delight.
Elizabeth pressed her fingers lightly against the arm of the chair, grounding herself. She would not spoil it. Not for them.
The music continued. The figures of the dance repeated, shifted, resolved.
Elizabeth watched what she could and listened to the rest. The room existed now in layers—sound, light, movement—some clear, some indistinct.
She remained within it, present and composed, even as the strain grew.
At last, the set drew toward its close.
Elizabeth allowed herself a small shift in posture, easing the tension in her shoulders.
Across the room, Mr. Bingley stepped away from the line, his expression animated—more so, if possible, than before.
He turned at once toward Mr. Darcy and with evident eagerness.
Elizabeth stilled, her attention caught.
Chapter Five
Fitzwilliam Darcy did not expect to enjoy the evening. The journey from London had been longer than anticipated, the roads less agreeable, and the final miles marked by a succession of small inconveniences that, taken together, left him more fatigued than he preferred to admit. He and his sister had arrived at Netherfield with little inclination for company and less patience for the obligations that followed it.
Still, his host, Charles Bingley, with his usual enthusiasm, had insisted.
“It will do you good,” Bingley had said, pacing the drawing room with restless energy. “You have been shut up in town far too long. A little country society will refresh you.”
Darcy had doubted it. He had wished only for a peaceful night resting in his chambers or perhaps engaged in amiable conversation with his sister.
Despite his protests, Bingley had won the day, and Darcy had been forced to endure Georgiana’s complaints at not beingincluded in the outing. His reminders that she was barely sixteen did little to endear her to him, and she had stormed off in a huff. Her companion, Mrs. Annesley, had assured her employer that she would sooth the young lady’s ruffled feathers.
Now, standing within the assembly rooms at Meryton, he found that his doubts had not been entirely misplaced. The room was bright—excessively so. Candles lined the walls and stood in clusters upon every available surface, their light reflected and multiplied by mirrors until the entire space seemed to shimmer. It illuminated everything with equal insistence: the movement of the dancers, the arrangement of gowns, the expressions of those who watched from the sidelines. There was no retreat from it. Already weary, the glow made his eyes throb painfully.
Darcy stood near the wall, where he had placed himself shortly after entering, his posture composed, his attention outwardly engaged, though inwardly reserved. He observed as he always did—carefully, without haste, noting what might otherwise be overlooked. Well aware that his manner bordered on rudeness, he reasoned that no one could expect him to make himself agreeable after such a long day, and that he could make amends at a later date. First impressions were, of course, rarely accurate.
The company in attendance was varied. Everyone seemed respectable, for the most part. Provincial, certainly. The distinctions were clear, though not unkindly so. There was a warmth to the room—a liveliness—that could not be entirely dismissed. Men and women mingled, dances, and gossiped on all sides of the room.
Bingley thrived within it. It was precisely the sort of evening he relished. It was a stark difference to Darcy’s preferences. He preferred more intimate gatherings where one knew the others on more than a passing level.
Darcy’s gaze shifted toward his friend, who had already secured a partner for the first set and appeared entirely satisfiedwith the arrangement. His expression was open, animated, his movements eager rather than precise. He laughed easily, spoke readily, and accepted every introduction as though it was a particular favor granted to him.
Darcy watched for a moment, then turned his attention away. He did not intend to dance. The activity was a punishment in many ways. He abhorred attempting to make conversation with simpering ladies who wished only to speak of the weather and the state of the roads. It was always a struggle to recommend himself to strangers, and dancing was his least favorite way of doing so.
His decision to abstain from the activity had been settled before he entered the room, and nothing he had seen thus far had altered it. It might have ended there, had nothing further drawn his notice.
