Discreetly, William Goulding indicated a young woman of medium height and light, pleasing figure, standing in quiet discussion with another, older lady. There was little to distinguish her from the other finely attired women attending the ball, though her rich chestnut hair and lightly tanned complexion gave the impression of an active sort of woman, likely prone to enjoying the outdoors rather than indoor pursuits.
“No, not a lady of my acquaintance. Deuced odd that she should know my name,” said the Colonel.
“But that is the way of Miss Elizabeth. She knows things, some sort of intuition. Been that way ever since she was a child.”
“How can intuition be so specific as to know the Colonel’s name?” interposed Darcy, but he found it difficult to take his eyes from the lady, who was wearing a blue silk gown that perfectly matched—much to his alarm—the blue of his waistcoat.
“And her gown matches your waistcoat! By heavens, Darcy, your Evans is a wonder.” The Colonel laughed, then turned back to Goulding.
“Well, sir, let us leave aside the mystery of my name. Now, how can I be of assistance?”
While his cousin engaged in discussion of the Peninsula war, the duties of an officer, and whether it would be best for Goulding to purchase an ensigncy or a lieutenancy, Darcy slipped towards the refreshment table, attempting to hide from Miss Bingley’s gaze as she scanned the room for her next dance partner.
“Excuse me, ma’am, I wasn’t watching where I was going.” Darcy glanced down at the lady with whom he had collided. He froze—it wasshe, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, she of the fine eyes. He felt the full danger of her company.
She laughed—that tinkling laugh that had so haunted him in Netherfield’s drawing-room.
“Mr. Darcy. I believe we are both at fault, for I was woolgathering and failed to notice where I stepped—an unwise activity on a dance floor, especially near the refreshment table.”
At that moment, Darcy saw Miss Bingley bearing down on them, her smile stretched thin and insincere. Panic took hold.
“Miss Elizabeth, would you do me the honour of the next set?”
She regarded him in puzzlement—surely, Mr. Darcy, he of the brooding silence and perpetual frown, could not wish to dance with her? Yet, he had asked, and she felt obliged to accept. He claimed her hand and led her to the line, taking their place in the set. They stood for some time without speaking a word, and she began to imagine that their silence would last through the two dances. At first, she was resolved not to break it, until, suddenly fancying that it would be a greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was silent again. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time—
“It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy—I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”
He smiled, about to make some inconsequential comment to please her, when the question of how she knew the Colonel’s name came back to him. He was certain he had never mentioned it, and his cousin’s arrival had been so sudden that no one here could know him.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam? I believe the name suits him very well. Why do you ask?” She looked away, realising that she had told Will Goulding the man’s name, but before their dance, she had no knowledge of it.
“Come, ma’am, I can see you dissemble. Perhaps you met my cousin in London?”
Elizabeth had no wish to subject herself to an interrogation for which she had no satisfying answers. The fact that his cousin was Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed of little importance.
“A dance, sir, is an occasion to enjoy either the forms and the music, or pleasant discourse with your partner. The topic you have chosen satisfies neither criterion. I would turn the conversation, but for the present, I am focused on the dance—in particular, whether my partner will tread upon the hem of my gown.”
Darcy was mortified. Normally he danced well—he’d had the best instruction—but now he found himself awkward, shuffling his feet like the hapless Mr. Collins, who was dancing with Miss Lucas further down the line.
“My apologies, Miss Elizabeth. Certainly your hem deserves better than my clumsy feet.”
“An excellent choice of subject. But both of us being preoccupied with a lady’s hems might lead to a dull conversation. I must confess, I have little interest in the subject—apart from whether my hems will survive the dance—and, truth be told, I suspect you have even less interest.”
“Certainly, I would prefer to speak of books, but I cannot believe you would wish to speak of those in a ballroom,” said he, diverted by her banter.
“Books?—Oh! no—I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings. But, perhaps, if you have a sister, then certainly you know her reading, and I could comment with some authority; perhaps I have similar interests to her.”
At that moment, they were to go down the line. Darcy took Elizabeth’s hand and began the dance down the set. His mind flickered to Georgiana, whom he had set up in her own establishment in Town. She had not enjoyed school, and the company of an elder brother, more than ten years her senior, was awkward for both of them. Occupied with business and frequent travel, he was frequently absent. Thus, he had allocated a wing of Darcy House to her own use, where her friends could visit under her chaperone’s guidance, without requiring his attendance, or the impropriety of his entertaining male acquaintances with Georgiana, not yet out, living under the same roof. A fiction perhaps, but he could enjoy her company and she his whenever they wished, without compromising her reputation.
He scarcely registered the increasing pressure of Miss Elizabeth’s hand as they descended the line, her grip growing so tight that it bordered on painful. When they reached the bottom of the set, she stopped abruptly, breathless, her eyes wide with alarm.
“Sir, do you know of a Mr. Wickham?” she asked, her voice trembling just enough to betray the urgency beneath her usual composure.
Darcy, caught entirely off guard, stared at her in blank confusion. “Wickham! Why do you ask?” The name struck him like a blow.
Elizabeth pressed on, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Oh, she is in great danger—I am certain she’s travelling with him. But before… he was seen in Meryton, on the verge of joining the militia.”
It took a moment for the meaning to settle. Darcy’s expression darkened, suspicion flickering across his features. “Wickham, in Meryton? I do not understand, ma’am. Are you an associate of his? Have you come here to take advantage—is that how you know the Colonel’s name? Has Wickham instructed you in my acquaintances and my family?”
