But my gaze skipped over the affable Mr. Bingley, for behind him, like a thundercloud attending a sunrise, came Mr. Darcy.
“Good heavens,” Charlotte murmured in my ear. “That’s ten thousand a year?”
“Apparently.”
“He bears the countenance of a man brought here at gunpoint.”
“Perhaps someone has. Mr. Bingley seems the type to resort to desperate measures in pursuit of company.”
Sir William, who had been stalking the doorway for precisely this moment, launched into his effusive welcome with enough enthusiasm to endanger his waistcoat buttons.
“Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy! Such a pleasure—such distinguished company—may I say, on behalf of all of Meryton.”
Mr. Bingley seized the older man’s hand with unaffected warmth. “You may say whatever you like, Sir William, and I shall savor every word. What a splendid room. Is everyone in Hertfordshire this welcoming, or have we been fortunate?”
Mr. Darcy said nothing. He inclined his head in the exact degree that courtesy required and returned his attention to the faded wallpaper that was apparently more interesting than any of us.
And Mama was already in motion. She efficiently arranged all five of us in what I privately called the Bennet Cascade: Jane at the forefront, serene and luminous; me beside her, attempting to look agreeable; followed by Mary with the perfect posture; Kitty hiding behind Mary; and Lydia gawking over everyone’s shoulders to inspect the fine gentlemen from head to toe.
“Mrs. Bennet,” Sir William beamed, “may I present Mr. Bingley and his party?—”
“You may indeed.” Mama’s curtsy was impeccable—graceful and appropriately deep. “Welcome to Hertfordshire, gentlemen. These are my daughters—Jane, Elizabeth, Mary, Catherine, and Lydia.”
We curtsied in sequence—Jane’s effortless and lovely, mine adequate, Mary’s stiff but correct, Kitty’s slightly wobbly, and Lydia’s so enthusiastic she nearly toppled into Mr. Bingley, who caught her elbow with a laugh and declared her curtsy magnificent.
“You are very kind, sir,” Mama said, eyes crinkling with either amusement or strategy—with Mama, the distinction was not always clear. “I do hope you will enjoy Meryton. We are a small community, buta warm one.”
“I can see that already.” But Bingley’s gaze had already found Jane. “Miss Bennet, the dancing is about to begin, I believe, and I wonder if you might?—”
Jane accepted with a graceful nod, and they glided toward the dance floor with the natural ease of two songbirds alighting on the same branch.
Miss Bingley watched them go with an expression suggesting she had swallowed a sour egg, while Mr. Darcy observed them with no expression at all, which was somehow worse.
Charlotte pulled my sleeve, and we retreated to our customary observation post along the wall.
“Your sister,” she said, with the satisfied tone of a woman whose predictions were proving correct, “has conquered him entirely.”
“Jane has merely smiled at him. If that constitutes conquest, Mr. Bingley’s defenses are in dire need of reinforcement.”
Our closely tilted heads and giggles kept us occupied enough to avoid being conscripted by any gentleman desperate enough to seek partners, not that there was an abundance of eligible men to go around.
Bingley was attached to Jane like a burr, dancing with the closeness which would fuel the neighborhood’s gossip mills for a fortnight. Mary was in her customary corner, deep in her volume of sermons. And the younger Lucases claimed Lydia and Kitty, which kept all four of them safely occupied. The household was accounted for, which left me free to observe.
What I observed, primarily, was Mr. Darcy.
He danced the first set with Miss Bingley—both of them technically correct and visibly miserable, Miss Bingley chattering brightly while Darcy endured, his face set in stone, his gaze fixed anywhere but on his partner’s brightly-colored plumage. He was undeniably handsome, easily the tallest and most striking man in the room, and he appeared to be conducting an experiment in which he stood absolutely still against the far wall and waited for the evening to end.
“He dances well,” Charlotte commented.
“He dances as though he expects full marks for technical execution.”
“That coat is London tailoring.”
“Worn by a man who would rather be anywhere else on earth.” I studied him with the frank curiosity of a woman who had already been dismissed as beneath his notice and therefore had nothing to lose. “He’s handsome enough, I grant you. If one admires the aesthetic of a marble column.”
Charlotte laughed—that sensible laugh I loved. “You’ve taken against him.”
“I’ve observed him. There is a difference.”
