Not Colonel.
Not soldier.
Not guest by duty or necessity, but guest by choice.
Below, Bingley’s voice rose cheerfully, followed by Miss Bingley’s sharper reply. Somewhere in the house, servants moved with the orderly sounds of arrival. Outside, the park stretched toward a neighborhood he had never seen and an assembly he had no particular desire to attend, though he knew he must.
For Charles’s sake.
For propriety’s sake.
And perhaps, if he were honest, because the house had stirred his curiosity.
The owner preferred tenants to furnishings.
Darcy smiled faintly as he rang for Bates. Whoever held Netherfield, at least they possessed sense.
Chapter 13
The assembly rooms were already full when Elizabeth arrived with her family, and the familiar warmth, noise, and candlelight wrapped around her like an old shawl. There was comfort in it, even when her mother’s voice carried too far, Kitty and Lydia whispered too loudly over the young men present, and Mary positioned herself near the instrument as though waiting to be discovered by a grateful nation. Meryton assemblies were never elegant, but they were cheerful, and cheerfulness had become no small virtue in Elizabeth’s estimation.
She had dressed as she usually did for such occasions, neatly but without extravagance. Her gown was becoming enough, she supposed, though it had been made over from one Jane had outgrown, and the trimming upon it was more the product of ingenuity than expense. Two years ago, such economy had been necessity. Now it was discretion. A lady who wished to keep Netherfield Park and ten thousand pounds a secret could hardly arrive at assemblies glittering with new silk and costly lace.
Charlotte Lucas found her almost at once and drew her a little away from Mrs. Bennet’s speculations over whether the Netherfield party would attend. “Mama says Sir William has been watching the door since we arrived,” Charlotte said,smiling. “If Mr. Bingley enters, I expect my father will receive him as though he were a foreign ambassador.”
“Then we must hope Mr. Bingley has brought credentials.”
“Oh, five thousand a year is credential enough for Meryton.”
Elizabeth laughed, but before she could answer, Mr. Goulding approached to claim her hand for the first set. Mr. Goulding was nearer her father’s age than her own, round-faced, cheerful, and possessed of the rare masculine virtue of actually enjoying dancing. His wife, who tired too easily to stand up more than once in an evening, sat near the wall and watched him with fond amusement, as though each country dance were a private entertainment arranged for her benefit.
Gentlemen were scarce enough now, thanks to France and Bonaparte, that Mr. and Mrs. Goulding had taken it upon themselves to ensure no young lady who wished to dance was left sitting merely for want of a partner. He knew all the newer dances, too, and performed them with such good humor that Elizabeth always enjoyed standing up with him.
“Young ladies think gentlemen of my age cannot keep up,” Mr. Goulding said as they moved through the figure.
“I would never accuse you of such a thing, sir. You are the terror of every lazy young man in the room.”
“Ha! I shall tell Mrs. Goulding you said so. She claims my left foot grew stubborn sometime after our third child.”
“Then your left foot is to be praised for long service.”
He laughed aloud, and Elizabeth was smiling as the second dance of the set ended and he offered his arm to escort her toward his wife.
They had gone only a few steps when the doors opened.
A ripple moved through the room before anyone spoke, the particular ripple that only new arrivals of wealth and uncertainty could create. Elizabeth turned with everyone else.
The gentleman who entered first could only be Mr. Bingley. He was young, fair in complexion, with reddish hair and a countenance so open and delighted that Elizabeth felt immediately inclined to like him. He looked about the room as though an assembly in Meryton were precisely the entertainment he had desired above all others, and his smile was so unaffected that even Mrs. Bennet, across the room, seemed to brighten beneath its influence.
Upon his arm was a tall woman dressed in orange silk. It was an unfortunate choice. Her hair, nearly as red as her brother’s, did not bear competition well, and the color made her complexion appear sharper than nature perhaps intended. Behind her came another lady, handsomely dressed and wearing a cap, upon the arm of a fashionable gentleman whose expression suggested mild resignation to whatever amusements the evening might provide.
And behind them—
Elizabeth stopped breathing.
Colonel Darcy.
No. Not Colonel Darcy, perhaps. He was not in uniform. He wore evening dress like any other gentleman, severe, dark, and perfectly fitted, with no scarlet coat, no sword, no visible sign of the militia at all. Yet she knew him at once. The set of his shoulders, the grave turn of his head, the dark hair, the quiet command in his bearing—two years vanished as though they had never been. She was again in a cellar in Gracechurch Street, rising from the floor with a Roman coin in her hand and mud upon her cheek.
