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The extraordinary question had escaped her mouth without difficulty. She tried to follow it with I am going home. Her lips would not form the words.

"Only tired," she managed.

So she could say something absurd and still be kept at the assembly. Perhaps the force cared more about where she remained than how foolish she sounded. She would have preferred a kinder discovery.

Jane looked at her with deep concern, which was fair, because Elizabeth was absolutely behaving like someone who had lost her wits. Before Jane could inquire further, a ripple of excitement moved through the assembly.

"Mr. Bingley has arrived!"

Elizabeth closed her fan. She had reached the part of the evening for which her mother had been rehearsing all day.

It arrived precisely on schedule, with all the subtlety of a mail coach through a drawing room. Mr. Bingley entered: cheerful, handsome, immediately likeable. With him came his sisters, elegantly dressed and plainly accustomed to fashionable company. They surveyed the assembly with expressions which suggested that someone ought to have consulted them before inviting the rest of the company.

And behind them came Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth felt something twist in her chest.

"Really," she muttered, as though his height were a deliberate provocation.

Mr. Darcy was tall, with dark hair and a grave, handsome face. He stood a little apart from his companions, looking over the room as though he had been required to inspect it and found the commission disagreeable. Elizabeth wished she had been less interested in the result.

He paused to let an elderly lady pass, then discovered that her skirts had carried her directly into the space where he meant to retreat. His handsome solemnity survived the maneuver. Elizabeth was irritated to find the awkward courtesy rather more interesting than the handsome face.

The intrusive knowledge supplied an inventory of heroic features. She would have preferred to judge the man for herself. She tried to look away, and could not. It was a gross addition to the indignity: she must stare at him, and he was entirely at liberty to notice.

"He is very handsome," Jane breathed beside her.

"He is very tall," Elizabeth managed, her voice doing something embarrassing. Something breathy and uncertain and absolutely not Elizabeth Bennet.

Her pulse quickened.

Elizabeth looked down at her fan and deliberately opened it. That movement obeyed her. When she looked up again, Darcy had not become less handsome. She wished the experiment had been more conclusive.

The fan obeyed her; her interest was less manageable. She had been told she would love him before she heard him speak. She could not even enjoy finding him handsome without suspecting somebody else had enjoyed it on her behalf. She lowered the fan. He remained unaware of the trouble he was causing.

Her breath caught.

"Oh, no," Elizabeth said, louder than intended.

Several people turned to look at her.

"A loose thread," she said, looking down at her glove. It was a poor excuse, but her mouth had permitted it readily enough. Leaving the room remained quite another matter.

Jane gave her the kind of look usually reserved for Lydia's worst behavior.

"I'm having a perfectly normal evening," Elizabeth lied.

"The gentlemen are already dancing with the ladies," Mrs. Bennet observed loudly. "Mr. Bingley is dancing with Charlotte! No, no, he has moved to Jane! Oh, my dear Jane!"

Indeed, Mr. Bingley had approached Jane and was bowing over her hand with obvious admiration. Elizabeth felt a pang of sympathy for her sister. Did Jane know she was performing a role? Was she conscious of the script, or did she dance through this scene believing her smiles and blushes were her own?

The evening seemed to turn upon Jane as much as upon herself. Was Elizabeth the person whose story was being told, or merely a sister required to watch? She had tried to ask Jane that morning and learned very little. She would try Charlotte next. When the music ended, Elizabeth tried to walk away from where Darcy and Bingley stood.

Her feet carried her directly toward them instead.

She knew where they were taking her. It seemed she must not be spared a single word of Mr. Darcy's opinion, though no one had troubled to ask for hers.

An empty chair stood just behind the gentlemen. Her knees bent before she had decided to use it, and she sat with her fan laid rigidly across her lap. The narrative had provided an excellent place to overhear an insult. It might at least have supplied a more comfortable chair.

"Come, Darcy," Mr. Bingley was saying cheerfully. "I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance."