by Delaney Jane
When they did speak, he seemed not entirely dumb.
“How do you find Meryton?” she asked him.
“Lovely,” said he. “So different from London. I quite enjoy it. The quiet. It’s why I purchased Netherfield. I wanted some place where I could relax a bit, not be pressured so much.”
“Are you quite busy in London?”
They turned in the dance, facing other people a moment. Jane caught the glare of a woman before facing Bingley again.
“No, my mother wishes me to marry soon.”
“Oh,” was all Jane could reply.
He did not seem keen on talking about it, so she didn’t try to make him. They finished the dance, and parted.
Had he come to Hertfordshire to find a wife? He must have. Why else would anyone come here unless they were looking for some simple, quiet woman to make the halls of their massive house into a home?
Well, Jane thought, she felt bad for whichever woman was roped into that life.
Jane found Lizzy and took a moment to rest in her shadow. Lizzy was a force to be reckoned with and while Jane stood near her, women tended to keep their glaring eyes and sneers pointed elsewhere.
They watched Lydia and Kitty dance like fools with every man willing.
“My dear Jane,” said her mother coming out from a nearby doorway. Lizzy instantly put an arm through Jane’s, making it impossible for Mrs. Bennet to drag Jane off. “You shouldn’t look so morose, dear.” She was clearly drunk, swaying before her eldest daughters. “How does Bingley like you? Has he proposed?”
“Mother,” snapped Lizzy. Jane cast her eyes around, praying no one had heard that.
Mrs. Bennet waved a hand in the air. “Bah! S’only a matter of time.” She tapped her nose. “I know these things.”
Lizzy rolled her eyes, scoffing loudly. Jane only blushed, the heat creeping up her neck. Most of these people already hated her, though they pretended to adore her when they spoke with her. She didn’t need them thinking she had laid claim to Mr. Bingley or something absurd.
But then, as if to make it all worse, Bingley found her and asked for his next dance.
Mrs. Bennet giggled, but Bingley seemed not to notice. Lizzy gave their mother a gentle shove back through the doorway, an encouraging smile to Jane, and then disappeared after her.
Jane had nothing to do but follow Bingley out onto the dance floor. They lined up, facing each other, in line with the other dancers. The music began.
A waltz.
Why did it have to be a waltz? She could already feel the eyes burning into her back, as Bingley took her hand in his.
Heat crept into her cheeks, her desire to flee nearly overpowering. And then she looked up, meeting those blue eyes.
He smiled. Not the clueless puppy smile, but a real smile, as though he understood what she was feeling. As if in answer to her thoughts, he gave her hand a quick squeeze before turning her into the dance.
It was in that moment, that reassuring smile, that Jane felt the first stirring of interest. Her curiosity still nibbled at her, but for an entirely different reason than wanting to shatter the image she’d had before she met him. Now she hoped that image could be real.
Chapter Three
The Lucas Ball
He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her conversations with others. His doing so drew her notice.
The Meryton ball had finished late at night, or early in the morning, depending on whom you asked. Elizabeth rode home in the carriage with her mother and sisters, the former chatting all the way about how Mr. Bingley paid hardly any mind to any woman at the ball besides Jane. This did seem to be true. And afterward, when Elizabeth and Jane retired to their room, they stayed up for hours later talking about Mr. Bingley.
Not once did Elizabeth mention what had happened between her and Mr. Darcy.
She had wanted to tell her sister, but after listening to her sweet Jane talk about Bingley, her eyes alight and her cheeks flushed, it didn’t seem the time to mention such scandalous behavior.
It was, however, on Elizabeth’s mind for some time later when they attended the Lucas’ ball.
Sir William Lucas was a man who had been knighted some time ago, and then clung to that title like it was his lifeline. He had up and moved his family into the country, wanting the space necessary for thinking that was expected of men of position.
But, he was a jolly man, round in the belly and rosy in the cheeks. And his wife, Mrs. Lucas, had always been pleasant to Lizzy and her sisters. Though she and Mrs. Bennet were apt to gossip to and about one another far too often for Lizzy’s taste.
Due to his status as a knighted man, and his wife’s love of all things fashionable, Lucas Lodge was a place of reeking beauty. Even Charlotte thought her parents’ taste in their décor to be overwhelming.
The building itself was smaller than Longbourn, with a rustic façade and an abundance of flowering trees lining the drive. Inside was a riot of color, light, and sound.
The Bennets wound their way through the gathered crowd, Mrs. Bennet greeting those she knew, Lydia and Kitty eyeing possible dancing partners. Lizzy and Jane found their way toward friends.
Elizabeth met Charlotte in the parlor having passed through the foyer, which was decorated for autumn in red silks and dark furs. The parlor was large, with servants carrying trays of caviar and cheeses. This was where the ball would take place, as there was no formal ballroom at Lucas Lodge, but no one minded. The parlor was comfortable, chairs lined the room, a huge onyx chandelier gleamed overhead, a band played from the end of the room, and there was plenty of space for dancing in the middle.
The ball had only really just begun when the people nearest the door suddenly went quiet. A murmur carried through the house and with it came a name.
Bingley.
Which meant…
Lizzy watched, her stomach in knots, as Mr. Bingley came into the parlor, a smile on his happy face, followed by his miserable sister and Mr. Darcy.
Darcy glowered at the room. Miss Bingley smiled in a way that looked more like she was sneering. When he spotted Jane, Bingley’s smile grew even wider, and he left his companions to see her.
She felt his eyes on her. Didn’t see them, because she was purposefully not looking his way, but she could feel that dark gaze on her, making heat creep into her cheeks.
“Imagine,” said Charlotte, “being able to hush a room like that just by walking in.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Once Bingley is married, no one will care about him. He is a hot topic because so many women want him.”
Charlotte’s bright eyes went wide. “You don’t?”
Lizzy shrugged, sipping her wine. It was good wine, hearty and dark with hints of chocolate. “I won’t marry for money, Charlotte.”
Her friend made a face. “I don’t believe you. I adore you, but I won’t believe that if that man proposed to you right now, that you would turn him down.”
“And you call yourself my friend?” Lizzy laughed. “How little you know me after all.”
This would not be the last time she had this conversation that night. After several dances, Lizzy found Charlotte again. Her friend was talking with a group of women, all of them discussing the importance finding the right husband.
An old woman with pepper hair and pearls dripping from her neck was speaking when Lizzy joined them, flushed and thirsty.
“There are great many things more important in marriage than love.”
Instantly, Lizzy was on the defense, though no one said anything to her yet.
“Pray tell, Mrs. Whitman,” said Charlotte with a wink at Elizabeth. “What is more important than loving the man you spend the rest of your life with?”
She waved a hand in the air. “Rest of his life you mean. I was with Spence for twenty years before he died on me. But I digress. Love is nice, but you cannot base marriage choices on love. I did not love Spence until nearly five years
of marriage to him.”
“Did you hate him?” asked another woman, this one with jewels strung in her hair and innocent eyes in a weathered face.
Mrs. Whitman lifted a slim shoulder. “Not at all. I barely knew him. He had inherited his father’s bank and was therefore the perfect match for a gentleman’s daughter like myself. He seemed utterly boring, obsessed with numbers as he was, and I absolutely dreaded the idea of sharing his bed.”
“But you did?”
“Of course I did. And, let me tell you, I may not have loved the man until five years of living with him, but I was faithful until the day he died.” She closed her eyes, a smile ghosting her thin lips. “That man was a stallion in bed.”
A chorus of gasps flowed through their circle. Beside Lizzy, Charlotte had gone very red.
“So,” said Charlotte. “That is the most important thing in marriage? The, um, intimacy?”
“Heavens no,” laughed Mrs. Whitman. “How would we know who was right unless we bedded every man we met?” Her deep eyes lifted to something over Lizzy’s shoulder. And then she felt him beside her. “Mr. Darcy,” said the woman. “What a pleasant surprise. And just in time to give us a man’s point of view.”
His voice was deep, resonating through Elizabeth. “On what topic am I to weigh in?”
“Marriage,” said Mrs. Whitman. “And what is most important.”
“What have you decided so far?”
“Love is not the most important thing,” said Mrs. Whitman. “As marriage can be quite successful without it.”
The baby-eyed woman spoke, her cheeks flaming. “But neither is intimacy since it cannot be tested before marriage.”
“Aggie,” scolded another woman with a pointed look at Darcy.
“I agree,” said Darcy. Elizabeth was far too aware of his body only inches from her own. “Love is an illusion. One that too many fools fall for. And intimacy, while very important, is not something one can court without being the topic of scandal.”
Foolish as she was, Elizabeth chanced a glance at Darcy. He was staring at Mrs. Whitman, fully engaged in the conversation, but he must have felt Lizzy’s gaze because he flicked his eyes toward her. In that small gesture, heat licked up Lizzy’s back. She averted her gaze as inconspicuously as she could.
“So,” said Darcy. “What is the most important thing in marriage, Mrs. Whitman?”
She smiled, baring teeth yellowed by age. “Mr. Darcy, you must know seeing as how your friend cannot go anywhere without ladies panting all over him.”
Elizabeth stiffened. Beside her, Darcy seemed to grow, or perhaps it was Lizzy shrinking, wishing to disappear from this conversation.
“It is money,” stated Mrs. Whitman. “No woman wants to marry a poor man, and no gentleman wants to marry below his station. It all comes down to money and station.”
It took everything she had to keep from shaking with anger. She did not know these people well enough to tell them off. She could rage later at Charlotte or even Jane, but right now, surrounded as she was, and standing beside Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth forced herself to keep her mouth shut.
“Money,” said Darcy, his voice a deep whisper. She felt his gaze slide to her, felt the heat rising in her cheeks. “How very interesting.”
Elizabeth was saved from having to meet his gaze. Jane needed some air, so Lizzy left the group, keeping her eyes down.
Elizabeth did her best to keep away from Mr. Darcy for the rest of the night. She danced with amiable partners, chatted with her friends, but it seemed that wherever she went, Darcy kept popping up and listening in on her conversations.
At one point she confided her frustrations to Charlotte. She had not told Charlotte about their being together at the Meryton ball, but she did wonder aloud at Darcy bothering her this night.
She had gone most of the night without having to speak to him again, when Sir Williams pulled Elizabeth toward him and Mr. Darcy.
“Here you are,” he said to Darcy. “You won’t a prettier partner in the room than Miss Bennet here. Unless you care to find my Charlotte again.” He winked at Darcy, his chest puffed with importance.
Elizabeth had no choice but to look at Darcy now. His eyes were veiled, unreadable. She smiled at Sir William. “Thank you, Sir, but I am quite exhausted from this long night. I was just on my way for a rest.”
“Nonsense! I haven’t met a lady yet who would refuse to dance. Especially with someone as agreeable as Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth smiled through her gritted teeth. The only reason Sir William thought Darcy likeable was because he was rich.
“Again, thank you, but I am tired.”
Before he could say another word, Lizzy gave each of the men a slight curtsey before taking her leave.
It was not that she didn’t want to be in his company in the same way they had at the Meryton ball, but she did not want him to begin thinking that she was a woman who could be beckoned.
Not to mention that she was not after his money, and did not want him thinking that either. What woman, in her right mind, would let a man bed her, unless he was her husband, without wanting some form of payment?
An idiot.
Lizzy was not a whore, so she was an idiot. Her face burned as she passed Mr. Darcy without looking at him. He did not move to stop her, and she found herself beside Charlotte again, her breathing rapid, though she didn’t know why. It was not until she scanned the room and found Darcy watching her, Miss Bingley beside him, that she allowed herself to look into those dark eyes, a sea of dancing bodies between them.
No, she would not be beckoned.
Chapter Four
Stuck at Netherfield
Jane had received an invitation to dine with her new acquaintances, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. After the Meryton ball, Jane could not get Mr. Bingley out of her head. They had danced and talked.
Well, they spoke little, but they did speak, and he seemed as uncomfortable with the whole affair as she was herself, which made her feel closer to him somehow.
But as they both seemed painfully shy, they stood close, but spoke mostly to others. In Jane’s case, it was with Miss Caroline Bingley and Mrs. Louisa Hurst that she spoke. And while they seemed very shallow, Jane thought they were kind enough to her. Even at the Lucas’s ball they had gone out of their way to say hello to her and inquire after how she had been since they last spoke.
Kind enough was good enough for Jane to accept the invitation to Netherfield for dinner. She wanted to see Charles again, but the letter said he and his friend, Mr. Darcy, would be away. Still, she could learn much about the man through his sisters.
Of course, she would never have said she wanted to go if she had known her mother would not let her take the carriage, as it was about to rain, and Jane had no desire to be stuck in a down pour. But Mrs. Bennet insisted she go on horseback, and of course, it rained as soon as she was too far to come back.
Not only did it rain, but it was icy and driving, the wind tearing at her hair.
She arrived at Netherfield soaked and shaking. Thankfully, Caroline and Louisa ushered her inside and sent her right up to one of the spare bedroom to lie down. Louisa had leaned over Jane, once she was changed into a warm, dry nightgown, and touched her forehead.
“You’ll need to stay put, love,” she cooed as though Jane were delirious. “You’ve got a fever, I’ll send for the doctor, and we’ll write to your mother so she doesn’t worry.”
“I don’t want to be an imposition,” Jane said, but was wracked with such a fit of coughs that it would have been absurd to argue further.
Jane never liked being ill. When she was young and caught a fever, her mother would cry and moan as though Jane had died. It was enough to terrify her.
Thankfully, Lizzy was not much younger than Jane, and had always been the strong-willed, outspoken woman she is still. When Mrs. Bennet would start to mourn her eldest’s illness, young Lizzy would cause enough of a ruckus somewhere else in the house that was sure to bring all the
wrath of her mother on her, leaving Jane alone to rest.
As she lay in the giant bed in the guest room of Netherfield, Jane wished she had her Lizzy by her side.
Caroline and Louisa were attentive, and the doctor had come and assured everyone that she would not die, though he did order her to bed rest. So Jane was stuck in a strange home, with people she barely knew, and without any words of comfort from home.
Caroline had just left, having sat at Jane’s bedside, chatting about some man or another for almost an hour, while Jane dozed in an out of attention. When she finally took her leave, Jane could not fall asleep. She lay awake, staring at the canopy above her head.
A cool, autumn wind ruffled the fabric and carried the scent of rain and horse. The fever did make her feel quite ill and tired, but her nerves would not allow her any rest.
If she thought it might help, she would have cried. But that would only make her headache return, and it was only due to the doctor’s tonic that it had abated at all.
She heard a commotion outside the windows, the sound of clomping hooves, the sharp voices of stablemen.
Her eyelids began to get heavy when a thundering on the stairs jarred her.
In a moment the doorway was filled. Charles Bingley stared at her, wide-eyed and panting, his light hair wet and hanging in his eyes. His eyes.
She smiled up at him, and he visibly relaxed.
“They—they said you’d fallen ill.” He took a tentative step toward the bed.
“Just a fever,” said she, her voice hoarse.
“Do you—do you need anything? Tonic? Tea? Toast?”
She would have asked for carriage to bring her home. If anyone would get her one, it might be Charles, but she would not make demands in his home.
“I am well tended, thank you.”
He must have read the sadness on her face, though, because he glanced out the door and then strode to her bedside. He took up Caroline’s chair, scooting a little closer, but kept his hands in his lap.
