An Assembly Such as This fdg-1

by Pamela Aidan

  “Miss Elizabeth,” drawled Miss Bingley. “You already have been introduced to my brother, Mr. Bingley?” Without pausing for an assent to her question, Miss Bingley indicated her brother standing just behind her. “Charles,” she began as she shifted her gaze over her shoulder, “Miss Elizabeth Ben ——” Whatever she had been about to say stuck suddenly in her throat as she beheld not only her brother but Darcy as well eagerly awaiting the introduction. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” she repeated, her smile tightening slightly.

  Their guest sank into another curtsy as Charles bowed. When she arose this time, Darcy noted, it was with a decidedly softer complexion.

  “Miss Elizabeth, I believe we met briefly at the assembly Friday last, and for three days since I have owed you an apology.” Bingley’s smile belied the seriousness of his words.

  “An apology, Mr. Bingley?” she responded in the same spirit. “I would readily accept any apology you have to offer, but I insist on first being made aware of its occasion. Pray enlighten me, sir, if you please.”

  “You insist, then, on a confession as well as an apology?” Bingley’s pretense of horror elicited a low, charming laugh from his inquisitor.

  “Most assuredly! Quickly now, or your penance will be that much more severe.”

  “Heaven forbid, I shall confess all! Here it is: I neglected to claim the dance you had so graciously promised me. Shameful, is it not, Miss Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, indeed, sir. I should be mortally offended at such a slight.”

  “There were extenuating circumstances, I assure you,” Bingley hastened to explain. “Immediately before the dance was to begin, I discovered Miss Bennet in need of some refreshment, which, believing there was sufficient time before the set formed, I offered to procure. On my journey to the table I was accosted by two — no, three gentlemen —”

  “Of the road, no doubt?” Elizabeth interrupted him. “I warn you, Mr. Bingley, nothing less than three highwaymen will satisfy my pique.”

  “Three highwaymen it was, I am certain of it,” agreed Bingley, affecting such a look of desperation that Elizabeth dissolved into laughter, which he immediately seconded.

  “You are forgiven, Mr. Bingley, but only because your desertion was in the assistance of my sister. Such gallantry must always be encouraged.”

  “Thank you. You are very kind, Miss Bennet.” He glanced beside him, meeting Darcy’s guarded visage. “But I am remiss and will soon be required to extend another apology, for which I will not be so easily forgiven.” Bingley drew himself up. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, may I introduce my friend, Mr. Darcy?”

  Darcy had not found himself able to enter into the banter between Bingley and Miss Bennet, excusing his reticence with the fact that they had not yet been properly introduced. Her ability at amusing repartee surprised him. He had become absorbed in the little farce in which they had engaged, but Bingley’s return to the formalities and subsequent introduction recalled him to his surroundings. Miss Bennet’s assent to the introduction was, he thought, unusually subdued given her good humor with Bingley. He felt himself stiffen into his usual pose of indifference.

  “Darcy, I have the great pleasure of introducing Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and if you will both excuse me, I see that your sister is in need of something or other; and I am the only one who knows where it is.” With a wink at the flash of alarm on his friend’s face, Bingley bowed himself away and hurried toward Miss Bennet.

  “Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth murmured. As she made him her curtsy and he returned his bow, Darcy cast about for something to say, silently castigating himself for getting into the middle of exactly what he had resolved to avoid. Still bereft of an opening gambit, he fell back on the usual social inanities he so detested, looking steadily past her ear as he mouthed them.

  “Your servant, Miss Bennet. You have lived long in Meryton?”

  “All my life, Mr. Darcy.”

  “You have not been to London, then?” he responded with surprise.

  “I have had occasion to visit London, sir, but not during the Season, if that is what you mean by having ‘been to London.’” The archness of her tone caused Darcy to frown slightly at its meaning, and involuntarily, he looked her full in the face. She appeared all innocence, but something told him it was not so. Perhaps it was the almost imperceptible lift of one shapely brow or the tendency of her dimple to peep out. Regardless, he knew himself to be an object of amusement. He was not pleased to be such a figure.

  “I should not consider time spent in London merely to visit dressmakers’ shops as having been to the city at all,” he replied coldly.

  “Mr. Darcy, you are too kind!” Her simper was such that he knew he was not meant to receive it as anything but false and that his attempt at depressing this young woman’s impudence had utterly failed. His eyes narrowed. Why on earth should she pretend to thank him? He had certainly meant no compliment! His suspicion at her purpose was shortly to be confirmed.

  “That a gentleman of your discrimination should regard my gown as a London creation! But I must disabuse you, I fear. It is a local concoction only, but be assured, I shall certainly repeat your pretty compliment to my dressmaker.” She sketched another quick curtsy before his astonished mind could form a coherent reply. “Please excuse me, Mr. Darcy. My mother is in need of me.”

  Pretty compliment? Compliment, indeed! Sputtering silently, Darcy stared after her as she made her way through the now crowded drawing room. True to her word, she went to her mother’s side, pausing only briefly to exchange a greeting with friend or neighbor as she glided gracefully past them. He forced his mind to stop reeling in circles and cast it back to the beginning, the moment when she had entered the doorway and her face had betrayed her opinion of her hosts. Or, more correctly, her hostess, Darcy amended, recalling her lively exchange with and genuine smiles for Charles. He looked about the room for Miss Bingley, easily discovering her surrounded by a ring of guests who, it appeared, were attending her every word. At the moment, she was holding forth on the “terrible crush” at Lord and Lady ——— ’s, what she had said to Lady ———, and what her reply had been to Sir ——— ’s little witticism, punctuating it all with a haughty sniff and an elegant shrug of her shoulders. The group tittered appreciatively, and Darcy noticed several young women attempting to imitate Caroline’s air as a wave of shoulders lifted and fell. Elizabeth Bennet was not among them, being occupied with a smaller circle of admirers and close female friends.

  No, Miss Elizabeth Bennet was not impressed with the London sophistication of Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst, nor did she appear to feel the necessity of inveigling her way into Caroline’s good graces, as most of her neighbors were doing this very moment. Instead, thought Darcy with dawning comprehension, she found Miss Bingley’s manner objectionable! Far from cultivating her, she had, by the drollery in her eyes, assigned her a place among the ridiculous, as one might do with an amusing but slightly mad relation. Having satisfied himself on what Miss Elizabeth Bennet was about, Darcy found the discovery to have engendered two equal and opposite emotions, which struggled manfully in his breast. The first was to stiffen in indignation at the impertinence of the lady in judging her betters. The second was an impulse to laugh in agreement with her assessment. A twinkle had almost reached Darcy’s eye when he was struck with the remembrance that Miss Bingley was not the only resident of Netherfield who amused Miss Elizabeth Bennet. The twinkle was ruthlessly suppressed as he considered again her manner toward himself.

  She had delivered him a facer; he acknowledged it without hesitation and, now, with some detachment. Her turning of his thinly veiled setdown into a supposed compliment had been masterfully done. But what had possessed him to speak to her so in the first place? He reviewed the events of their meeting in his mind. Had it been her archness in reply to his desultory attempts at small talk, or had he been put off at the very beginning by the obvious change in her demeanor after Bingley’s introduction? Bingley, she liked, but what did she think of h
im?

  Do I cut the same sort of figure in her mind as Miss Bingley, he asked himself, or is her manner a pretense, a game of flirtation she hopes will capture my attention? Absentmindedly, he twisted the ruby-crowned ring on his smallest left finger. Or could it be altogether something else? He recalled her repartee with Bingley over his slighting of her at the assembly and her threat to exact penance. Suddenly the muscles in his stomach tightened, the events at the assembly replaying clearly in his mind. That was it! It had to be! She had overheard his graceless, ill-considered comment.

  “Idiot!” the self-appellation escaped his lips. Having received no apology, she thinks to exact her due by force of wit. Darcy pondered his theory as he gazed at its object, who was, at the moment, têtea-tête with Miss Lucas. What should I do, if anything? he asked himself guiltily. He owed her an apology, without a doubt, but what would he say? “Forgive me, Miss Bennet, I was a perfect ass last Friday?” And if he did, what would be her reply? Would she forgive him with a pretty speech or use the opportunity to deliver him a setdown before the entire neighborhood?

  He paused in his consideration of the possibilities to close his eyes, putting several fingers to work on his temple. No, no matter that he had hurt her pride, he would not lay himself open to the vituperation of a country nobody for the amusement of herself or her friends. If she had chosen to sulk, he would be bound, but as it was, she had elected to draw swords. Darcy looked up again and found Elizabeth Bennet at the side of her elder sister, both of them looking at a portfolio of Miss Bingley’s latest sketches. A bold move! He smiled to himself. I understand you now, but I fear you are not up to weight if you think to play that game with me! The smile was now accompanied by a satirical eye as he bent to the task of discovering more fully his adversary’s qualities.

  Circling the room, exchanging a word here, a nod there with Bingley’s new neighbors, Darcy observed her without notice. Her voice, he noted, was well modulated and pleasing to the ear, but that was to be expected given her singing in church the day before. Her manner among her friends bespoke an openness and sincerity that was charming but certainly not reflective of the deportment expected in the level of society to which he was accustomed. Her face, he decided, was of the “milkmaid” variety: full, clear, and healthy but lacking the distinction required to be considered fashionably classical. She moved gracefully enough, he acknowledged, but the flutter of her gown betrayed a lack of symmetry about her person that would not please the purist.

  Unusual in her manners, to be sure, he pronounced to his waiting sensibilities, but lacking the physical and social graces that bespeak a truly genteel upbringing. It is well for her the officers are enchanted, for that is all the further she may look. Darcy waited in vain for his emotions to second his verdict, but they were frustratingly unwilling to accede to his judgment, urging instead that more information was called for and a final decision on the lady should be postponed to a later date. Turning his attention to the lady’s family, Darcy knew no such reluctance. No one with ears or eyes could fail to note the shrill, nakedly calculating manner of her mother and the immodest forwardness of her youngest daughters, whose only recommendation was their youth. He exhaled sharply, expressing his disgust with them.

  “Come, come, Darcy, such a negative view. I am sure that tomorrow’s shooting will be most enjoyable.” Absorbed in his internal debate, he had barely noticed that he had drawn near Bingley and the group of gentlemen with him. Evidently a shooting party was being planned, and his snort had been taken as distaste for the idea. Nothing, he suddenly realized, could be further from the truth. A day out-of-doors with dogs and guns, far from the intricacies of a country drawing room, was exactly what he needed.

  “On the contrary, Bingley, an excellent idea.” Darcy clapped him on the shoulder, the relief engendered by the prospect of a day so spent rendering him more voluble than usual among strangers. “Gentlemen, has Bingley told you of his newest acquisition? It is the sweetest fowling piece you have ever seen…”

  Later, over dinner, Miss Bingley recounted the events of the morning to those gathered at table. Mr. Hurst had pled a thunderous headache before the meal had been announced and was happily entertaining a decanter of brandy in his room, leaving his fellow men and his wife as audience for Miss Bingley’s recital. Bingley settled comfortably in his chair at the table’s head, giving all the attention to his sister, as his good nature allowed. Miss Bingley’s façade of self-possession during the departure of their guests had not fooled Darcy for an instant; she fairly crackled with the compulsion to recount, analyze, shred, and preen. Bingley had warned him of the futility of any attempt to check her while they had awaited the summons for dinner in the gun room. He had told him he would give his sister free rein — as if he could do otherwise — and Darcy should prepare himself for an evening of cattiness and gloating.

  “And no, you may not plead a headache, as that excuse has already been proffered by Mr. Hurst. And if you think for one moment that you can escape what her brother cannot, you are knocked in your cockloft! It is part of being brother to a woman whose chief concern is attaining the first circles of Society.” He sighed to Darcy as he squinted one eye and looked again down the barrel of the fowling piece, checking his latest adjustment to the sight. “She must thoroughly examine today’s campaign. What do you think” — he handed the rifle to Darcy — “is it right?”

  “Wanting to be in the first circles, or her method of rising to them?” Darcy responded, bringing the weapon up to his cheek and settling the stock into his shoulder.

  “Neither, sir! I refer to the sighting.” Bingley rejoined sharply and then fell silent while Darcy, in some regret for his flippancy, checked the alignment. When he finished, he snapped it down and placed it firmly into Bingley’s hands.

  “Charles,” he began.

  “You are most fortunate in your sister, Darcy,” Bingley interrupted him quietly. “Miss Darcy does not plague you so. Has she ever given you a moment’s worry?” Darcy went very still at his words, waiting. “But she is so much younger than you and will be in the first circles immediately she comes out,” Bingley continued without noticing his lack of reply. He started to chuckle to himself. “Imagine if Caroline were my younger sister!” He invited Darcy to join in his amusement at the thought. “Oh, it is too delicious.” A knock at the door ended the absurdity as Stevenson announced dinner. “Ah, duty calls; and you, my friend, are required to be in attendance, if only to help pick up the pieces of what is left of our neighbors when she is finished,” Bingley said.

  As promised, Bingley did not attempt to govern the dinner conversation, except for an occasional “Tsk, tsk, Caroline!” and shake of his head. Meeting with such little opposition to her comments seemed to encourage Miss Bingley to think that her observations and opinions were shared by the company about the table. Mrs. Hurst, of course, echoed or embellished her sister’s sentiments, each inspiring the other to new heights of criticism and ridicule.

  “Now, Louisa, that is too cruel!” Miss Bingley gave her sister’s hand a small slap. Mrs. Hurst protested contrition until her sister continued slyly, “I counted only two chins on the lady, but then I did not have the felicity of seeing her sitting down, as you did.” Mrs. Hurst let out a small shriek, covering her mouth with her hand while Miss Bingley settled back in her chair with an ill-concealed smirk. “Really, these country folk are not very entertaining.” She glanced covertly at Darcy. “It was all horses and hunting with the gentlemen. And the ladies! Not a one could speak of current fashion or had even the slightest acquaintance with the theater! Poetry is likely as unknown a language here as is Italian,” she concluded with an arch smile in Darcy’s direction. Mrs. Hurst giggled obligingly, but his lack of response appeared to decide her upon a more sober course.

  “Charles, I have chosen to accept three particular invitations to dine and one afternoon social during this next week. Please oblige me by making room in your schedule for them.”

  “May I
ask, dear sister, where we are engaged?” Bingley templed his fingers and rested his chin on his thumbs as he turned and winked at Darcy.

  “Wednesday night with Squire Justin, Thursday with Mr. and Mrs. King. They are accounted quite prominent and are said to be worth three thousand a year, if you can imagine! Friday we dine with Colonel Forster and his wife. Do you suppose the woman laughs so on purpose, Louisa, or am I the only one put in mind of a donkey?” At each name Bingley sank a little lower in his chair, and when the colonel’s name was mentioned, he looked to have given up hope. “…and Saturday evening at Sir William Lucas’s.” Miss Bingley ticked off the last name on her list and looked up to see her brother brighten considerably. “Is this acceptable, Charles?”

  “I leave the social aspect of the campaign in your capable hands, Caroline. I request only that you leave me some time for more gentlemanly pursuits and that you plan on attending services while we are here. Regularly,” he added, with a look which communicated that he would brook no objections.

  Miss Bingley’s eyes flew involuntarily to Darcy, whose return of her regard was the picture of blandness. “Of course, Charles. That goes without question, as you well know.”

  “Now,” said Bingley, capitalizing on the success of his demand and the disorder into which it had cast his sister, “I wish to observe that the morning went splendidly. Caroline, you are to be congratulated.” Miss Bingley demurred sweetly. “I have no doubt that our Morning In will be the subject of much conversation and that we are well launched into Hertfordshire society.” He allowed his sister her opportunity to disclaim her achievement, however briefly, and proceeded with determination. “You must know that I have proposed a shooting party for tomorrow morning and expect that six or more gentlemen will come. If you will arrange the breakfast and notify the household staff, I will endeavor to alert the stablemaster, groundsman, and gamekeeper of our plans.” Bingley’s fingers tapped the arms of his chair at each detail, his face flushed with the delight of having his own estate to order as he wished. “It will be my turn tomorrow, my dear sisters, to advance beyond the ground you have taken today.”