by Pamela Aidan
His original motive for writing relieved, he rose with new energy from his hearthside reverie and returned to the society of his hosts and the penning of his letter. Later, over glasses of brandy and sherry, he merely smiled when Miss Bingley observed that she had rarely seen anyone so amused by the composition of a letter to his family.
Chapter 9
The Illustration of His Character
A lingering inclement weather descended upon the county, enveloping the land in a chill mist that often resolved itself into rain. Miss Bingley decried its tiresome arrival, looking upon its unwelcome stay as a daily personal affront. Her brother regarded it with some trepidation, fearful of its effect on attendance at the ball, but Darcy’s satisfaction with their enforced isolation mystified his companions. The days before the ball passed as he and Bingley worked on plans for the improvement of Netherfield and, when the weather allowed, on their expertise out in the game fields. Several evenings were spent abroad at influential houses in the shire, and a few afternoons were devoted to discovering the reliability of tales concerning legendary local breeding stock. As he intended, to all outward appearances Darcy seemed unconcerned with the approaching ball. But in truth, he was preparing for it assiduously.
His strategy was elegant in its simplicity: pique Elizabeth’s curiosity by his absence from all venues of intercourse with her and then, at the ball, make her the unmistakable object of his attention. The surprise and confusion engendered by such action would, he hoped, allow him to claim her hand for at least one set, during which he would offer a well-crafted apology for his lamentable manners at their first meeting. He trusted in Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s unpredictable wit to inspire their conversation from there on. Surprise…the complete suddenness and partiality of his address! Darcy smiled to himself as he imagined her flustering prettily. She would be fairly caught and without resources. Then, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, we shall begin again.
Therefore, when invited to accompany the Bingleys on their call upon the Bennets to issue the invitation to the much-anticipated ball, he solemnly declined and instead occupied himself in correspondence with his man of business, then spent a profitable hour or so with Trafalgar out in the fields. He carefully avoided anyplace where he might meet Elizabeth Bennet, his only glimpse of her before the ball occurring at Meryton Church on Sunday, and even then, no more passed between them than an acknowledging nod on his part, matched by its cool reception on hers.
It was now Tuesday morning, the Day itself. Darcy gave a last tug at his coat as Fletcher, carefully cradling his dancing pumps, returned from a search for the appropriate vintage of champagne with which to give them a faultless shine. Earlier, Fletcher had sent to Erewile House, Darcy’s London home, for his best black coat and breeches, which now hung at the ready. The valet had scoured the local establishments for an acceptably snowy pair of stockings but, in the end, had been forced to send to London for these as well. Darcy noted that his shirt was starched and pressed, a supply of neckcloths was in similar condition, and his watch, links, emerald stickpin, and fobs lay on the dresser, gleaming as richly as the smile of satisfaction on Fletcher’s face as he emerged from the dressing room, pumps in hand.
“There, sir.” His valet waved the shoes before him for his inspection. “Polished up as nice as if I’d found the ’98 instead of having to use the ’02.” Darcy nodded, his mind occupied with the intricate niceties of the apology he was still attempting to compose.
“Ahem.” Fletcher cleared his throat and waited for his employer’s eyes to alight upon him. “Mr. Darcy…about your waistcoat for this evening,” he ventured carefully.
Darcy shot him a suspicious frown. “Yes, what about my waistcoat? It is the black silk made to match the breeches, is it not?”
“Yes, sir, but I was thinking…” Fletcher paused as Darcy’s eyes narrowed further, and then he finished hurriedly, “the emerald green and gold shot silk.”
“Fletcher!”
“Merely a suggestion, sir. Nothing more. The plain black it shall be.” The valet put the pumps down beside the chair on which the suit was carefully laid. “Although” — he sighed — “why you should wish to disappear into the woodwork, overshadowed by flashy young men in their vulgar dress uniforms, I cannot pretend to know.”
“I do not intend to ‘disappear into the woodwork’ tonight, Fletcher!”
“Just so, sir.”
“Meaning what?”
“As you say, sir, you do not intend to become invisible tonight.”
“But you believe that in the plain black waistcoat, and in spite of my intentions, I will?” Darcy challenged.
“Mr. Darcy,” Fletcher replied patiently, drawing from his wealth of sartorial experience, “I am convinced that you are noticed in whatever place you grace with your attendance. But I have observed, sir, that a room filled with red coats tends to distract certain persons, primarily the female portion of the race. The ladies, God bless them, seem to require something upon which to focus.”
Dubious at first, Darcy pondered the idea as Fletcher retrieved the debated waistcoat from the packing box from London. A small voice in the back of his mind expressed amazement that he was even considering such nonsense, but when Fletcher rejoined him, he found his own attention caught by the soft glitter of the emerald and gold threads, which created a rich paisley pattern on the black silk background. Perhaps…it could not hurt!
“As you wish, Fletcher. Take the plain one away and leave that.” Darcy knew that he had better leave before Fletcher talked him into something he would regret. “Be ready for me at seven o’clock,” he ordered briskly.
“Very good, sir.”
Darcy found that, once again, he was leaving his rooms mistrusting the bland expression on the valet’s face and wondered whatever had become of his biddable man. He had certainly begun to behave in a most peculiar manner.
As he entered the breakfast room, Darcy found Bingley just sitting down and quizzed him on such an early appearance as he poured his coffee. “Oh, the anticipation of the ball, I suppose,” Bingley replied. “I have hosted small, private parties in Town, of course, but this!” He waved his own cup in an arc before gulping half of it down. “This is a fence quite beyond my height. I could hardly sleep last night for wondering whether I had forgotten something or whether what I had remembered was properly done.”
“Miss Bingley is satisfied with your efforts, no doubt.”
“On the contrary, Miss Bingley is satisfied with little about this entire affair. Her serenity, I beg to inform you, sir, is for your pleasure alone. If it were not for the enjoyment I expect in a certain lady’s company, I would not have wished to embark on this interminable odyssey at all!”
“Come, come, Bingley. It is expected that a man of your position and in possession of a country house will host such occasions yearly and” — he added at Bingley’s grimace — “various smaller social gatherings throughout the year. It is so at Pemberley and Erewile House; you know that.”
“Everything runs so smoothly there; I am sure you are not troubled in the least! Everything here is at sixes and sevens and…and this food is cold! Where are the servants?” Bingley threw down his napkin and made to rise.
“Bingley! Be easy, sir.” Darcy put a restraining hand on his arm. “A gentleman does not berate his servants, and you are quite in danger of breaching that wise maxim.” Darcy met the distinctly mulish expression that Bingley turned upon him with an arched brow.
“Oh, blast it all; I know you are right, Darcy.” Bingley collapsed back into his chair. “I will behave myself, so you may pack away that imperious look and help me deal with this infernal ball.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration and then flashed Darcy the ingenuous grin his friend knew so well. “At least one thing has turned out well, quite providential in fact.”
“Pray tell me your one thing, Charles, so we may rejoice together.” Darcy laughed.
“That fellow you wished not to see. Wickham.”
“Yes?” Darcy’s jaw flexed unconsciously.
“Went to see Colonel Forster about him but met Mr. Denny before I could speak to him. Good thing, that. Denny desired me to tell Caroline the number of officers who would be able to accept the invitation, and he mentioned Wickham specifically.”
“Mentioned him how, Bingley?”
“Won’t be coming! Cannot come. He suddenly recollected some affairs in London he must attend to and left yesterday. Not expected to return for several days. So,” Bingley ended triumphantly, “you need have no concern about him.”
A theretofore unrealized tenseness in Darcy’s chest began to uncoil as he nodded in agreement with Bingley’s happy assessment. He chose to interpret it as relief that Bingley had not been required to make Wickham’s exclusion from the ball embarrassingly official. But quick upon its heels, the evening and all its possibilities opened up before him, and the smile that played irrepressibly upon his features he allowed Bingley to read as he wished.
“Apology be hanged!” The bar of soap hit the foot of the bath with a sharp whack and sank with ne’er a whimper to the bottom as Darcy leaned back against the copper head, frustration writ large upon his features. “Give me a syllogism to solve, a Greek epic to translate, or an unruly horse to school, but do not require of me an infernal pretty speech!” The exact wording of this essential apology had plagued him the entire day. Each time he thought he might have it, it died a quick, ignominious death in his imagined delivery.
Darcy groaned as the chamber clock informed him that time was running forward. His lack of talent in matters of address had been problematic in the past, but now it was become ruinous to something he highly desired. He must get it right; everything hinged upon it! Reaching for the bell, he rang for Fletcher and hunched forward as the valet emptied a pitcher of water over his head. A warmed towel was pressed into his hand, and with it he wiped the water and soap out of his eyes. Rising into his dressing gown, he stepped out of the bath and over to more warmed towels to complete drying before Fletcher returned with his small clothes and the shaving kit.
“Miss Bennet, you must allow…must excuse…My dear Miss Elizabeth, you may recall our first meeting — no, I would rather you didn’t recall it, precisely — I beg to be permitted to — no, not beg — Miss Eliza, pray forgive…
“Arrrrrrgh! Forgive me for behaving like a perfect ass.” Darcy threw the towel across the room, nearly hitting the returning Fletcher.
“Certainly, sir. Say no more, sir,” Fletcher said.
Darcy eyed the man dangerously for a moment, a sharp retort nearly bridging his lips before his valet’s unruffled mien brought home to him the humor of it. He could not laugh, the problem was too imminent, but he could step back from the precipice of ill temper he was perilously close to plunging down.
“I was not addressing you, Fletcher,” he growled in a much subdued tone as he turned to divest himself of the damp dressing gown. “Although I do apologize for the towel. I was not shying it at you apurpose.”
Fletcher passed Darcy his small clothes and then shook out the fine linen shirt, ready to slip it up his arms. “It is I, Mr. Darcy, who must apologize for my levity. It was inexcusable, sir, and I will take steps —”
“No, no Fletcher, it is quite all right. I stood in need of just such a diversion. Notwithstanding” — he paused and caught Fletcher’s eye in the mirror before him — “such displays should be indulged in judiciously.”
“Yes, sir.” Fletcher bent over his task of unrolling the silk stockings and, in a carefully preserved silence, handed them to his master. They were soon followed by the black silk garters. The entire process of dressing became a blur to Darcy, his mind fixed upon his ill-preparedness for his coming meeting with Elizabeth Bennet and his dislike of large social gatherings. In point of fact, his stomach was already beginning to knot, and a chill moisture was forming at his brow. What shall I say to her? he silently asked his reflection in the mirror as he buttoned his collar.
Fletcher hovered quietly about him, assisting him with this and that, all the while evidencing a hesitant, sympathetic concern that only served to heighten his disquiet. For a few insane moments, Darcy was sorely tempted to unburden himself. To lay the problem before another and ask for advice seemed sweet relief. But, of course, he could not. Not since his sire had died had he entrusted his cares to anyone in even the smallest detail. No, it was a ridiculous notion!
He made no pretense of trying to tie his neckcloth and motioned Fletcher to the task. With deft movements, the valet knotted an exquisite fall and, after placing the emerald stickpin in its snowy folds, retrieved the shimmering waistcoat, holding it out for Darcy to shoulder. As he rose from the chair, their eyes met. Fletcher opened his mouth, almost speaking but, at the look of firm refusal in Darcy’s face, resumed his place. In silence, he slipped the waistcoat up over Darcy’s shoulders and then picked up the coat.
“Your coat, sir.”
“Thank you, Fletcher,” Darcy acknowledged quietly. He finished the last button on the waistcoat and then eased into the black evening coat. The valet tugged at the lapels, straightening the seams, and checked the fall of the tails. “How does it look, then?”
“Excellent, sir. Were you making an appearance at Court, none could find fault.”
“No one, Fletcher?” He snorted, then added under his breath, “You are wrong there, my good man. There is one, I fear.”
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
“What?” Darcy rounded on him, startled by the valet’s audacity.
“Shakespeare, sir. Hamlet.”
“I know it is Hamlet, but what do you mean by it?”
“Mean, sir? Why nothing, Mr. Darcy. One of many memorable lines from the play, don’t you agree?” Fletcher bent over and began collecting the discarded items from his master’s bath. “Although Hamlet is not my favorite play, sir.”
Darcy had a distinct premonition that he should not pursue where his valet teased him to follow, but he could not seem to help it. “And that would be…?”
Fletcher paused in his task and looked at him intently. “The Comedy of Errors, Mr. Darcy, The Comedy of Errors.”
The sound of tuning instruments and the rushing of servants broke upon Darcy immediately when Fletcher opened the chamber door. He took a step toward the portal but then stopped and looked back to his desk in indecision.
“Mr. Darcy?” the valet inquired.
“A moment, Fletcher.” Darcy walked over to his desk and opened the drawer for his personal correspondence, extracting a folded sheet, which he opened and began to read. A slight smile graced his features as he refolded the letter and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. Patting his breast at the letter’s resting place, he stepped determinedly to the door. “Good evening, then, Fletcher. I will ring for you around two, I expect.”
“Very good, sir. My best wishes for the evening, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy nodded his reception of his valet’s regard and turned to the steps. The musicians now fell silent, and Darcy, pausing at the top of the stairs, could almost feel the entirety of Netherfield draw in its breath, straining for the signal to begin. The sound of an approaching carriage broke the stillness, and as servants scrambled to receive the first of the guests, the musicians struck their notes. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Darcy pulled on his gloves as he slowly descended the stairs and slipped into the glittering swirl of Hertfordshire society. The ball, it seemed, was begun.
The music had been playing a full three-quarters of an hour, and still they had not come. Darcy pulled at his gloves again, smoothing them over his hands as he nodded in response to several greetings cast his way. The lateness of the Bennet family surprised him, for if he had been a wagering man, he would have laid odds that Mrs. Bennet would be among the first to arrive at a ball given virtually at the behest of her daughters. As it was, he had filled his time doing his duty by Bingley, but he took care to do so circumspectly, skirting the fringes of the ever
-burgeoning company as he tensely awaited Elizabeth Bennet’s arrival.
Not all the guests were unwelcome, of course. Darcy’s greeting of Colonel Forster and several of his senior officers was returned politely if not with actual warmth. If there was any lack of that, it was well supplied by Squire Justin, whose response to Darcy’s salutation was marked by an intimate litany of sly but affectionate observations of his neighbors and punctuated with infectious chortles of laughter. Darcy did not succeed in avoiding Mrs. Long and her hopeful niece and was saved from being forced to give them a setdown only by the timely intervention of the vicar and his lady.
Excusing himself with gratitude for their rescue, Darcy retreated to the window overlooking the drive and peered into the night. Could something have happened? He lifted his chin and tugged discreetly at the knot of his neckcloth. If she does not come soon…A carriage swung into view, its lanterns bobbing madly as the horses were pulled to a stop at the torches that lit the foot of the stairs. The stable lads sprang forward and grabbed the harness of the leader while an underfootman opened the carriage door and flipped down its folding steps. Darcy leaned closer to the window, squinting against the flickering of the torches. She has come!
He backed away from the window and plunged into the crowded room, making his way toward the hall and its receiving line of the Bingleys and Hursts. His progress was not fortunate. By the time he had gained the door, Elizabeth and her family had already been handed down the line and had dispersed into a gathering that continued to swell. He turned back, hoping to discover her in the gallery to the ballroom. His progress again was slow, and he was silently cursing the success of Bingley’s little country ball when he saw her.
