Soon enough it was time for dinner and the throng of guests made their way into the hall and on to the dining room. Several guests had consumed too much punch and as a result, the group that wandered into dinner was rather more relaxed than what would usually be seen. Mrs. Bennet may have over-indulged, but her usual conversation was so vulgar and disjointed it was hard to tell. The intensity in volume was the only indicator of her state of inebriation, and Elizabeth sincerely hoped it was the excitement of the event that had her so animated.
In Lydia’s case, however, it was embarrassingly clear that her over-loud speech, her incessant giggling, and the fact that she actually ran through the front hall with an officer in hot pursuit was the result of an overconsumption of Bingley’s strongly flavored punch. Elizabeth groaned and closed her eyes against the sight. Mr. Chamberlain, the smell of onions wafting behind him, chased her youngest sister through the hall past Elizabeth and a dozen of their closest neighbors where they waited to enter the dining room, Mr. Chamberlain calling out for her to stop and give him back his sword. Lydia laughed madly and ran faster, her dress flying up nearly to her knees.
Filled with a deep desire to stop this madness—and a temporary release of all bonds of decorum and polite behavior—Elizabeth waited for Lydia to approach her, then calmly stepped away from her neighbors, directly into her sister’s path. Lydia saw the obstacle in her way and swerved to her right, and Elizabeth just as swiftly stretched out a leg in her sister’s direction. Lydia opened her mouth wide in silent surprise (the quietest she had been all evening), and flew into the air, hovering horizontally for a brief moment before landing flat on the ground in a spectacular heap of fine muslin, an abundance of lace, and a (thankfully) dull sword.
Mr. Chamberlain was directly behind her and narrowly avoided tripping over her prone form. He gallantly helped her up, re-sheathed his sword, and inquired if Lydia were well, to which she replied, between hiccups and uncontrollable giggles, that she was jolly well, but did anyone else see her sister Elizabeth? She could have sworn she had seen her just before she fell, but by the time she was on her feet and put to rights, Elizabeth was gone.
He could not answer her, and the neighbors that had witnessed the event chose to ignore her and pretend they hadn’t seen anything, except of course to tell everybody else at the ball exactly what had happened—with a few tasteful embellishments.
Elizabeth smiled to herself from her position around the corner. She felt no remorse. Lydia was unharmed, and would be even less harmed tomorrow, but Elizabeth herself felt better. Surely that was worth something. She walked away, ignoring her neighbors’ questions and greetings, and made her way to a side terrace. Torches had been lit at intervals along the stone railing and the only other occupants, a couple she didn’t recognize, went inside a few minutes after she arrived.
Elizabeth leaned against the stone, looking up at the dark sky. She felt a small measure of harmony at her own tininess in a vast world and felt vaguely comforted by the time she re-entered the house.
Caroline Bingley was in the hall and approached Elizabeth. Likely because she had sensed Elizabeth’s hard-won peace of mind and wished to obliterate it.
“Miss Eliza,” she slithered closer and Elizabeth couldn’t stop the sigh that raised her shoulders and sank them back down again.
“Miss Bingley.”
“Your family certainly seems to be enjoying the ball,” she said with a wickedly gleeful look on her face.
Mrs. Bennet’s voice rose above the noise of the crowd and Elizabeth cringed, as Miss Bingley had intended. Not wanting to speak to her a moment more, Elizabeth looked away, feeling all the rage and humiliation and despair she had felt over the last days running through her body until she was full of it from her toes to the top of her head. A cup of punch was abandoned on a nearby table and Elizabeth stared at it, her eyes fixed on the colorful liquid. Caroline continued to drone on, something about Christmas in Town and spending time with the Darcys, the note of triumph evident in her voice, even if the words were obscured.
Elizabeth could take it no longer. She reached for the glass of punch and held it in front of her, stretched towards Miss Bingley, and tipped it calmly onto the lady’s dress. Miss Bingley did not stop talking until she felt the sticky liquid seeping through her bodice and onto her skin, when she finally turned her attention to her companion. Miss Elizabeth bore a serene expression, her eyes fixed steadily on her motions as she drained the glass over Caroline’s new silk gown.
Miss Bingley gasped. She squeaked. She huffed and cried, “Why you little!” before stopping herself and storming towards the stairs as quickly as she could while keeping the front of her dress concealed. Elizabeth allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction, then set the glass back on the table and went to find her father. She had had enough of the ball and would call for the carriage to take her home. She was nearly into the dining room when Mr. Darcy stepped out the door and into her way.
“That is one way to silence a loquacious conversation partner.”
She looked up at him, startled at his sudden appearance. Was he smirking? His lip was twitching in the corner and if she didn’t know better, she would say Mr. Darcy was trying not to laugh.
“Forgive my display, Mr. Darcy. I found I could listen no longer. Excuse me, I must find my father.”
“He is just there,” replied Mr. Darcy, pointing to a corner of the dining room.
“Thank you. Good evening,” said Elizabeth.
“Are you leaving?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ve had enough merriment for one night.”
“May I see you home?”
She looked at him in surprise, and indeed, he seemed surprised to have made the offer.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I shall be well in the carriage on my own.” Feeling a burst of mischief, she added, “Though it is a beautiful night. It is a pity I may not walk home.”
“Yes, a pity,” he said thoughtfully.
He looked at her in such a way that she half thought he would offer to walk her home in the moonlight, but she knew he was too proper to let such a suggestion escape his lips, even if he had been improper enough to think it. Then again…
“It is too bad I have not a proper escort. I could ask Mr. Collins, but that would rather defeat the purpose.”
Darcy looked at her in question.
“What is the purpose of a night stroll if not peace and quiet?” she teased.
His eyes flared, thoughts of why one might go on a night-time stroll with a young woman practically dancing across his features, and she realized too late what she had inadvertently referred to. She colored.
“Excuse me.” She made her way to her father, whispered in his ear, and was soon back in the hall. “I will call for the carriage. It will return for my family.”
She didn’t know why she was explaining herself to Mr. Darcy, but he was looking at her in that way he had always done, but more intently somehow, and she found herself nervous under his scowl.
“Allow me.”
Before she could answer, he had removed to the entryway to call the carriage. Elizabeth stepped into the dining room again, caught Jane’s eye and waved goodnight, then found her cape in the cloakroom. Mr. Darcy was awaiting her just outside the door and took the cape from her hands, draping it around her shoulders with surprising deftness.
“Thank you,” she said. He was doing it again. Staring at her so fiercely she thought she had something on her face. “Why do you glare at me if you do not dislike me?” she blurted.
He blinked. Clearly, he had not expected such a question. “I do not glare at you.”
“Permit me to know when I am being glared at, Mr. Darcy.”
“I may… look intently… sometimes. But I do not glare! Certainly not at you.”
“Very well. Then why do you look intently at me?”
He opened his mouth. Then snapped it shut. He repeated this motion twice more before she moved past him into the entryway.
&nb
sp; “The carriage should be ready now.”
He followed her mutely through the entryway and out the front door. The carriage had just rolled to a stop and a Netherfield footman opened the door. Elizabeth descended the front steps, Darcy just behind her.
She stopped in front of the carriage and turned to face him. He reached for her hand and she placed hers on his delicately and allowed him to help her into the carriage. For a moment, she was on the step, her head slightly higher than Mr. Darcy’s.
He still held her hand, and she stared at him, as ferociously as he had ever stared at her. She felt the pressure on her hand increase, and slowly, painstakingly slowly, he raised her hand to his lips. She felt the pressure through her light evening gloves and warmth suffused her, traveling up her hand and through her arm, flushing her cheeks and rising gooseflesh on her skin. Her lips parted in a gasp and he raised his eyes, his head still bent, and smiled. His smile was small, and artless, and nearly boyish, but somehow retained a hint of the intensity of his usual looks.
She met his gaze as he raised his head and she refused to look away or be cowed by him. He seemed to recognize her stubbornness and smiled again, a smile of understanding and amusement, and a little bit of indulgence and something else she couldn’t define, though she would later learn its name well enough. She grinned back, and desiring to surprise him, she swiftly leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek.
She achieved her object. Mr. Darcy’s eyes widened instantly. His cheeks turned a brilliant red visible even in the moonlight. His hand dropped uselessly to his side. She smiled winsomely, called goodnight, and ducked into the carriage. She pulled the door closed behind her and called for the driver to move on before Mr. Darcy remembered to blink.
Chapter 11
A Taste of Freedom
Elizabeth awoke the next morning all aflutter. She had never felt so daring, so free from all restraint. She had met her impulses with action and the effect was liberating. Her mother’s shrill cries could not disturb her today—she was too high to be brought down.
She had kissed a man—Mr. Darcy!—in front of Netherfield. She had shocked him, that was clear, and she had no recollection of the footman’s position during her reckless actions. He may have been standing only a few feet away, she really couldn’t say. Oh, how wild she had been!
And she had poured punch down Miss Bingley’s dress! And tripped her own sister in the hall! What if Lydia had landed on the saber and it had cut her? She knew she should be concerned about these things, but she could not truly care. She had never felt so free.
And she had kissed Mr. Darcy!
~
Her ebullient mood was not to last. Kitty and Lydia had started arguing over who owned the pale pink ribbon that happened to match each of their dresses for the ball. Kitty recalled purchasing it herself, and Lydia insisted it suited her coloring better and therefore must belong to her. Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth stepped into the room and tried to solve the quarrel. Seeing it couldn’t be done without the magistrate, she took the key from the lock, and without either sister noticing, left the room and closed and locked the door behind her.
She was on the stairs when Lydia began pounding on the door. Elizabeth paused and yelled back to her that she would unlock the door when they began acting more like proper young ladies and less like feral children. She smiled to herself when the sound of feet stomping and what sounded suspiciously like a growl followed her down the stairs.
Luckily, the breakfast room was far enough away that their cries could not be heard and she ate her meal in peace. When it was just she and Jane at the table, mercifully, she said, “You know, Jane, I really think you ought to be more forthcoming with Mr. Bingley.”
Jane looked at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you are so reserved, a person who does not know you well could mistake your serenity for indifference.”
Jane looked worried and perplexed at the notion.
“I do not mean to trouble you, I only wish to encourage you to be more demonstrative with Mr. Bingley.” At Jane’s look of alarm, she added hastily, “I am not suggesting anything unseemly, of course. Merely that some encouragement might not go amiss.”
Jane smiled nervously and nodded, saying that she would try. Elizabeth said that was all that she could ask and left for a long ramble in the garden.
When she returned to the house, she could not hear Lydia screaming and assumed someone had gotten a key from Hill and let them out. Not caring enough to find out, she went to the music room and played her favorite pieces, then found Sarah and had her hair put up in a new style she had considered but had never been brave enough to try for fear it would make her face look too thin. She did not have Jane’s full cheeks or Lydia’s round face, and it had been commented on enough that she was well aware of it.
Somewhat surprisingly, she was well-pleased with the new style and took herself off to show it to her mother. Mrs. Bennet was happy to see her most troublesome daughter ready for the ball hours in advance and happily drank the tea Elizabeth brought her, requesting her daughter leave her for a nap shortly after. Elizabeth closed the door behind her with a smile and made her way to Mary’s room.
She once again entreated her sister to play music more suited to her abilities and went a step further by asking Mary to allow Elizabeth to arrange her hair. Mary protested, but Elizabeth insisted. Once Mary’s hair was in order, and very becoming, too, Elizabeth wouldn’t rest until her plainest sister was wearing Jane’s old ball gown and attaching shoe roses to her dancing slippers. Mary was a little uncomfortable with the change in her appearance, but Elizabeth was so complimentary and persuasive, and Jane was so pleasantly surprised when she saw her younger sister, that Mary decided to allow them to make her over if it brought them such pleasure.
Elizabeth finally peeked into Lydia and Kitty’s room, which was still locked. She found the room empty and was unsurprised to find out that after two hours of whining and hoping someone would release them, Lydia had climbed out the window and down the trellis. Her sister was nothing if not determined. If only she would direct it towards more appropriate pursuits…
Kitty had followed her younger sister and they had taken themselves directly to their father’s bookroom to complain of their ill treatment by Elizabeth. Mr. Bennet laughed heartily and told them that they should have been locked in for squabbling ages ago, and if he had known they were so resourceful, he would have made better use of them before today. Both girls were terrifically put out, especially Lydia who felt herself very ill used, and she wasted no time hunting down Elizabeth and berating her soundly.
Elizabeth listened with one ear as she made her way through the house, Lydia hot on her heels and complaining loudly. When she was on the stairs, a few steps up from the bottom, Elizabeth turned abruptly and gave Lydia a small shove, like they had done when they were children, and said she had heard enough. Lydia lost her balance and stumbled, as Elizabeth had intended.
Her ankle was twisted and she cried out in pain and accusation at her elder sister, yelling loudly that Elizabeth had shoved her completely unprovoked.
“I would never push you down the stairs, Lydia. How could you say such a thing?” defended Elizabeth when Lydia accused her in front of Jane and Kitty.
They helped Lydia to the divan in the drawing room and Jane had the apothecary sent for. Mrs. Bennet was sleeping and couldn’t be roused, but Mr. Bennet looked at the ankle perfunctorily and told her to put ice on it and keep it elevated, as Mr. Jones was likely to tell her. Lydia continued to pout and complain of her ill treatment and told anyone who would listen that Elizabeth had tried to murder her.
“You mustn’t say such things, Lydia,” said Jane reproachfully.
“Really, Lydia. You make it sound as if I tried to break your neck! If that had been my intention, I would have pushed you from the top.” Elizabeth huffed, appearing thoroughly affronted at being so accused, and said, “Why ever would I wish to do such a
thing?”
Elizabeth was the picture of innocence and Lydia looked at her warily, then whispered to Kitty that she must not leave her alone with Elizabeth before she was able to run, no matter what.
Elizabeth hid her amusement in the entire affair and finished preparing for the ball. She borrowed her mother’s pearl necklace, the one that had belonged to her grandmother, and happily fastened Lydia’s shoe roses onto her dancing slippers. Lydia wouldn’t have need for them while her leg was propped up in the drawing room. She hummed as she wrapped her cloak about her and stepped into the carriage.
Elizabeth entered the ball determined to do what she wished and nothing else. She began with Mr. Collins. She approached him and boldly stated that she would not dance the first with him, with no explanation, and directed him to her friend Charlotte or her sister Mary, both of whom were free for the first set and found his company manageable. He gaped like a fish and she left him standing alone before he could collect himself enough to reply.
She snuck into the dining room and stole a marzipan flower from a tray, giving the footman who saw her a wink before leaving the room. She walked out to the terrace and nibbled on her treat, watching the stars in the ever-darkening sky, the music from the ballroom a perfect background to her musings.
“Here you are,” said a familiar voice.
“Charlotte! You look lovely this evening!”
Charlotte smiled. “Thank you. Is that a new gown? It is very fine,” she lightly touched the lace at Elizabeth’s sleeve.
“It is, thank you.” How new it can be after wearing it to twenty balls, I know not.
Elizabeth handed Charlotte a bit of the marzipan she had pilfered from the dining hall. Charlotte took it without asking why she had it in the first place and they spent the first set of the evening on the terrace, looking at the stars, and talking about nothing as close friends are wont to do. Elizabeth sighed happily. This was a much better way to spend the evening than dodging Mr. Collins’ plodding feet.
The 26th of November, a Pride and Prejudice Comedy of Farcical Proportions Page 8
