A Dishonorable Offer

by Timothy Underwood

  A good marriage had always been unlikely. It had been unlikely even before Lydia married her blacksmith.

  Lydia was sincerely happy. If Elizabeth judged by the standards of gentility, she would not care about that. Most people only judged people by how much money they had. If blacksmiths were rich, they would be as respected of a profession as law or the clergy. If they made hundreds of thousands, rich blacksmiths would be awarded peerages, like rich tradesmen.

  Well Elizabeth didn’t care.

  If Lydia was happy, she would be happy for Lydia. But…

  Lydia’s marriage had hurt Jane.

  Perhaps the Mr. Bingleys of the world never would marry penniless girls with connections to trade and a country attorney. But at least they danced with such girls.

  Elizabeth had sat thinking for twenty minutes, and she still was as unhappy as she had been when she first sat down.

  She made a fist and shook it. Mr. Bingley’s foolishness would not ruin her ball.

  Suddenly Bingley’s loud voice caught Elizabeth’s attention. “Come, Darcy — I hate to see you standing about in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”

  *****

  When he arrived this evening, Darcy had not wanted to dance. The crush was loud and vulgar, the local crowd showed little fashion and appeared to be a barbaric horde of rusticated boors. One of the violins was out of tune.

  He never wanted to dance when he arrived at a ball, but he always did.

  Shortly after he had come of age, he attended a ball near the end of the season at which his uncle was present. Darcy had spent the evening standing against the wall, and feeling ill used by the need to be there, and he moved away anytime a young lady acquainted with him moved in his direction.

  Half way through the evening Matlock pulled Darcy into the garden. “Good god, Fitzwilliam, what is wrong with you?”

  “I do not enjoy dancing. Besides all of the girls hope to convince me to marry them, and I won’t. I hate talking to them. None of them know Latin or anything interesting.”

  “That doesn’t signify. Latin. Bah. A ball is for dancing. Even if you shan’t marry them, the girls want partners. Their happiness matters as much as yours. You can survive making small talk with a girl for half of an hour, and I know Richard and Charlie taught you how. If you don’t dance half the dances at every ball you are present, God help me I will… Blast it, I can’t punish you anymore, but I’ll be ashamed of you if you act like such a damned clodpole ever again. I raised you better than this.”

  There was no choice except for Darcy to weakly bow his head and immediately find the nearest girl he was acquainted with and ask for her hand in a dance.

  Ever since that night Darcy always danced half of the dances at any ball he attended. It actually did not bother him so much. He did meet worthwhile women, sometimes.

  Tonight his first dance was quite pleasant. The wife of the rotund chap who Bingley said was one of the largest landowners round about was clever and good humored.

  Unfortunately, all the other women were vulgar and silly. Their manners and dancing skills were not near as polished as those in London society. Still, they weren’t that bad. The women here were no stupider than those in London ballrooms.

  His uncle held heretical and radical views, and he had taught Darcy to think poorly of the sense of all the world. Being inclined to think aristocratic circles were mostly formed by chuckle-headed fools, Darcy was prepared to think highly of the relative worth of others.

  It would be difficult to be stupider than the leading blades of fine society.

  Darcy replied to the flirtatious sallies of the women around him with his own smiles and empty quips. While nowhere near as talented at the art of appealing to women as his cousins, Darcy had been forced by Derwent and Richard to learn how to flirt.

  As always, Darcy counted how many dances he participated in, and a little past the middle of the evening he at last fulfilled his promise to always dance half of the sets. The first dance of the evening did not count, since he had not arrived till it was near done.

  Now it was time for his favorite ballroom pastime — staring at paintings.

  He would keep half his attention on the music. And he might drink a little of the punch. Or sometimes he studied statuary in the corners instead of paintings on the wall. The point was he would talk to no one not a dear friend.

  Darcy’s occupation as a wall ornament required some art: if he just watched the dance, people walking around the edge of the room stopped to talk to him. That was not always bad. This happy universe was so constructed as to contain some clever people well worth knowing.

  Unfortunately, the ratio of the difficult and dull to the clever and conversable was at least four to one. Not odds Darcy wished to take — he was not a fool who saw honor in taking any dare, no matter how foolish.

  He’d already had many dances worth of the dull or simply strange.

  Over the years Darcy had experimented and refined his methods. He would find a good painting or sculpture and stand with a heavy frown staring at it while stroking his chin — he now had a reputation as a great lover of the visual arts, and many artists sought him out for commissions and sales.

  If a particularly obnoxious person approached, he would turn to face the opposite direction from which they were walking and start humming. Anyone who still insisted on conversation after all that could only be defeated through rudeness or lies.

  Much of the time Darcy actually studied the painting, and by now he was in fact a great lover of the visual arts. Other times he let his eyes go unfocused, and he watched the people milling about, or he listened to the music; often he would simply think.

  A well-equipped mind never faced true boredom, except in the presence of others.

  This evening was one where Darcy attended to those about him instead of the painting. The walls of Meryton’s assembly hall had no interesting decorations, and Darcy settled upon a poorly executed copy of the King’s portrait, and he had seen a great many of those before.

  Instead, while he did not look directly at her, Darcy’s attention was drawn to a young woman who sat near.

  She was pretty, but not near so very pretty as the girl Bingley danced with first. It was not her beauty which drew his eye, rather there was something in her expression and manner that was interesting.

  She seemed caught by some melancholy that went much deeper than simply unhappiness over not having a partner for the dance. And her face went through these odd changes, she at first sat down with an unhappy huff, paying no attention to Darcy, who stood just a few feet away in apparent deep perusal of the brushstrokes used to capture George III’s nose.

  Her eyebrows were tightly drawn together, and she looked forlorn and close to tears. There was something so fetching in the cast of her cheeks that Darcy felt a desire to protect and help her, and he seriously considered seeking out an introduction to her so that he might have an opportunity to see if he might cheer her up through flirtation and conversation.

  She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. Her hairstyle was simple, none of the complicated woven flowers and intertwined braiding that fashionable women preferred. Just a simple bun and curls. Her hair was a vibrant healthy brown and it half covered her pretty ears. She had a pert nose.

  A soft smile crossed her face, and for a little she was the very image of peaceful repose. There was something in her face that seemed made more for smiles and happiness than frowns. She was unfashionably freckled and tanned. Bit by bit the smile faded away into a hard frown. She breathed more heavily, and her color rose. Then she sighed and tried to smile again, but it did not hold and her full lips turned down into a frown.

  Darcy wanted to convince her it would be all right.

  After several minutes more, she reached a resolution and sat straight. She formed her hand into a delicate fist and shook it at whatever troubled her.

  Absorbed in watching the unguarded behavior of the girl, Darcy had no
t noticed Bingley’s approach.

  His friend loudly said something Darcy did not understand, and Darcy nearly startled before he turned to Bingley with a severe frown. “Why do you bother me?”

  “The night is barely half done — you must dance again. Are not my neighbors grand people? I’ll have none of your picture watching today."

  “Leave me alone — earlier you were dancing with the prettiest creature in the room, go ask her for another dance, and enjoy yourself in your own manner, while allowing me to do so in mine.”

  Bingley shook his head. “Caroline discovered her connections; they are very low. I do not know that it would be good to notice her in such a pointed manner in a public assembly."

  “Then you have a reason not to dance with her. You still have no reason to bother me.”

  “Be sensible, man! There are so many deuced pretty girls here — what might I say to convince you to dance more tonight?”

  “I do not enjoy the art, and I have already had my fill of society. You know I never dance more than half the dances in a night.”

  “Yes, but the ladies enjoy it when you practice the art. By Gad, I wish I were as tall as you.”

  Darcy shrugged, and the tilt of his shoulders expressed a smug manly self-satisfaction.

  “It is astonishing.” Bingley shook his head, grinning. “You look precisely like your uncle Matlock when you do that.”

  “I do pattern myself off him.”

  “Aha! He would dance again — a very pretty girl sits right behind us. Get an introduction; ask her to dance.”

  Darcy hesitated.

  That he had watched her with interest made it feel like actively pursuing an acquaintance would mean something. He would find that whatever special sensibility he thought was there in her expression only existed in his imagination.

  Darcy looked at the girl again, openly this time.

  Blast.

  She was paying attention to them and she could hear their conversation. Now it would be rude not to ask her.

  Her eyes were on Bingley, who had just spoken again. Darcy felt a flash of irritation. No doubt she was another desperate young Miss who wanted a rich, handsome husband, and her unhappiness before had been because neither of the wealthy men who just entered the neighborhood paid her any attention.

  She turned her eyes towards him, and their gazes met. Her eyes were a deep brown. There was something in them… Darcy felt as though he was obliged — or maybe he wished — to do something for her, and that gave him a cold urge to insult her.

  However, Darcy had been taught to never insult a lady, no matter what.

  So instead he kept the girl’s eyes and grinned at her. It was a smile Derwent and Richard had drilled into him, one which showed both of his dimples. “She is a remarkably lovely girl. One more dance tonight might be possible.”

  Her cheeks reddened, and she met his eye with a confused half smile. Darcy’s heart beat faster, and he felt the familiar tendrils of desire beginning. She was very pretty, and he hadn’t known a woman for three months.

  With a sudden enthusiasm, Darcy spotted Sir William Lucas, one of the local notables, standing ten feet away and called out to him and waved for him to come over.

  “Sir William! Introduce us to this delightful young lady. I daresay she is the prettiest girl at this assembly.”

  She had stood and approached them a little cautiously. The dress swayed around her, and the sleeves left her long rounded elbows bare. She was shorter than average, and her head only reached to the top of Darcy’s chest. There was something anxious in her eyes as Sir William enthusiastically introduced her. “Mr. Darcy, may I present Miss Elizabeth Bennet to you. She is the cousin of my son-in-law, Mr. Collins, and has lived amongst us since her birth when her father held Longbourn. Miss Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire.”

  Bingley started at her name, but ignoring him, Darcy bowed as Miss Elizabeth curtsied, and then he took her warm hand in its white glove and said, “Miss Elizabeth, might I hope that the gentlemen of this assembly have been such fools as to leave you an open slot in your dance card which I can beg from you? For else my evening shall be ruined by my foolishness in not securing the hand of such a goddess when I had chance.”

  “You certainly can hope that I have a free dance,” Miss Elizabeth replied with a lively smile. “But as for the discovery, I must hear you beg before I can tell you.”

  Darcy grinned into her bright eyes, and then she blushed and looked down. “I mean to say: yes, my card is mostly empty. I am free for the next dance.”

  “Are you certain you do not need me to beg?”

  She looked back up at him and puffed one of her round cheeks out with her tongue. With her eyes smiling, she adopted a serious expression and nodded slowly. “I think you must beg.”

  “Miss Elizabeth, your loveliness has knocked my soul to the ground, your eyes with their lovely color like that of the richest chocolate, they have pierced me through the breast.” Darcy tapped on his chest and looked down. “Hmmm. I’d expected to see blood. Could you look to make sure you do not see any.”

  Miss Elizabeth giggled, and peered closely at his coat and the bottom of his gleaming neck cloth. “I believe it was just a metaphor. I can see no blood. It is fortuitous for you, but it would have been a great distinction for me if I’d killed a gentleman with merely a glance.”

  “Nevertheless, I need you to dance with me, because even though it does so invisibly, my life force drains out of me, and a half hour standing across from you is my only hope of stanching the flow.”

  “All right, Mr. Darcy. I will dance the next with you.”

  He felt a fluttering in his chest at the way she smiled at him. Darcy pulled her by the hand to the floor, as the couples were now lining up for the next set. Her hand was warm and small and fit perfectly in his. There was something both sweet and lively about her. He said, “Are you certain? I was about to rhapsodize on your lovely cheeks, and how the youthful hue sits on thy skin like morning dew and how thy willing soul transpires at every pore with instant fires.”

  She flushed and flapped her hand in front of her face. “Oh my, Charlotte was right. You are a shameless flirt.”

  Darcy grinned back at her, again displaying his dimples.

  Miss Elizabeth said, “That cannot be original with you. Thy is hardly modern English. I know that is not Shakespeare.”

  “It was from a piece written around the time of the Civil War. Andrew Marvell, one of what Johnson called the metaphysical poets.” Darcy blushed. “I fear the piece as a whole is a little improper, in the tradition of Marlowe’s ‘A Passionate Shepherd to his Love’.”

  “Was that what you quoted to Mrs. Collins?”

  “Mrs. Collins? That excellent lady I danced with first? No, by no means. I have more than enough pretty lines memorized to keep from repeating myself during the course of a single ball. Besides” — Darcy grinned at her again — “I confess, I learned through harsh experience that ladies might compare notes on such matters, and that the effect of a pretty line is less when they learn everyone has heard the same one.”

  Miss Elizabeth laughed.

  The dance began, a pretty tune to which they swung around. Miss Elizabeth managed to do an admirable job of completing the complicated steps despite her continuing giggles. She was so pretty when delighted, and not self-conscious about laughing too hard.

  The creamy skin of her chest and neck glowed and her cheeks were flushed with laughter. Her willing soul transpired at every pore with instant fires.

  Their hands came together again as they pranced downwards in the line. He could tell from the rough feel of it that her glove was cheap, but somehow that only intensified his sudden sense that her hand belonged in his.

  “Shame on you. Shame.” Miss Elizabeth laughed. “To toy with our feelings so. And you would have said it so meaningfully to each girl.”

  “I do try.”

  Darcy was unsure what to say next. He had cheered her
, but there was something superficial about such flirtatious banter. If he just flirted with her, he would know so little about the girl at the end of the dance. He was sure from watching her there was something deeper in her, and he wanted to discover it.

  They stepped through another round of the pattern. She was graceful and athletic and made the movements beautiful.

  Miss Elizabeth said, “You need not make an effort to entertain me, if you prefer silence. I overheard your conversation with Mr. Bingley — you were quite loud and stood directly next to me — so I know that you prefer not to dance every dance.”

  “No. No. Please, no. Do not say I have become such a bore that excuse must be made for my behavior. My uncle would be shamed.”

  “I am serious — if you have a retiring nature, I could not blame you for it. You truly have done your duty to society by dancing half the night, and I admire you for putting forth the effort. I know that for some persons it becomes unpleasant to constantly speak.”

  “Now, Miss Elizabeth, you have far too low an opinion of yourself if you can imagine that it would ever be unpleasant to talk with you."

  She smiled at him, but there was still concern in her eyes.

  “I often enjoy conversation and dancing, but I confess I do find it tiresome after an hour or two. However, you really are not tiresome.”

  With laughter, she said, “I really am not tiresome? We have come down a great way from my glances pierce your heart, and the youthful hue like morning dew.”

  Darcy smiled. “I do apologize. I am only unsure what subject to bring up. I can continue to praise you almost to the level you deserve, if you wish. I of course cannot praise you so far as you deserve, being merely mortal. But, I shall beg the muses that I might lift up your heavenly beauty in vaulting song.”

  “No, no. I prefer to be merely not tiresome. I think it is more who you truly are." She grinned at him brightly, and Darcy had to smile back. “Are you perhaps a sensible man pretending to be a shameless flirt?"

  Darcy laughed, caught by the turn of expression. “I believe that is precisely what I am. Though, shy and uncomfortable with strangers is perhaps a better description than sensible.”