He meets his muse in the ballroom, but is he satisfied with the result?

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Part 3

The ensuing fortnight sent Darcy—or rather his muse, into a frenzy. In the midst of it all, he frequently told himself he was in fact in control of the entire process, but opted to give into his creative instincts. Bingley argued that Darcy was hardly in control of anything.

All that was beside the point. Every moment of daylight, Darcy painted. In the candlelight of evening, he sketched references to stay him against the inevitable removal from Miss Elizabeth’s presence. Nearly every aspect of her person, her eyes, her ears, her fingers, even her elbow were all added to that to valuable compendium.

Miss Bingley had seen it once. She thought it rather dear how artists like he and Bingley were forever scratching away in their books, sketching this and that but never really finishing much. Worse yet, in her vanity, she was complimented to think that it might be herself figuring in those sketches. He did not bother to correct her.

Darcy stood before his mirror. His valet, finally satisfied with his work, had left moments ago having tied Darcy’s finely starched cravat in an intricate knot. There was a certain art to getting those things just right. One could get obsessed about it if he allowed himself.

On more than one occasion, Darcy had been told that he cut a dashing figure and ought to paint a likeness of himself since he despised all the attempts artists hired by his father had made. The notion was flattering, but it would never happen. Hours spent staring at himself in a mirror—what an utterly depressing thought. No true artist would appreciate him as a model. His features were too irregular—or at least they were to his practiced eye. His expressions were decidedly dour, no matter how he tried to school them otherwise.

No, he would rather paint beauty. He would rather paint Miss Elizabeth.

And shortly he would see her. Tonight at the ball.

Although he put on the expected show of disliking the social convention for Miss Bingley’s sake, and mostly to prevent unnecessary conversation, the truth was widely different. His soul leapt at the opportunity to be with her again, to study her features, her expressions. In a ballroom, eye contact was accepted if not expected. He could stare at his partner, and at the dancers in general as much as he liked without raising an inquisitive eyebrow. Had he only taken the opportunity at the Meryton Assembly, tonight’s event might not feel like air to a drowning man. But he did not know then what he knew now: his muse had taken the form of that particular young woman. Tonight, he would not waste the opportunity.

By the time he made it downstairs, guests had already begun to arrive. Since he was not part of the family, he could avoid the greeting line and discreetly watch arrivals. Each one told a story: each figure painted a tale in his mind. Though none were as interesting as Miss Elizabeth, he strove to capture each one for future reference.

Sir William Lucas trundled in, his wife in tow. His suit was new, his wife’s dress not—the sort of thing a woman wore when all her resources were being utilized on daughters on the marriage mart. That he wore a new garment spoke something of his character—and it was hardly complimentary. Still though, the way people greeted him suggested he was well thought of in his local company. He did not appear at ease though, clearly a bit bewildered as to exactly how to behave in a place where his knighthood was eclipsed by substantial wealth.

A family called Goulding arrived with several young people all eager to show off their accomplishments to a crowd that might include better company than they were accustomed to in a small market town. The eager, wistful light in the girls’ eyes was worth capturing in a sketch later. So long as that look did not get turned on him. Perhaps he ought to avoid close observation of that family lest he seem to invite their attention.

Someone said the name Bennet, and his focus was immediately fixed on the entryway. Yes, there she was. In white muslin, of course, her family could not have afforded silk. Her figure would be astonishing draped in white silk. Perhaps it was best it was not. The gauzy white muslin was quite enough to negate the possibility of tearing his eyes away from her.

She glanced in his direction. While his heart pinched at her look of annoyance, his muse seized upon the exquisite turn of her lips, the spark in her eyes, the angle at which she held her head. Oh, to be able to commit that to paper just now. He stared harder and longer to make sure he would never forget.

Impatience demanded he ask her for the first two dances. But, unfortunately, discretion won out. To ask so soon would suggest something that might be all too true, something he did not dare admit to, much less allow. No, he would dance with her yet, but not at the start. Besides, it seemed she was already claimed for those sets by Mr. Collins.

That man was an enigma to be sure. He was tall and well-made. Dressed appropriately to his station, not unpleasant to look at. That he was a vicar suggested he had some learning and that he might have some sense about him. Most university men were set apart that way.

But the impression did not survive first meeting. One might easily surmise that his time at university had been ill-spent, learning only how to cater to those above him in hopes of acquiring a position. The kind of boot-licking sort of man who turned his stomach and made Darcy look for the nearest exit.

In some sense, the tendency might have served Collins well as it did secure Aunt Catherine’s favor and the living she had to bestow. But outside of having obtained that living, there was little—or perhaps nothing—to be said in favor of the man and a great deal to be held against him.

Tonight, the first item on that particular list of complaints was that the man could not dance. Darcy would have felt her suffrage of Mr. Collins’ fumble-footedness far more had it not afforded him a far greater range of expressions to admire than he had ever seen in her before. The look of determined self-control chiseled on her face was worth the whole uncomfortable episode. She might never agree, but sadly he probably would never have the opportunity to learn if she would if the matter were explained.

Her expression of ecstasy at her release from Collins was awe inspiring as well, but deeply uncomfortable. Would that he have such an expression offered toward himself.

No, such thoughts were not at all helpful! Worse yet, they made watching her next dances exceedingly uneasy, even a mite wistful. Thankfully, she did not dance the set after, but spoke with her friend Miss Lucas. What confidences did she share with her friend? There was something in her stance that suggested that was what she was doing.

Enough lingering and watching! He must go forth and take action now, lest the opportunity be utterly lost.

He tugged his jacket straight and strode toward Miss Elizabeth, guests parting in a wake before him. Perhaps it was abrupt, he spoke to her only long enough to obtain her hand for the next set, then walked away. He might have stayed; he should have stayed. He would have stayed had he felt any less. But in this moment of heady success, he could not dare reveal too much.

At the start of the next set, he sought her hand, his muse rendering him all but mute. To speak would distract from the minute observations which might be made in what could be a once in a life time opportunity. He led her to the dance floor, enjoying the exquisite grace of her movements from the corner of his eye. She took her place across from him and waited a bit expectantly.

What did she want?

“It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy.”  Oh, the look of anticipation on her face! “I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”

Of course, it was appropriate to make small talk at such a time as this. But what to say? On the canvas, he could communicate anything he desired, but words, particularly the spoken ones, were well beyond his skills. He swallowed hard. “Whatever you wish me to say should indeed be said.”

“Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps, by and by, I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But now we may be silent.” She turned her face aside toward the other dancers.

She did not mean to ignore him, did she? No, absolutely not, it would not do. “Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?”

“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.” Her eyebrow arched just so—was she teasing him?

“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?” Blast and botheration, that sounded far sharper than he intended.

“Both, for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”

“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure. How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.” Did she really think those things of him, or was she teasing as she had seen her do often enough?

Suddenly, it was their turn to join the dance, and all opportunity to speak ceased. How gracefully she moved with effortless vitality. To be entirely fair, she was hardly the best partner he had ever enjoyed, but there was something so fresh and lively in her steps—befitting the nymph he often painted her as.

Finally, they reached the end of the line. “Do you and your sisters often walk to Mertyon?” That should be suitable conversation.

“Yes, we do. When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.” Her brows arched, as if to say far more than she spoke.

Wickham! His gut knotted, and all warmth drained from his face. If only she knew of the very great harm he had done the Darcy family. But could such an innocent spirit as hers actually understand that level of intentional wickedness?  How was he to make a response—one that her eyes clearly demanded. “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends; whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”

“He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship, and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.” Her countenance declared she believed what she said.

She was so innocent, and so easily and completely deceived. He clenched his jaw, best not to speak when all his words dripped venom.

Sir William Lucas suddenly appeared from the crowd. “I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza,” he glanced at Miss Bennet and Bingley, “shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! But let me not interrupt you, Sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”

He was right, Miss Elizabeth looked utterly and entirely mortified. Not that she was without good reason; Sir William was crass. Even so, it pained him to see her so discomfited.

He glanced at the dancefloor. Bingley was utterly entranced of his partner and Miss Bennet seemed to bear it well. She was a beauty to be sure, but far less interesting than her sister—whom he had now been ignoring whilst he stared at his friend. “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.”

“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.” Her eyes glinted with the tease.

“What think you of books?”  Surely, she could not fault that question.

“Books Oh no! I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”

“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”

“No.” Her laugh was truly musical. “I cannot talk of books in a ballroom; my head is always full of something else.”

“The present always occupies you in such scenes, does it?”

“Yes, always.”  She looked away, clearly lost in some other musings.  She turned back to him abruptly, eyes just a mite narrowed. “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.”

She would remember that conversation just now. “I am.”

“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not.” He swallowed hard against his suddenly too-tight cravat.

“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.” She met his gaze with an intense one of her own.

“May I ask to what these questions tend?”

“Merely to the illustration of your character. I am trying to make it out.”

His cheeks grew hot. “And what is your success?”

“I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.” She shook her head.

“I can readily believe the report of my character may vary greatly with respect to me. I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.” Was it too much to hope she would understand?

“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.”

“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.” Perhaps it was a mercy that the dance had come to an end. He escorted her from the dance floor and left her in the company of Miss Bingley.

Though a relief, the parting also brought with it a poignant soul ache, nearly physical in its intensity.

No, this was not good at all. The powerful feelings toward this woman were a very bad sign indeed. One did not feel this way toward a muse. It was sure to be more of a hinderance than a help. As were the very negative sensations he felt toward one Mr. Wickham. Perhaps, just perhaps his muse would be satisfied now and he could rest—somewhere well away from Hertfordshire.

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