P&P The Untold Stories: Darcy at the Meryton Assembly

Mr. Darcy and the Insult

October 16, 1811

The bon ton, it was not.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was accustomed to being noticed, but not openly stared at. He sipped idly of his drink whenever some bold local appeared set to approach him, and gazed apathetically out at the uncivilized melee when he was left alone. One of the burdens of modern society—a man such as he was expected to make himself agreeable to everyone, no matter what his own wishes on the subject may be.

Bingley had scarcely entered the room, but he was swept off in a rollicking dance with some local almost-beauty. It was not even the minuet, as a proper ball should commence, but some contra-dance that would have been better suited for later in the evening, after everyone had imbibed too freely, and the charms of all the females present had grown substantially. Darcy sighed and looked down at his glass each time Bingley had passed by him with his wide smile and infectious laughter.

Blast Bingley.

Perhaps it was not quite the thing, standing on the edge of the room, when there were obviously too few gentlemen for the number of ladies present. But he was no fit company for anyone tonight, and most particularly not a room full of strangers. His sister Georgiana’s letter, arrived only today, had cast dark clouds of worry over his thoughts. She still suffered ill spirits after the mistakes of last summer, and it seemed Mrs. Annesley, her new companion, could not provide all the comfort Georgiana required.

He ought to be back in Derbyshire. Back where he could encourage and guide his sister, where he could better attend to his own affairs, and where he could be far from the machinations of eager mamas desiring to push their daughters at him. A bride, he would find for himself, soon enough. But not this Season. And not one of these classless, plain-faced creatures currently prancing about the Assembly Room.

The dance ended, and Bingley returned his partner to her companions and was approaching Darcy. No doubt with an admonishment to enjoy himself. “Darcy!” he cried. “Do you mean to dance?”

“I have already offered for each of your sisters. I believe my set with Mrs. Hurst is almost to begin.”

“Capital, capital. Oh, and look! It seems we have not yet been introduced to all the ladies. We shall have our choice of fair faces to admire, eh, Darcy? I wonder if this is the Bennet family I have heard so much about. There appear to be enough of them.”

Darcy frowned and glanced across the room. Ah, indeed. There was Sir William Lucas, the local arbiter of introductions and gentlemanly gossip, come to present yet another eager matron and her bounty of offspring. Darcy sighed and resigned himself to look the cluster of females in the eye, make his bow, and turn elsewhere.

“Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy!” the man enthused. “Allow me to present some of the fairest flowers in all of Hertfordshire. Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn and her daughters; Miss Jane Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, Miss Mary, Miss Katherine, and Miss Lydia.”

Darcy cast an impassive eye over the brood. The youngest—mentioned last, but standing at the fore—was positively feral. The next youngest, clutching her younger sister’s hand and hardly containing a squeal, was little better. And where was… oh, there was the middle daughter. Not that the middle daughter was hiding, precisely—in fact, she appeared to desire to make herself seen. There simply was almost nothing worth admiring.

But the eldest daughter was, he would grant, rather handsome. Possessed of porcelain skin, a fashionable figure, and a serene expression, it might not be an utter punishment to stand up with her. But Bingley was already claiming that honour, and Darcy was in no mood to distinguish the lady twice.

That left the second eldest sister. He let his eye wander to her, cautious that it did not linger too long. It would not do for her to expect him to bestow his hand merely because he had been forced to stand for an introduction. He flicked a careless glance her way and drew it back almost at once. But the details of her appearance were etched plainly in his mind, even so. A figure not quite so perfect as her sister’s, passable skin, fairly unremarkable features, and hair that lacked nothing of volume. No false pompadours for such a young lady—rather, it looked as if her pins and ribbons could scarcely contain her ringlets.

But the most unsettling part of her appearance was the way she had gazed so steadily back at him. No, her look was not precisely “forward,” as were those of her younger sisters. More… inquisitive. Almost analytical. Coupled with the amused turn of her lips when her eyes studied him, the effect was outright unnerving. Bold and saucy tart! He almost felt as if she were laughing at him.

Bingley led Miss Jane Bennet to the floor, which meant it was time for Darcy to seek out Mrs. Hurst for their appointed set. But Mrs. Bennet remained standing nearby, and the looks she was sending his way were nothing if not expectant. To her credit, Miss Elizabeth had already turned to look elsewhere, a faint redness staining her cheeks. Bowing to the ladies would only indicate that he meant to return later, to ask for a dance. He certainly intended no such thing, so he sought Mrs. Hurst without acknowledging the Bennet ladies again. He was fairly certain he heard an indignant, “Well!” from Mrs. Bennet as he departed.

The set with Mrs. Hurst passed painlessly enough. The next… aye, he might as well get it over with. He could hardly escape dancing with Miss Bingley, who was of his own party, but it disgusted him to see her fairly preening before the others when he gave her his arm. Her smile was everything vulgar and insincere, and each time he gave her his hand in the dance, she cast him a look that was almost possessive.

As if he could be induced to offer for Caroline Bingley! Her conversation was insipid, her thoughts small and her tongue barbed. He replied to every question she put to him, but he refused to meet her eyes, lest it be said that he nurtured a particular attachment to her. Instead, he permitted his gaze to wander to the next couple down the set.

He had caught frequent snatches of their conversation—spirited and light-hearted, but also interesting for the clever twists the lady induced into her words, and more than once the lady’s laughter had punctuated the turns of the dance. Perhaps he might consider asking for an introduction to…

But the instant Darcy finally gave the couple his attention and his eyes clashed with those of the lady, his spine tingled, and his stomach dropped strangely. That second sister… what was her name? He would do better to forget it, whatever it was. She was too free with her expressions, and she looked at him as if she knew him already. That would not do… not at all.

An hour later, Darcy had found a corner of the room that looked as if it needed a statue to lend it a bit of sophistication. And thus, he had committed himself to be for the rest of the evening. He was quite alone now, all the local matrons having finally understood that he did not mean to offer for any of their daughters. At least no one was approaching him, but that did not prevent them from gaping openly at him.

How many times had he heard the phrase, “Ten thousand a year, and likely more”? It had not struck him at first that they were speaking of him. How would they know what he was worth? But they had heard something from somewhere, at least, for that figure might be an apt description of Pemberley’s income in rents. It did not come close to accounting for his investments, but he had no intentions of enlightening anyone. No better than the mercenary husband-hunters of the ton, they were, and considerably less cultured.

“Come, Darcy!” Bingley cried as he approached, after claiming yet another partner for the next set. “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”

Darcy glanced at the lady standing several paces away, waiting for Bingley to reclaim her hand. The eldest Bennet sister, again. He swirled his glass and resolved to have a word with Bingley on the morrow about raising the neighbourhood’s expectations over such a girl.

“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. “

Bingley scoffed and shook his head, and he was about to make some protest when Darcy continued.

“Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.”

Bingley gestured expansively to the room, laughing in consternation. “I would not be so fastidious as you are for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening: and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.”

“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room.” Darcy sipped the remainder of the wine from his glass and signalled to a serving boy for another.

“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say, very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”

“Which do you mean?” Darcy turned around and instantly regretted it. It was that second sister… blast, what was her name? The one with the hair and the curious expression. Miss Elizabeth, that was right. And such a look in her eyes! At once regal and impertinent, irritated and amused. And they were shaped rather uniquely… or was that only the curious flinching of her cheek when she noticed his regard? For indeed, she had seen him, and she was gazing back as if daring him to do or say something toward her.

Egad, that would not do at all. Such a woman was all risk and no reward—probably endowed with the ability to peer into a man’s thoughts or trick him into confessions that would later leave him scratching his head and wondering what fay had possessed his body to utter such things.

He straightened and turned back to Bingley, forcing his tones to remain cool, lest Bingley suspect interest on his part. “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”

Bingley huffed, shot his cuffs, and walked off. Indeed, Miss Jane Bennet was far too generous with her smiles, and her benevolence had thoroughly enraptured Darcy’s friend already. He had never seen Bingley so lively and so engrossed in his partner. Darcy slowly began to pace the length of the floor, his eyes on Bingley and his newest conquest. If he were not careful, the wagging tongues of Meryton would be expecting an engagement by month’s end. Darcy resolved to speak with him on that point—this was not London, and nor could Bingley expect that his actions could be treated as lightly here as there.

But as Darcy was passing a cluster of ladies, all sitting out the dance for want of partners, a sudden outburst of giggles caught his ear. What the devil? He turned back, and every lady’s eye was instantly searching for an object across the room. Every lady’s eye, that was, save for one.

Elizabeth Bennet.

The evidence of laughter still sparkled in her eyes and warmed her cheeks, but her gaze upon him did not invite him to share in her amusement. It was steady. Provoking. She held him without blinking, and one eyebrow lifted ever so subtly. And Darcy’s cravat seemed suddenly a bit too snug.

“Lizzy!” one of the girls whispered. “For pity’s sake, don’t look at him!”

One side of her mouth turned up… then the other. The cool archness of her look faded, replaced by a gentle laugh as she turned to her friend. “Fear not, Charlotte, for I do not intend to cause a scene. Oh, look, John is dancing with Miss King. That ought to please your mother.”

“Do stop your teasing, Lizzy. Miss King hasn’t a farthing to her name, and you know John cannot afford to offer for her.”

“Far better Miss King, who likes him, than Miss Goulding, who does not. I would not wish such an unhappy alliance on your brother.”

Darcy had begun to wander away, and Miss Lucas’s reply was lost in the swirl of music, but he could not help a final glance over his shoulder at the ladies. What a curious notion—the idea of felicity over circumstance. Trust a penniless country girl to voice such an opinion.

Ah, but then… was it so very different from what he had resolved, himself? He could have had any number of well-dowered debutantes for the last three seasons in a row. Most were beautiful. Many came with a pedigree as long as the road from London to Derbyshire. A handful would have made a worthy mistress for his home. And he had chosen none of them, for he had liked precisely none of them.

Part of his criteria in making a choice had always been to seek a kind and benevolent sister for Georgiana. The longer he put that decision off, the less important that factor had become… until last summer, when the need for surrounding Georgiana with compassionate and caring relations had become his paramount concern. A woman like Miss Bingley could never hope to serve in that capacity. In fact, he knew none who could. And if he could not find the right sort of woman to give his name to, then he would have none at all—not, at least, until Georgiana had outgrown her need for his care.

But that phrase of Miss Elizabeth’s echoed in his head through the rest of the evening. Better a woman who liked him… him, not his money. Not his name or his property. Could such a thing even exist? And how in blazes could he know whether a woman admired him for himself, or merely for what he could offer her?

It was with the most profound relief that Darcy mounted the coach to return to Netherfield that night. Little beauty and no fashion—that was his assessment of the collection of people he had found at the Assembly. He cared for none of them, nor they for him. And most particularly not that one brazen Miss who had stared him down and laughed at him, then tossed all his notions of the proper ways of seeking a marriage partner out the window with a handful of words.

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