P&P:TUS A Ball to Forget, pt 1

Mr. Darcy contemplates the approach of Twelfth Night in his London townhouse.

January 5, 1812

Twelfth Night, it was nearly Twelfth Night. Blast and botheration—it was nearly Twelfth Night, and there was not a bloody thing to be done about it.

The afternoon sunlight tumbled through the windows, laying a neatly ordered path of light through his study, illuminating everything the way he best liked.  Unfortunately, even the well-arranged room could not soothe his tormented soul.  Darcy paced across the front of his desk, eyes never leaving the taunting bit of stationary from when Lady Matlock’s elegant hand tormented him with an invitation to her Twelfth Night ball.

The day the dreadful missive had arrived, he sent his promise to attend. The act had been automatic, a reflex of politeness, bred into him by a long line of proper, well-mannered Darcys. Had he but taken a few moments to consider his actions, he might not be in his current, gut wrenching dilemma.

He dreaded balls, this one in particular—loathed it with a fire reserved for all things pretentious and social. He did not perform well to strangers and this ball would be naught but an extended performance to many strangers. He might as well be a circus animal—a wise pig or a counting horse—put through his paces for the peeresses and heiresses by ring master Lady Matlock. Perhaps he ought to suggest that be her costume next year.

What would be worst, her scorning the idea or embracing it with a religious fervor?

The port decanter caught a glint of sunlight and tipped its hat at him from across the room. What an excellent notion.

The housekeeper’s knock stopped him mid-step.

Botheration.  He squeezed his eyes shut. It was too early in the day to seek solace from port in any case. “Come.”

She peeked in and dropped a small curtsey. “Col. Fitzwilliam to see you, sir. Are you home to him?” At least she recognized he did not appreciate the interruption.

Fitzwilliam? “Show him in.”

How could Fitzwilliam have known how little he wanted company at present? His timing was remarkable that way. Darcy tugged his coat straight and hurried into a chair near the fire. No point in giving Fitzwilliam the satisfaction of seeing evidence of his discomfiture.

“Good afternoon, Darcy.” Fitzwilliam sauntered in, relaxed and informal, as though this were his own home. How did he do it? Fitzwilliam seemed at home where ever he went.

“Good afternoon.” Darcy rose and offered a small bow. Still probably too formal for the occasion, but it was the most comfortable greeting he knew. “To what do I own the pleasure of your company?” Dubious as it might be.

Fitzwilliam extended his hand and would not withdraw it until Darcy shook it. Yes, their relationship did permit such familiar gestures, but was it necessary to exercise them at every encounter?

“Do try to relax, Darcy. We are family after all.” Fitzwilliam sunk into his favorite chair and balanced one foot upon the other.

Had he any idea of his appalling posture? What a dreadful picture he painted of one of His Majesty’s officers.

“You may thank my mother for the call.” Fitzwilliam raised his eyebrow in a gesture of sympathy.

Darcy clutched his temples. “Dare I ask her purposes?”

“Probably not, but I will tell you all the same.” Fitzwilliam laced his hands behind his head and sniggered. “She instructs me to ensure your attendance at her ball.”

“I already sent—”

“I know—I saw the response myself—she showed it to me to scold my penmanship. Excellent hand you have, by the bye, most elegant.”

“And that is not enough for her?”

“You know how fastidious Mother is, and she knows how you would rather break your own leg than attend.”

“You think I would manufacture a fall down the stairs to avoid the ball?”

“Not I.” Fitzwilliam touched his chest and shook his head.

“Thank you.”

“But my mother is an entirely different matter.” Fitzwilliam punctuated the pronouncement with his characteristic, wry half-smile.

Darcy stared at the ceiling and muttered under his breath.

“Truly, I do not understand your aversion to—”

“Donning a costume—worse yet, one not of my own choosing?” Darcy stalked to Fitzwilliam and towered over him.

“Must you always make the worst of everything? I will have you know, Mother selected your character very carefully. Brooded over it for days, lest it keep you from attending. I am instructed to inform you that there will be no random draw out of a hat for you. Father has strict directions as to the sleight of hand necessary to insure you receive her choice for you.”

Such thoughtfulness. Perhaps, he had done Lady Matlock a great disservice expecting so little from her.  Assuming the best from people, even his own people, was clearly not his strong suit.

“I can see you are surprised.”

“Aunt Matlock is indeed most gracious.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Whilst I appreciate the consideration, it does little to change the material fact that I am expected to perform!”

“She assures me that your character will require no performance on your part, merely act like yourself and you will be ‘in character’ as it were. She has probably crafted Christopher Curmudgeon in your honor.” Fitzwilliam swallowed back a laugh.

Best ignore that remark all together. Darcy stalked across the room, following the faint track worn into the carpet. “I do appreciate her efforts, but still, I am denied my choice of partners for the evening. I must spend my time with whomever she draws from that ridiculous bag of hers.”

“As to that—she wishes me to assure you that if you but indicate a preference to her, she will contrive to ensure you have the partner you desire.”

Darcy stopped and the window and pressed his forehead against the cool class. There in lay the problem.

The partner he desired was not in London and even if she were, her name would be completely unknown to any lofty personages. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Rot and nonsense! He must regulate his thoughts, not allow them to wander to her. She was most unsuitable in every way—fortune, breeding, connections, even her manners were barely adequate. And her family—truly appalling nearly every one of them! That was what he must focus on … not her fine eyes and informed, if pert, opinions. Not the exhilaration he found in conversation with her or the compelling way she challenged him to consider his own opinions. He ran a finger along the inside of his cravat.

“Darcy?”

“I…I do not wish to be forced to spend the entire evening with any one young lady. People—including her family will get ideas, conveniently forgetting it was an act of chance alone that led to being with her the first place.” He threw his hands in the air.

“What about my sister? Letty is engaged, but her betrothed is on the continent right now. She has no need to use the opportunity to seek out an eligible man, so will miss nothing by being your companion. Not to mention, Lord Blake is known for his jealous streak. You, he will not perceive as a rival for Letty’s attentions.”

“But she has accepted his offer—”

Fitzwilliam shrugged. “I know. You need not convince me of the unseemliness of his attitude. Speak to Blake yourself.  All I can say is that you would be doing Letty a favor as much as yourself.”

“I suppose that would be acceptable.”  But only barely. Letty was not unintelligent, but her interests extended only so far as the Ton. He would be forced to listen to her prattle on all evening about the latest on-dit. At least she would not be coy or flirtatious—and she would not expect him to call upon her the day after the ball.

“So, then I may assure mother you will come tonight?”

“I can tolerate an evening in your sister’s company, but I will not—”

“Play any games, except a dignified rubber of whist. Yes, yes, be assured, we all know that. I did not expect this would be the year we would see your face deep in a bullet pudding, or silently gesticulating a clue in charades.”

Darcy shuddered. How did any find such pastimes amusing?

“You are fortunate Letty prefers cards to other games. Though you may have to lower yourself and compromise to play commerce with her. She is notoriously bad at whist.”

He had forgotten that. Darcy grunted. “I can accept that.”

“Very well then, I shall bring my mother the news she most desires to hear.” Fitzwilliam rose.  “I do not understand why she works so hard to see you come or why you say you will attend an event that you so clearly dread.”

“Aunt Matlock wishes to see me married and will take any opportunity to present me on the marriage mart, even if it is with your sister on my arm. I have no doubt she still hopes I might dance with some other young ladies and give her the credit of bringing me together with the partner of my future life.” Darcy pressed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. What would she think, seeing him dance with the young lady he truly wished to partner?

Fitzwilliam sniggered. “Why do you put yourself through this when you could so easily decline?”

“It would be improper, impolite and ill-received to decline her invitation.”

“As you will.” Fitzwilliam tipped his head and left.

Darcy returned to his desk and cradled his face in his hands.  How fortunate Fitzwilliam had left before extracting the full truth from him. Politeness aside, Lady Matlock’s invitation might help him forget, even if for an evening. Any distraction from the intruding memories of a charming Elizabeth Bennet was a welcome one, even if it was a Twelfth Night ball.

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