Suddenly Mrs. Darcy(3)
My dances with Mr Collins were not over as soon as I would have liked; he stumbled and babbled his way through them in a most conspicuous manner. I would never have danced with Mr Darcy had I been able to find a reason to refuse him. But upon the heels of my set with Mr Collins, I could not. There was nothing I expected less, so when he asked me, I was at a loss to say anything other than, “Thank you.”
The set was a trial for us both. When I could withstand his silence no longer, I tried to tempt him into conversation and got almost nowhere. When we did talk, we descended quickly into argument. He had seen me in conversation with Mr Wickham days before, and he made some remark that Mr Wickham can make friends but not retain them. I could not bear to leave his arrogance unchecked.
“He has been so unhappy as to lose your friendship in a way he is likely to suffer from all his life,” I said, not looking into his eyes, for our dance did not allow it. I felt him stiffen beside me, and I was not sorry I had made him uncomfortable. Why should he not feel discomforted in public when Mr. Wickham had suffered so grievously?
“You take a great interest in that gentleman’s affairs, Miss Bennet. Have you been long acquainted?”
“A man’s character may be plain upon first meeting. I always believe in first impressions, and a long acquaintance is by no means essential to trust a man’s word.”
As the dance drew to its end, he bowed to my curtsey and said, almost in a whisper, “I would beg you, Miss Bennet, that you not trust that particular man’s word. It is not worthy of you.” Unconvinced as I was, I was also intrigued, and when he held his arm out to me, I placed my hand upon it and walked with him.
“You cannot expect praise, Mr Darcy, for such stern words in a ballroom. A dance is for making mirth, is it not? It is not for slandering an agreeable gentleman whom you have injured.”
I felt him tense and knew at once I had gone too far. Unseen by others, I felt his arm pull me towards the edge of the room and through the open door of a dimly lit salon. As we entered, the daughters of Mrs Long, whom I have known all my life, left laughing and nudging one another, anticipating their dances. My sister Mary, brushing at a mark upon her skirts and frowning, was behind them. Mr Darcy dropped his arm and turned his back to me, running his fingers through his hair. Feeling his disturbance—and my own at being alone with him—I turned to leave, but he stopped me.
“Miss Bennet, I hope I have never done anything to lead you to distrust me.”
“Certainly not, Mr Darcy. I am sure you agree I hardly know you.”
“But to know and not to know are relative terms.” He lingered, seeming to form sentences in his mind, only to discard them and say nothing. I had almost exhausted my intrigue and resolved to depart the room when his eyes held mine, and he placed his hand on my shoulder, lowering his head to speak quietly. Shocked as I was by his touch, he only meant to speak, of that I am sure.
But the moment was broken by a shriek from behind me. I spun around and, seeing my mother, knew before she spoke the litany of possibilities playing about her mind. I could see in her expression and the manner in which she did not meet my eyes that the plot was hatching in her thoughts almost quicker than she could give it voice. I also knew that, once she had started, she would not be able to stop. “Elizabeth! Mr Darcy! You are kissing my daughter. What are you about? Whatever can you mean by this? Mary, find your father. Find Mr Bennet!”
Mrs Long was close behind and, needing only seconds of preparation, was in hysterics as well. The salon, so quiet and peaceful a moment before, seemed suddenly to burst with unwanted and confusing sounds, women jostling, questions, and expressions of astonishment. For a moment, the horror of it struck me dumb. I forced myself to speak.