Dancing Lessons, Part 5

~ Unreserved ~

“May I be frank?”

Darcy was astonished but pleased by the question Miss Lucas asked him. It was exactly what he had been on the point of asking her. “Please do.” he said, as he thought this evening could hardly become any more singular.

“What specifically do you wish to know about Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

Darcy thought back over the last few minutes of the dance and wondered whether his attention had drifted to Elizabeth so completely as it had when he sat with Miss Mary. It probably had. “Has my interest been so obvious?”

“I would have noticed because she is my friend, but think about it. A young, eligible man, a stranger to Meryton society, walks into the assembly rooms of our humble town. He is clearly above us all in station. We can see it, and we know he agrees, for he seems disinclined to talk to anyone outside his party.”

The dance separated them for a moment, and then Miss Lucas continued. “Then his friend procures him an introduction to a local lady, and he asks her to dance not once, but twice.”

Darcy winced. Of course people would notice. That was why he never asked a lady to dance more than one set on any occasion—never until Elizabeth Bennet.

“Furthermore, when the gentleman sits out one set,” said Miss Lucas, “his eyes follow his erstwhile partner. When they both sit out,”—and here she looked distinctly amused—“his entire body follows her.”

Darcy could hardly deny it, and he was tempted to laugh. He had made a spectacle of himself. “And when he dances with her kind and accommodating friend,” he said apologetically, “his eyes once again stray to her.”

Miss Lucas smiled. “What can I tell you about Eliza?”

They had a refreshing conversation. Miss Lucas was good company. He wondered how long she had been out. She seemed closer to his age than to Elizabeth's. Perhaps he would return her kindness by encouraging Elizabeth to invite her to town and to Pemberley often, where she might meet more eligible gentlemen than were likely to venture through Meryton.

He was indulging in a flight of fancy, being presumptuous even, but he really was beginning to see it all now, or enough of it to move forward with purpose. He would be consistent and bold. Who was to gainsay him after all? He was used to being called stubborn and even arrogant. He would be intrepid, and he would be happy.

Darcy maintained his intrepidity, which was needed in ways he had not anticipated. It took several visits to Longbourn before he was comfortable with, or at least inured to, Mr. Bennet's sarcastic commentary. The sheer volume of silly exclamations that came from Miss Lydia, Miss Kitty, and Mrs. Bennet in the course of a day confounded him. The Phillipses could be a trial, especially when the wife was overfull of gossip. Mrs. Bennet loved to entertain, so his social powers were often stretched to their limits.

Wickham made a surprise appearance one November day on the high street in Meryton. Darcy heard that he was to join the militia, but he was delighted when the man developed a sudden aversion to the idea and fairly fled back to London.

Bingley was delighted with Darcy's altered manners. When he could be bothered to pay attention to someone other than Miss Jane Bennet, he laughed good-naturedly at his friend and pressed him even more frequently to join in the society of the neighbourhood.

Miss Bingley alternated between obsequious importunity and resentful silence.

Elizabeth daunted him the most. She had her own mind to make up about their future, and he could not rush her. Simply accepting that he had determined to pursue her was insufficient. She possessed a will of her own and thus had to determine to be caught.

Significant progress was made towards that end one afternoon at Longbourn. Darcy complimented Elizabeth on her looks—she was in excellent looks that day—as they sat near the pianoforte. She deflected the remark in her teasing way, except her reply was a little more flippant than usual, as if she were determined to avoid talk of all things romantic. The only other person in the room was Mary, who had been working on a new piece of music Georgiana had recommended to her. Mary stopped playing and stared at her sister. Darcy looked between the two ladies for a moment, and when the tension did not resolve, he excused himself.

As he left the room, he heard Mary mumble not quite under her breath, “Lizzy, I never imagined I would say such a thing to you, but I think you are a ninny for making that good man wait so long.”

Darcy smiled at Mary's defence of him, but he could not be easy. He did not know how Elizabeth would react. That question was answered in half a minute when her hand slipped into his and she tugged him along to someplace that afforded them more privacy than the hall.

“What is it you would have said of me that first night?”

“What do you mean?” Darcy wondered.

“At the assembly,” Elizabeth clarified, “before we had even been introduced.”

Oh. That was what she meant. He shut his mouth, realising belatedly that he had gaped at her. “I do not want to think of what I would have said then,” he admitted. Of course it was too late. He certainly was thinking of it and regretting it anew.

“But you will be so good as to tell me,” she insisted.

“It was not true, Elizabeth. I discovered that after mere minutes in your company.”

“Fitzwilliam, what was it?”

She had never called him that before. He understood now that she would have him, however unpleasant his revelation proved to be.

He was ashamed of what he had almost spoken aloud that night, but he held tightly to her hand and his courage and looked into her eyes. “I would have said something of this nature to Bingley: 'She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me, and I am in no humour to give consequence to ladies who are slighted by other men.' Horrible, is it not? And just as false.” He touched her face and caressed it, as if by so doing he could smooth away any vexation. He hoped his words would do the job better. “I saw, as you walked towards me with Bingley and your sister, that you moved gracefully and had a lovely figure. I had ample opportunity during our first dance to appreciate your features, your cleverness, and even your generosity, and you showed the prettiest look of astonishment on your face when I asked you to dance a second time. Besides that, it did not take me long to realise that the other men were engaged in dancing, and I myself had been the idiot slighting you.”

That made her smile.

“Do you want to know,” Darcy continued, “what else I would have said? Before we danced again, you asked me what I was thinking of, but I refused to answer. I have told you the one, so I ought to tell you the other.”

“Shall I like to hear it?” Elizabeth asked him with a softness that drew him closer.

“I hope you shall,” he said. The words came effortlessly as he considered how much she meant to him and how quickly she had come to mean so much. “I thought I should not mind repeating that dance over and over just for the pleasure of holding your hand.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “And now, dearest, I tell you that I would confess a hundred embarrassing wrongs and a hundred fanciful notions if you wish it. Just tell me you will grant me your hand for more than a dance.”

That evening Darcy left Longbourn very late and most happily engaged to Elizabeth Bennet. While there, he had been all smiles, exhilarated by the taste of success and the sweetness of his lady's kisses. He had even agreed to dance a reel when Lydia prevailed upon Mary to play one in celebration of the good news.

In future years, Darcy's friends were diverted by the ease with which Mrs. Darcy—with just a word, a look, or even, on occasion, a laugh—could tempt her husband to dance.

---

Dancing Lessons, Part 4

~ Insupportable ~

Miss Bingley was not slow in joining Darcy once he was free. This time, he did nothing to avoid her, for he suspected what she would be about—aside from hinting futilely at a request for another set.

“I have been inquiring into the situation of these Bennets,” she said.

He had been correct. She was an inveterate gossip, and she habitually collected unflattering intelligence regarding those she considered rivals. He would not even need to speak. She would require no prompting or response from him.

He learned that the Bennets were some of the principal residents of the area, and Longbourn, an estate generating perhaps two thouasnd a year, was their home. There was no son. Longbourn was entailed, and the mother constantly strove to marry off her five daughters.

Ah. That answered the question of why so many of them were out at once.

There was nothing to speak of in the way of dowries, which was unfortunate if unsurpising with an entailed estate. Still, he thought Mr. Bennet might have made an effort. Five daughters! He might have done it in stages, bringing out one or two of the girls at a time as money for their dowries accumulated, and as they were married, applying the small savings in household costs to the portions of the others.

There he was again, scheming to solve someone else's problem. He had enough of his own problems to solve, including this new one he had created for himself. He directed his attention back to Miss Bingley, who had proceeded to denigrate the Bennet ladies' looks in comparison with those of her friends in town. No wonder he had become distracted.

When Miss Bingley took a breath, he posed a question: “From whom were you able to gain so much knowledge of your new neighbours in such a short time?”

“Ah, Mr. Darcy, that is the best part!” She moved a bit closer, and he took a small step away once she resumed speaking. “Their aunt, sister of Mrs. Bennet, is the wife of the local attorney, who took over the business from her father. So Mrs. Bennet's father was in trade! The aunt—Mrs. Philips or Phipps or something—made an impertinent comment about you and the Miss Bennet you were dancing with, and she must have taken my appalled reaction for interest, for she rambed on without even waiting for an introduction, though of course she recognised me as one of Charles's sisters. How could she not? She even had the temerity to suggest I might encourage my brother towards the eldest Miss Bennet! As if I would! Oh!—there she is, waving at me as if we had not just met. Intolerable!”

Darcy did see, and he agreed. There was not much to work with: a precarious position in society, relations in trade—vulgar, forward ones at that—and no dowries. If Mr. Bennet had notable connections, they probably cut him when he married low. Perhaps there had been none high enough to object to his marriage to Mrs. Bennet. The poor girls! There must have been other relations or intimate friends of good character, if not good situation, with whom they spent time, for the manners of the two eldest were flawless, and Miss Mary's, if awkward, were endearing. True, Elizabeth had laughed at him, but that was no more than he had deserved.

How would his family support such a match?

Georgiana would not mind it. A girl who had been persuaded to consent to elope with a steward's son could hardly disapprove of his marriage to a gentleman's daughter. Surely not. The thought did make him wonder just how much, when the scheme was revealed to him, he had dwelt on Wickham's position as opposed to his perfidy. He hoped he had put more emphasis on the latter, but he would have to write to Georgiana and make the point clear. If only! If only....Those were useless words. That wretch had been given so much by the Darcys, and it had all been less than useless.

Wickham had taken up far too much of his time and thoughts of late. Darcy decided to put aside such musings and look about him, which was a good thing because Miss Bingley had moved closer again. He wearied of this game of inching round a ballroom or drawing room, but he would do what he must.

As Miss Bingley went on and on about what she did not like, Darcy thought about how often he had done the same. He had gone on in that manner with Bingley, listing all the reasons he had been dissatisfied with the assembly. It was sad, really. He did the same in town, complaining or agreeing with the complainers rather than excusing himself or finding some way to salvage the evening.

His departure from his usual behaviour, unwilling though it was at first, was proving its merit. It was refreshing to have something at a ball to challenge his mind rather than dull it. He would rise to the challenge. He intended to do this right; just because the act itself could be deemed irrational did not mean it had to be accomplished in an irrational manner. He would learn as much as he could about the Bennets in general and Miss Elizabeth in particular.

As had been the case in the company of Miss Mary, once again Darcy's eyes were drawn away from his companion and towards Miss Elizabeth. She was not dancing this time. She stood with a friend, a good one, if her manner was any indication. He believed the lady to be the eldest daughter of Sir William Lucas. Perhaps the friend would be another helpful source of information. Darcy began to move carefully in that direction whenever Miss Bingley sought to close the distance between them. It was much better to have a destination in view than only the goal of avoiding terraces, alcoves, gossips, Miss Bingley, and worse fortune hunters than Miss Bingley.

After some minutes, he was close enough to Miss Elizabeth to overhear bits of her converesation. Miss Bingley, having seen what he was about, had been frowning her disapproval and speaking only sporadically ever since, though she had kept pace with him. It was rather pitiful to have the lady trailing him like a puppy. He glanced at her and saw desperation along with determination in her eyes. He should have expected it. She probably feared he would petition Miss Elizabeth a third time. Did she think by standing nearby, she would prevent it? To be fair, he had considered the bold move simply to have at least four dances with Miss Elizabeth instead of three. That would be ill advised, however. Miss Elizabeth would refuse a third set, as any well-bred lady must, and for her pains she would have to refrain from dancing for the rest of the evening.

He did mean to dance once more tonight, however, and after a wistful look at the object of his interest, he turned his attention to her friend.

---

Next

Dancing Lessons, Part 3

~ The Boulanger ~

When the Boulanger was called, Darcy despaired. He would barely have five seconds together to speak to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. The good thing was that he would have little opportunity to speak with anyone else either. He decided perhaps it was for the best. He had not selected a topic of conversation, and knowing himself, he would end up staring at the lady until she broke the silence and left him tongue-tied again.

Some of the couples stood about talking while others gathered in their places. Darcy likewise gathered his thoughts into their proper place, or he tried to for about three seconds. As the fourth second ticked into oblivion, he found his efforts arrested by the inquiring look in his partner's eyes.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet, continuing to study him, said, “You look as if there is something particular you wish to say. Will you not share it?”

“I do not know if I ought.” Actually, he knew he ought not. Just as he ought not to have considered saying earlier that she was tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt him to stand up with her, he ought not to say now that he would dance this infernal Boulanger twice more simply for the pleasure of holding her hand. He had begun to anticipate returning to her side and watching her return to his, as if she belonged to him, as if she could not stay away, as if no other partner would do. He was being fanciful, he knew, but he could not help it.

Dancing was a commitment of but half an hour or less. He knew this, and he had been glad of it on innumerable occasions in London ballrooms. Rare and brief had been those instances when he had wished to extend time spent with one of his partners. Even rarer were times when he had wished particularly for more conversation from one of them.

He did not know precisely what he wished for at the present moment.

He only knew that he had found it.

It made no sense. This was only one evening out of his entire life. He could go back to Netherfield with his party and forget it had ever happened, or mostly forget. Henceforth he could greet Miss Elizabeth Bennet and her sisters as he would any new, inconsequential acquaintances, perhaps reserving for them a measure of warmth for their part in making his first foray into Meryton society so enjoyable. He could remain in the country several weeks, repelling Miss Bingley's tedious but predictable attentions, and then scour the London ballrooms and drawing rooms for a potential bride that would not raise an eyebrow amongst his relations and friends, a bride whose existence would banish all thought of this night to some dark recess of his memory.

He was fairly certain he could. But would he?

He had tried seeking a bride in the usual manner, and invariably he had been rewarded with ennui and vexation. He had tried not seeking a bride, and the reward for that had been increased badgering from Lady Catherine to marry Anne. He had tried waiting for Georgiana to grow up, only to stumble upon his young sister's plan to marry before him, quite disastrously and without his consent.

He could hardly do worse by trying to befriend and then woo an unpretentious young lady he happened to meet in the otherwise uninteresting assembly rooms of an unremarkable market town.

For, remarkably, it was here that he had enjoyed the most comfortable conversation he could recall having had in a ballroom, with a woman who had no designs upon him whatsoever. Here too was a modest, amiable, decorous woman admired by his friend, and likely beautiful enough to put thoughts of all other women out of Bingley's head for good. And here was the central and yet most tenuous element of the business: his intriguing, puzzling partner with the compelling eyes, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Darcy thought of these things while he waited for the dance to begin and while he pranced this way and that and watched Miss Elizabeth do the same. Then it was their turn, and he found that he had been right. It was heady being paired with Elizabeth, and he thought not only could he become accustomed to it, he very well might wish to.

He knew so little of her, but he could not deny that he wanted to know more. He was heartened by the certainty that her character had attracted him and drawn his attention to her beauty rather than the reverse. That was better than feeling obligated because of a woman's looks or pedigree or dowry to find something to like and then failing utterly, coming away from the encounter disappointed and cross.

He felt more than a little reckless to be entertaining a notion so at odds with what was expected of him. It was liberating.

Was this how Georgiana felt when she agreed to run off with that fiend? He could sympathise with the desire for freedom from societal expectations, or even the need to have the whole matter over and done with. He felt a familiar surge of anger and annoyance. If Wickham had been a good sort of man...but it was of no use wishing for the impossible.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Miss Elizabeth staring at him, and he could feel his Wickham-inspired bad humour dissipating as quickly as it arose. It left him entirely the next moment when the young lady approaching them called out a silly remark to “Lizzy,” who looked decidedly embarrassed. The girl, for he could see up close that she was but a girl, bore some resemblance to Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet, though she was not as pretty as either. He even found a trace of likeness to Miss Mary. If she was yet another of the Bennet sisters, there certainly were several out at once!

Silently he enquired of Miss Elizabeth with a raised brow and a glance at the girl, and the silent sigh that was her answer convinced him his conclusion was correct. He gave Miss Elizabeth a sympathetic smile. After the events of the summer, he knew all too well how trying younger sisters could be. When Miss Elizabeth's eyes showed surprise rather than comfort or gratitude in response to his gesture, Darcy realised he also had caught her hand before it was necessary and intertwined his fingers with hers. He did not let go until the dance required it. At the conclusion of the dance and throughout the next, he was loath to let go of Miss Elizabeth's hand at all, and he knew then that he had fully given in to the madness of this inexplicable and rapid attachment to Elizabeth Bennet and her sisters.

---

Next

Dancing Lessons, Part 2

~ To Sit Down for Two Dances ~

Darcy was presented to Miss Mary Bennet, Miss Elizabeth's younger sister. Bingley joined them briefly to claim his partner for the next, and Darcy was left alone with Miss Mary.

Darcy complied with what he assumed was expected of him and asked this Miss Bennet to dance. He did not want to lose any ground he had gained with her elder sister or set himself up to be chastised again.

He was surprised to see that the young lady was more flustered than gratified by the request. “Oh,” she said, “I would prefer not to, but th...thank—” She looked straight at him and swallowed noticeably. “Thank you for asking.”

Feeling nonplussed by the rejection despite not having wished to dance either, Darcy took the seat next to Miss Mary.

The two looked awkwardly at each other for a moment, and then Miss Mary burst into speech. “I am not fond of dancing,” she said. “It is not that I cannot dance. It is the talking. Unlike my sisters, I am not good at making conversation while I dance.”

Darcy began to feel sympathy for this rather plain gentleman's daughter of no particular note. He would have called her absolutely plain if the vulnerability in her eyes had not softened her expression. Her lack of beauty had at least as much to do with the severity of her countenance as with her features.

Though he had little imagined they could have much in common, her words resonated with him. He watched her, her head down, her fingers drumming on her lap in time with the music, as if she were playing the tune on a pianoforte. He had to chuckle at where his thoughts led.

Miss Mary heard him and looked up.

Eager to reassure her that he was not making sport of her, he explained, “My sister does that,” and he pointed to her hand and mimicked her movements. “Do you play an instrument?”

“Yes.” Her face lit up, and all severity faded.

He could not help his answering smile. “I was just thinking it is curious that you should be Miss Elizabeth Bennet's sister when from your description, in character, you could very well be mine. My sister is very musical. She spends hours at the pianoforte. She is only fifteen and not out, so I cannot speak to her ability to converse while dancing. She is shy, however, and I cannot imagine she would feel comfortable doing so. I am not shy, but neither am I good at catching the tone of others' conversations. Your sister is quite adept at it.”

He turned to look for Miss Elizabeth among the couples and saw her smiling and talking with Bingley. He wondered if he would be able to draw a smile like that from her when his turn came. He wondered what they would talk of, whether her eyes would look kindly upon him, what it was exactly about her that appealed to him and inspired him to do uncharacteristic things such as solicit a second set from a lady, and how he could get to know her better without raising expectations. Then he wondered why the thought of raising expectations, just a little, suddenly seemed tempting.

He was determined, in any case, not to let her best him. If she drew forth that weapon again, he would meet it with his own. This time, he would leave her to stammer and stumble over her words if he could.

Then again, it might be more satisfying to establish some measure of goodwill between them. He found he did not wish to think of her always in opposition to himself, always defending herself from him. He wanted more than that.

What did it mean that he was thinking so much about a young lady, not quite of his sphere and not extraordinary in any obvious way, of whose existence he had been unaware as early as a few hours ago?

Minutes passed before Darcy realised he was completely ignoring his companion. He was made aware of the fact by Miss Mary's solicitude.

“Mr. Darcy,” she inquired, “did Lizzy say or do something to make you uncomfortable?”

'She is Lizzy to her family,' was his first thought. His second thought was that he had yet to reply to Miss Mary's question. “What makes you think that?” he said.

“You have been watching her for the last three minutes, but you do not look pleased. That is, unless it is your friend who has displeased you?”

If she knew that, then she had been staring at him for the last three minutes, and he had not paid the slightest notice. He turned away, reluctantly, from the dancing couples. “No, you are right,” he conceded. “Your sister did not upset me, as such, but what she said has made me reconsider my opinion.” That it was his opinion of Miss Elizabeth herself, along with some long-held and rarely challenged views about his future life, he did not say. “I apologise for my inattention.”

She looked earnest as she spoke. “I am not offended that your attention was engaged elsewhere. You asked me to dance, which is more than other gentlemen have done.”

Darcy concluded some of Miss Mary Bennet's disinclination for the activity might have developed as a response to her neighbours' neglect.

Darcy glanced again at the couples, but since he could not hear what Miss Elizabeth was saying to Bingley, he was unlikely to learn much more about her by watching her dance. “Would you like to talk of books, Miss Bennet?” he asked Miss Mary. They spoke in fits and starts, and after a few minutes the discussion flowed in a satisfactory manner. At first the lady was more eager to quote others' ideas than share her own. Darcy, as a much older brother—almost a father figure—to Georgiana, had no little experience in drawing out a young girl's thoughts, and he managed well enough with this new acquaintance.

Darcy was almost disappointed when the music ceased. This was how he would much prefer to spend his time in a ballroom, speaking of interesting subjects rather than the banal nothings or distasteful gossip his partners tended to introduce. Of further satisfaction was the fact that not one of the Bennet ladies had put herself forward. Miss Mary forgave his preoccupation with her sister. Miss Elizabeth, without the least concern for his good opinion, nearly delivered a set-down, and only after she was prompted—doing him a service, actually, by preventing him from causing offence where none was justified. Even the eldest Miss Bennet, who must be aware that her beauty eclipsed that of every other lady present, had been no more than friendly towards him; she had not sought his attentions, though she must have heard that his fortune was more than twice that of his friend.

People were moving about, and he saw one of the matrons coming towards them. “I am to dance the next with your sister,” he told Miss Mary. “Perhaps we shall speak again this evening, but if not, I thank you for the pleasant conversation and company.”

She blushed. “Thank you, sir.”

He had taken only a few steps when he heard someone address Miss Mary Bennet familiarly and scold her for “plaguing the gentleman with tiresome talk” and “keeping him from dancing,” or some such silliness. Was it the mother? He had forgotten about her. Alas, she was a fly in the ointment. He stopped and considered turning back to correct the woman, but he did not wish to embarrass her daughter by confirming in her mother's presence that he had overheard the mortifying exchange.

In his moment of hesitation, he was waylaid by Miss Bingley.

“There you are!” she said, taking his arm and moving them along. She leaned in and lowered her voice in that way she had, affecting a deeper intimacy between them than there was, or ever would be, for that matter. “Charles has found the prettiest girl as usual and danced twice with her. Miss Bennet is pleasant by all accounts, but I hope she does not think his singling her out at a country assembly means anything.”

“Pardon me,” Darcy said, disengaging himself, “but I must find my partner.”

“Your partner? Are you to dance with my sister again? No, Louisa would have mentioned it. Do not tell me you mean to stand up with another of the local young ladies!”

“Then I shan't tell you,” he said with a solemn look, and he left her to find Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

---

Next

Dancing Lessons, Part 1

---

(2023)
Pride and Prejudice
Mr. Darcy is introduced to Miss Elizabeth Bennet at the Meryton Assembly and is surprised to learn that she suits his fancy after all.

---

~ No Very Cordial Feelings ~

Fitzwilliam Darcy stood in one of the corners of the assembly room in Meryton and stared straight ahead at the approaching trio. He struggled to comprehend how things had so quickly gotten out of hand. One moment he had been rebuffing Charles Bingley's attempts to get him to join the dancing; the next, all his efforts had proved to be for naught.

Darcy had turned away from the lady Bingley suggested as a prospective dancing partner only to see his friend rush back to his own smiling companion, who was the lady's sister. Bingley must have taken Darcy's distracted silence for permission to make the introductions. Such presumption! Though to be fair, it may have been mere precipitance, for Bingley, always cheerful, disliked anything resembling an argument and sought to curtail it as quickly as possible. Furthermore, instead of attempting to coax Darcy into seeking out the ladies, Bingley had decided to bring the ladies to him. As they were all within sight of each other now, Darcy could hardly run away without appearing ridiculous, and he did not know whether to admire or curse his friend's perspicacity.

It had been the fault of the shorter lady of the two that Bingley now escorted. Well, fault was not quite the appropriate word, but it had been her doing. Her gaze had distracted him, and her behaviour had piqued his curiosity. Her figure had his attention now. It was light and rather pleasing, something he had not noticed before. When Bingley pointed her out where she sat, Darcy caught her eye and was just about to withdraw his own and state the extent of his disinterest when the lady's expression halted him. She raised her eyebrow and then, to his shock, she turned away from him. He saw the quirk of her lips before she covered her mouth with her hand.

The shaking of her shoulders could not be so easily disguised.

She had laughed at him. At him! It was not as if she had intended to cut him. It was somehow worse. That unknown woman, that country girl of no consequence, had dared to make him an object of ridicule!

The group was presently before him. Between Bingley and the eldest Miss Bennet, the introductions were made. As the second dance of the set began, Darcy found himself doing what he had just declared he would not: submitting to the punishment of standing up with a stranger.

At first, Darcy determined to remain silent throughout their dance. He owed this Miss Elizabeth Bennet no more than the barest civility.

The knowing almost-smirk of a smile that appeared on his partner's lips when they faced each other in the dance shattered his resolve.

“May I inquire as to the source of your amusement, Miss Bennet?” he asked when he could no longer suppress his curiosity.

“You may.”

He waited, but she only smiled more. She looked intelligent enough. Surely she could not have misunderstood him.

“Miss Bennet?” he asked again, irritation mounting.

“I did not say I would answer your question.” There was some movement of her shoulders that was not strictly required to execute the dance steps.

Darcy started to speak and, to his mortification, found himself stammering for an instant. Stammering! This Bennet woman was laughing at him again, albeit silently. He watched her move gracefully through the steps. In a moment she faced him, and he saw that she had schooled her features into a calm expression, though humour sparkled in her eyes. He glared, and she appeared to soften. “Oh, very well!” she said. “You may regret having inquired. I trust you will not hold the answer against me.”

He would make no promises to Miss Impertinence. “You will have to take that chance.”

“Will I? Then I shall. My courage rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”

She hesitated again. Just when Darcy was ready to remonstrate with her for sporting with his impatience, she told him. “You, sir. You are the source of my amusement. And your friend, of course.”

Well, that was frank. He must have looked as scandalised as he felt, because she laughed aloud. “It is nothing dreadful,” she assured him. “Listening to you and Mr. Bingley reminded me of Jane and myself.”

He had not expected that. He had not even realised she had heard him, but then he had taken no pains to be discreet. He did not have long to think on the matter. Miss Bennet elaborated quickly while the demands of the dance allowed for it.

“Jane, to whom you were just introduced, is very like your friend appears to be: generally happy and generally wanting others to be happy as well. She is relentlessly optimistic and determined to present every circumstance in the best light. I cannot count the times she has pressed me to adopt her kinder view of an acquaintance or give way on a trifling matter for the sake of family harmony. She herself requires no one to scold her into harmony; she is always at peace with everybody.”

Darcy could see how that might make her smile, but he did not understand why she laughed as she had. “This you found particularly amusing?” he asked.

“It was not just that. What I found especially entertaining was the look on your face as Mr. Bingley left your side. When Jane provokes me—or, rather, sweetly importunes me—beyond bearing, I am tempted to say something shocking to put an end to it. You certainly seemed on the point of saying something shocking and possibly unpleasant, based on your previous remarks.”

“And you turned away,” he said, remembering the moment.

“I thought it best not to give you an audience.”

He had been about to say something shocking and unpleasant, he admitted to himself. She would have heard his unflattering words, too, whether she had been looking at him or not. From the way she looked at him now, she was quite aware of that fact.

An audience, she had said? He believed a more accurate way of putting things was that she had thought it best not to provide him with a willing target.

How reasonable of her.

Darcy might have stopped where he stood and disrupted the figures had not his natural sense of rhythm and his penchant for order prevented it. He believed he had just been taken to task for ungentlemanly behaviour—during a dance, of all things! He concentrated so as not to allow his feelings to affect either his expression or his movements.

What was it about these Bennet women? The elder was apparently too sweet to offend; he could well believe it from the lady's continual smiles and pleasant manner. The younger was not what he would call sweet exactly, or rather her sweetness had an edge. There was a sharp weapon, currently sheathed, in that speech of hers. She had exposed it briefly and let him feel the tip of it long enough for him to know that she would wield it expertly if necessary.

Their conversation was not resumed during the dance, though his partner spoke a few cheerful words now and then to others near her. Darcy thought about what he should do, if anything. Would it be appropriate to apologise for a comment he had not actually uttered? Nonsense! Should he beg pardon for his initial reluctance to ask Miss Elizabeth Bennet to dance, considering that he had indeed asked her? Preposterous.

Concluding that he owed the lady no apology, he began to study her. He would have called her tolerable at best—that is, until he observed her displayed to advantage as she moved about, until he saw that lovely expression in her dark eyes, until he heard her cleverly address and dispense with the initial awkwardness between them. He had thought her not much worth dancing with because she had been passed over by those who knew her. That was before he had looked about him and noticed how few gentlemen were present compared to ladies. Her sitting out a dance was due to mathematics and nothing more. She was an ideal partner, really: proficient; decorous in manner; able to ease into the conversations about her with well-placed words; and not prone to flirting, at far as he could see, which he greatly appreciated.

She was certainly more than tolerable to him now.

The dance came to an end, and Darcy was surprised to discover he was sorry for it. He had not finished studying this new acquaintance. He could see Miss Bingley looking about, and he did not want her chatter to disrupt his contemplation. Besides, she often hinted at the desire for a second pair of dances, no matter how consistently he ignored such hints.

“Would you like something to drink?” Darcy asked.

“No, thank you,” his partner replied, “but do not let me stop you if that is your desire.”

Darcy felt dissatisfaction at the idea of their interaction ending there. Before he could reason himself out of it, he asked, “Do you have another set free, Miss Bennet?” He checked his smile at the look of astonishment on her face. He could see very well now why Bingley had called her pretty.

“Mr. Bingley asked me for the next set, but the one after that is free.”

“May I have it?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” he said in a most gentlemanly manner.

He wondered aloud what he would do in the meantime, and she must have heard him, for she looked about for a moment and then suggested, “May I introduce you to another of my sisters?”

“Certainly.” What harm could it do?

---

Next

The Excursion to Whitwell, Part 10

“Edward!” said Marianne, and at once she was on her feet and crossing the room again. She looked to Elinor, whose expression had calmed a little into a combination of excitement and anxiety. Wishing for Edward's sake—and infinitely more for Elinor's—to dispense with the formalities and the exceeding awkwardness of this meeting, she said to him, “I believe all here are known to you save Colonel Brandon.”

This news took Sir John and his mother-in-law by surprise. “What? Do you know my wife's cousins?” said Sir John.

“I do,” Edward crisply replied, and he nodded to the ladies in question. “How does your uncle?” he inquired of Miss Steele.

“Here now, come meet my friend Brandon,” said Sir John as soon as Miss Steele had confirmed the good health of her relation.

Mrs. Jennings was all curiosity and demanded that her cousins reveal how they knew Mr. Ferrars. Lady Middleton looked on with something like interest but, as ever, allowed her husband to take the active part. Mrs. Dashwood had risen from her seat, as had Margaret, and the gentlemen moved to stand before them.

Marianne linked arms with Elinor and propelled her towards the men. “Do not let Lucy make you uneasy,” she whispered. “You must ignore her if you can; ignore us all if you must. He is here, Elinor!”

Mrs. Dashwood's greeting was affectionate, and Margaret's lively; Edward unbent under their attention and began to appear more comfortable every moment. “I had planned to throw myself upon your hospitality, ma'am,” he confessed to Mrs. Dashwood, who assured him of his welcome at the cottage. He thanked her and warned in an almost playful tone, “I hope you may not come to regret it. My circumstances have sadly changed since last we met.”

While Mrs. Dashwood disclaimed any possibility of regret, Elinor released Marianne's arm and extended a hand to Edward, asking him, “Will you not shake hands with me?”

Instead of responding in kind, with his arms spread, he looked down at his attire in dismay and then up at Elinor. “I am still filthy from the road,” he said.

Was Edward out of his wits? Now was not the time to be put off by a little dirt! Had Marianne not seen the longing in his eyes for her sister, she would have scolded him.

Elinor, however, was undeterred. “I hope I shall always be glad to see you, whatever state you are in,” she said. Edward emitted a great gasp of a sigh and took Elinor's hand in both of his own. With that, Marianne let out her own breath.

Sir John exclaimed his pleasure in seeing the two young people reunited. Drawn thereafter by the more animated discussion in the room, he joined Mrs. Jennings in quizzing their houseguests.

Marianne, wishing to give her sister what privacy she could, stepped away to the instrument. She looked up from the music sheets when she noticed that the colonel had followed her.

“Your sister seems happy.”

“She is, and she will be even happier when all is settled.”

He leaned closer and spoke quietly. “There is some history?” he inquired, nodding towards the place where Lucy sat, being talked over by her sister and cousin.

“Oh, yes!” Marianne said, lowering her voice to match his. “Elinor discovered it, at least the part Edward did not reveal to her. The very idea of any thing between them has made me think much better of second attachments than I used to!” She closed her eyes for a moment. It was indeed one of the things that had changed her opinion. She pushed that thought aside. Edward had come, and Elinor would have the happiness that was her due! “That is all over now,” she told the colonel. “Edward assured us the matter was resolved honourably. I do not think he could have behaved otherwise. It is not in his character to use someone ill, even when he has been ill used himself.”

“The younger Miss Steele appeared quite...displeased when he walked in.”

Marianne smiled. “She can now have nothing to say, or she would have spoken. As long as Elinor is not the one displeased, I am satisfied.”

“Your solicitude for her does you credit.”

“Elinor deserves every consideration.”

The colonel glanced at the couple, still in earnest conversation. “What is his profession?” he asked Marianne.

“He has none, but I suppose he will want to take orders now. His family have been cruel. He is the elder son, but it is almost certain that he has been disinherited for refusing to let his mother choose his bride for him.”

“But what objection could she have to your sister? You are practically family, are you not?” His forehead creased. “Is he not the brother of your brother's wife?”

“If Elinor had twenty or thirty thousand pounds, I dare say there would be no objection. My sister Fanny tried to warn her off when we were all at Norland together.”

“Mr. Ferrars seems a man of integrity to have stood by her. I wish him well.”

“I hope he will not have to go very far to find a living. I would hate to have Elinor at a great distance from me.”

The colonel seemed to be considering his next words, but Marianne was not to hear them. Sir John interrupted their tête-à-tête. “Brandon! I have called you three or four times already! Come join us. You must not keep Miss Marianne all to yourself.”

“You see, Miss Marianne,” cried Mrs. Jennings as they walked back to the group, “I did say he might only need a look at you, and I was right!” This statement was delivered with great pleasure and many a wink.

Marianne was amazed at how undisturbed James appeared in the face of such impertinence, but then he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and the edge of his mouth turned up just for an instant as he looked away.

'He is accustomed to it,' she thought. 'I shall never accustom myself to it.'

Dinner was got through somehow, even better than Marianne would have supposed possible. Lucy had made one or two remarks beforehand about Mrs. Ferrars's being reputed to have high aspirations for her elder son, as if any thing she could say on the subject would be worse than what they had heard from Fanny, or at all daunting to Elinor now. At least Lucy had restricted her barbs to the interval when Edward went up to make himself presentable, for she was meek as a lamb whenever he was in the room.

As for Edward, his face remained untroubled while he continued his attentions to Elinor. He was the opposite of reserved, which assured Marianne that his difficulties—all the ones that signified—were indeed behind him.

After the meal, Marianne sat with Elinor as Mrs. Jennings indulged her curiosity about Edward. “Miss Dashwood,” the matron said, “I have barely had a chance to tease you about your Mr. F! You look very happy, my dear. Do you have news for us?”

“Only that, as I am sure you observed for yourself, Mr. Ferrars is quite well,” Elinor replied. “Unless you would wish to hear how my nephew Harry gets on?”

“I would rather hear how soon you mean to set up your own nursery, my girl,” said Mrs. Jennings with a chortle.

“Mother!” Lady Middleton cried out with more animation than was usual for her.

Marianne bit down on her lip to keep from saying something inexcusably vulgar in protest. With the mixture of good and ill luck they had tonight, doing so might spur the woman on to greater indignities rather than shock her into silence. Though her sister bore up admirably, she could not. She could sit no longer; she got up and walked about the room. As she looked back, she noticed Lucy's sour gaze. Mrs. Jennings could not know how she injured her cousin. Still, Marianne had seen nothing to change her opinion that any injured feelings were not of the tender sort; the wound had been to the lady's pride rather than her heart.

Relief came, and quickly, by way of Sir John, who could be heard teasing the colonel and Edward for their eagerness to join the ladies. As the men entered the room, Marianne felt more in charity with her host than at any other time she could recall. She was sensible of what her family had gained through his generosity, but even the offer of the cottage had at first seemed a cruel kindness, one that removed her from Norland and forced her into company she would never have chosen. Now she was glad her welfare and that of her mother and sisters did not depend upon her brother's indifferent support. She was pleased Edward could meet them away from Fanny's stifling presence. And did she not owe to Sir John the introduction of Colonel Brandon into her circle?

She watched the two men as Edward passed them on his way to Elinor, and Sir John, talking all the while, laid his hand on Brandon's shoulder as if to usher him in her direction. The colonel stopped first to converse with Lady Middleton, who was closer, giving Marianne time to think and remember. Even the forwarding of her acquaintance with the colonel was in some ways the work of Sir John, for he had, in a misguided act of friendship, held back that letter from Eliza until they were all together on the water. He did not know, had no way of knowing. He had only wanted his friend to enjoy himself.

Sir John was James's friend. He knew the colonel's value, and she would learn to value him as much for James's sake as for what her family owed him.

If nothing else had, her changed sentiments towards Sir John Middleton would have revealed the state of her feelings. James was hers, and she likewise would belong to him and take an interest in his concerns, as was fitting. She had no doubt as to how she would answer him now. Indeed, she was eager for the question.

The colonel moved on from the Middletons to Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret. He left them after a few moments and was next waylaid by Mrs. Jennings. Marianne was glad to see Elinor and Edward take the opportunity to slip away from the group.

Marianne took notice of some of the pretty ornaments in the room, but her attention could not long be diverted from the colonel. Soon he bowed to the ladies and walked towards her. He looked thoughtful, and she waited to hear what he would say.

“Miss Marianne,” he said, speaking so as not to be overheard, “now that we have a bit of privacy, I should be glad of your opinion, if I may consult you.”

“Certainly!” she said, surprised by his request.

“You said Mr. Ferrars is likely to take orders. I propose to offer the living of Delaford for his consideration, if you think it welcome. Some matters relating to its vacancy delayed my journey here, in fact. I wish it were a more valuable rectory—it is merely two hundred a year. The house is small, suitable for a bachelor, but I fear it may not be comfortable enough for more.”

“Do you think he will care about the size of the house,” said Marianne, “as long as he can share it with one he loves? But this is marvellous! Do you really mean it? You have only just met him!”

“The approbation of your sister and yourself is recommendation enough for me.”

Her hands came up over her mouth as if to catch the “Oh!” that whooshed out with her breath. “Your kindness is overwhelming,” she said as she stared at him. How could he give and give as he did? Did he never tire of it?

She could hear talk of ordering the carriage and retiring early on account of the travellers. “I shall tell Edward tonight,” she assured the colonel. “I will be very pleased to do so.”

“That pleases me a great deal.”

The earnest look in his eye and the turn of his mouth made something flutter within her. She knew enough of him to be sure he was happy to be of service to Edward, but there was more in his look. He seemed even happier to be of service to her by extension.

He had already done so much, more than she could repay. What could she do for him in return? There was nothing she had that he needed, nothing she could contribute to the ease or comfort of his friends. For himself, there was no impending error from which she could rescue him, none from whom he needed her protection. She realised she had not been thinking in this way before, when she had gone about blindly, blithely, tumbling headlong into love, lost in adoration of a man unworthy of her attachment and undeserving of her trust. She and Willoughby, for all their feelings, had been unfeeling together, caught up in each other, ignoring and disdaining the rest of the world by turns. What of good had they really known of each other? What virtues had they practised or inspired? Their love, if it merited the word, had been an easy, selfish, fevered thing that had rendered no lasting benefit to their friends or even to themselves.

James had turned to examine something on one of the tables, his hovering finger tracing its form without touching it. She wondered what he had seen in her eyes before he had turned away. For her part, she had not ceased looking at him.

She may not know what he needed, but she did know what he wanted. He wanted her friendship, her company, her affection, and she was prepared to give him that and more. She had known a selfish devotion, and she was ready now to embark upon a more generous one with a generous man.

She stopped herself from reaching for him, but she could not stop his name from passing her lips, so strong was the connection she felt. “James,” she said on a whisper, thankful she was too far away from the others for them to hear the subject of her thoughts spoken aloud.

“Hmm,” he said without turning round, as if his ears were attuned specially to the sound of her voice, imbuing the moment with the warmth and comfort of domestic familiarity. At first she thought she had only imagined that he heard her, that his answering syllable was mere coincidence, but then he looked over his shoulder and directly into her eyes, as if waiting for her to continue.

This time when she spoke, her voice was quiet but clear. “I am so glad you are come.”

* * *
Once they returned to the cottage, Mrs. Dashwood excused herself and Margaret to see to arrangements for Edward, and with a wink, she left Marianne to chaperone the couple.

“I shall not stay very long,” Marianne promised them. “I do have something to tell Edward, but first, I must know.” She turned to Elinor. “You were right, were you not? About Lucy Steele?”

“She was,” Edward answered for her. “I dared not speak of it openly at Barton Park. I should like to tell you both,” he said, looking for permission at Elinor, who nodded. “After all, had it not been for what Marianne said to me during my last visit, I might still be the miserable wretch I was then.”

“And I should like very much to hear it,” Marianne said, “but it need not be tonight. I do have news, however, that cannot wait. I think you will both like it.”

She then told them of the colonel's offer, which elicited expressions of wonder, gratitude, and joy. When all was quiet, Marianne caught the look in Edward's eyes as his gaze fell on Elinor and remained there. She whispered her goodnight and left the pair to themselves, in no doubt of what would follow.

The next morning, Marianne left the house early. The sky was still a riot of pink and orange, melting into light. The air was obligingly mild and comfortable at present; if that were to change, no doubt a brisk pace would keep the cold at bay. Marianne wanted solitude and exercise to allow her thoughts to wander where they would before breakfasting with her family.

She was so, so happy for Elinor, but her head was full of James. He was James to her now, and while 'Colonel' might do, 'Mr. Brandon' sounded entirely too formal, too distant.

Then, as if her mind had conjured him, she glanced up from the path to see him there.

Suddenly it was of the utmost importance that no one witness this meeting. Just as when she had once escaped the house to be alone with James's letter, she hoped now to be alone with the man himself, safe from even the possibility of prying eyes.

She looked about and made her choice of a pretty little bit of shrubbery high enough to suit.

He was so close now that he might call her name without shouting and she would hear it, but he said nothing and continued to walk steadily towards her. Keeping her eye on him, she moved away in the direction of the shrubbery. He came towards her still, his gait slower but just as deliberate. This gave her all the impetus needed. She hurried now to the place that was to serve as their outdoor parlour, pleased with its combination of beauty and breadth and privacy.

He walked in, slowing almost to a stop.

At once all the energy she had stored up while waiting those last seconds burst forth. With every step forward, she felt as if she were flying, and then she was flying, casting herself into his arms without apology and laughing when he caught her and for an instant kept her feet suspended above the earth.

He held her close and whispered her name over and over in her ear.

“I wanted to be near you,” he said at length. “I had no thought to see you walking out as well. When I did, I prepared myself for the greeting of a friend, but this,” he said, breaking off with a shuddering breath, “is more, more than I—” He rested his open mouth on her forehead. It was odd and exhilarating to feel his breath on her.

“I am going to kiss you,” he said with his mouth still touching her skin.

“I know.” It was the only thing wanting. “I have never kissed anyone, not even—”

He pulled back and looked at her. “You need not say a word. What is between us is new, even if not wholly unconnected with what came before. It is our beginning. The past we may leave to itself.”

She understood he might have said it for his own sake as much as for hers and at the same time realised she did not care who had come before her in his life.

His first kiss made her feel a fool for having once believed him too old for love. Subsequent ones proved his love was no serene affection either, but a passionate, active, lavish force.

They kissed for long, long moments.

“Are you cold?” he asked as the sensations sent tremblings through her.

“Not while you hold me.” She could tolerate even flannel waistcoats if they kept him cosy enough to let him linger out of doors with her! She looked up into his face. “There is still much of you I do not know. I must learn,” she said, letting her hands roam over his jaw, his hair, his shoulders, “until I know all of you by heart.” She roamed farther, without care or discretion or design, only unfettered tenderness. When she had done, she closed her eyes and pressed in close as he let his hands roam in turn. Such careful, caressing hands he had. She wondered what they would be like without the constraints of delicacy. “I wish I could feel more of you,” she said.

“Do you?” he said in a gruff voice. “You astonish me! All in good time, my love.”

“When?”

He laughed and kissed her in a way that made her heady with delight.

“Did I say that aloud?”

He nodded and smiled at her. “When?” he repeated. “It depends. When will you marry me?”

They walked hand in hand and discussed the matter with the seriousness it deserved.

They were still holding hands when they entered the cottage. James did not release her until they stood before her mother. Then he did so with obvious reluctance and addressed Mrs. Dashwood:

“I should like your permission, madam, to marry Miss Marianne.”

The Excursion to Whitwell, Part 9

Marianne and Elinor's conversation returned to their meeting with the newcomers several times that day. As their reflections brought additional details to light, they became more convinced than ever that Lucy's was the pretty face Edward had fallen for. For herself, Marianne did not require further proof. Once she had got over the disagreeable notion that Edward could have felt any thing at all for Lucy besides contempt after enduring just a few minutes of her company, she was certain Elinor had the right of it.

Elinor was less certain, not of the truth of her conclusions but of her justification for drawing them, until she recalled that Lady Middleton had begun to inquire after some relation of the girls who lived near Plymouth—an uncle? an aunt?—during the visit. She could not swear the name had been Pratt, but if it had, that explained her conviction, for she knew Mr. Pratt had been Edward's tutor. How inconvenient it was that one of the children had caused a disturbance before Lady Middleton could receive a reply, and the question had not been repeated.

“Lady Middleton was glad enough to return all her attention to the child,” Marianne said.

Elinor nodded. “And Lucy Steele must have been glad the subject was dropped.”

Marianne agreed.

“Do you think,” Elinor continued, “that she deliberately courted the interest of Mrs. Jennings, that she knew of her or Sir John from Edward's letters or conversation? I wonder who approached whom in Exeter.”

“If she had such knowledge, I am sure she sought to use it to her advantage. She would not resist the chance to have a peep at you.”

“I cannot imagine what she hopes to accomplish by it. There is nothing she can say in an attempt to put me off Edward that would not also put her reputation at risk.”

“And more to the point, he will never go back to her.”

Elinor sighed and allowed her shoulders to relax. Marianne was glad to see it.

The following day, the sisters had all the proof Elinor could require. Mrs. Jennings, who had been out during the Dashwoods' call, could only bear having missed the girls' first meeting by arranging a second, and she came to the cottage with her cousins in tow. Before ten minutes had elapsed, the woman told Elinor and Marianne that the topic of 'smart beaux' had been thoroughly canvassed amongst her guests. On their very first evening at Barton Park, the Steeles were made acquainted with Elinor's Mr. F and Marianne's Mr. W. “It is too bad that nothing came of that,” she said in reference to Willoughby, “but there is always the colonel. He was quite enamoured before, Miss Marianne, and it may take no more than the sight of you to catch his fancy again. This time, you will have competition, though, won't you? Lucy has been secretive about her beaux—I refuse to believe she don't have any! Anne has a doctor friend back in Longstaple, don't you, Anne? Or is he in Exeter? Wherever he is, as he has not snapped you up yet, you are fair game for the colonel. Yes, Colonel Brandon may have his pick of the four of you when he arrives.”

“What?” Marianne said.

Elinor spoke at nearly the same time and to better effect. “Is the colonel to visit you again so soon, then?” she asked Mrs. Jennings.

“He wrote Sir John to fix upon a date. I dare say we shall see him in a week or two, and I hope I may convince my cousins to stay with us long enough to make his acquaintance.”

James is coming, Marianne thought, and the idea left room for little else. How had she not known? But of course he would make sure he had arranged things with his friend before telling her when he would arrive. He had stayed at Barton Park before; he would stay there again. Sir John would certainly expect to enjoy his company and would insist upon hosting him. As soon as he had settled on a date, he would write to her.

As for competition, Marianne thought nothing of that. She could not imagine James looking twice at either Miss Steele or Miss Lucy, despite the latter's good looks. Their insincerity would repel him.

Distracted as she now was, Marianne had no patience for Mrs. Jennings and her guests. It was fortunate that Elinor had enough for them both. “However did you and your cousins happen to meet?” her sister asked Mrs. Jennings. That lady was still in the midst of her account when Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret entered the room, followed by a maid with the tea things. Mrs. Jennings waved away Mrs. Dashwood's apologies for not having been on hand to greet her callers at once, and the lady talked so much, even answering her own questions at times, that the others could do little besides smile, nod, and enjoy their cake.

When their callers had left, the Dashwoods sat fatigued and silent for a few minutes.

“Goodnight,” said Margaret with a yawn.

“It is not six o'clock!” Elinor said.

“Mrs. Jennings nearly talked me to sleep.”

“Do not be unkind,” Mama said, but Margaret's yawn had been caught by the others, and soon they were following suit, laughing and snuggling comfortably into the cushions.

“I miss Papa,” Margaret said. Before sadness could overtake them, she glanced at Elinor and added with impertinence, “And I miss Edward.”

“We all do,” said Marianne. And I miss James, she thought.

Elinor caught her eye and smiled.

“It is a solace,” said Mrs. Dashwood, “to think that my girls may soon have homes of their own, though I shall miss you all terribly.”

* * *
The Dashwoods did not see nearly as much of the Steeles as their respective cousins had hoped, and when they did meet, their intimacy was not much forwarded. There seemed an embargo on the subject of gentlemen between certain of the women, so that when Mrs. Jennings entered into her favourite topic—indeed, the woman talked of little else where her single young friends were concerned—it often happened that she and Miss Steele carried on about the latter's doctor with scant participation from the others. When Lady Middleton and the children joined them, there was even less hope for sensible conversation. Miss Steele and Miss Lucy continued their practice of catering to the whims of the brats, however discommoding or ridiculous, and only succeeded in spoiling them further.

Sir John's enthusiasm for company did not dim in the face of such lukewarm greetings as were exchanged between the girls of the park and those of the cottage. On the contrary, when the passage of a fortnight in close proximity had not made such intimate friends of the young ladies as to render the two parties indispensable to one another, his invitations to dinner increased. He insisted that the Dashwoods should feel no obligation to reciprocate. “For we are always calling at the cottage whenever we like,” he said to Mrs. Dashwood, “and my wife prefers to dine at home, as you know. Besides, we are family!”

Marianne would have been more exasperated than she was by her near neighbours, but she was preoccupied. James had not written to announce a visit, though she expected word every day. She had no reason to distrust Mrs. Jennings's news on that head.

Neither had they heard anything from Edward, which was more troubling. It felt like a cruel trick had been played on her sister to be forever reminded of him by the presence of his former fiancée while the man himself was absent.

One day, while watching the wretched sisters follow Mrs. Jennings back to the park after a trying half hour, Marianne turned to see Elinor hurrying upstairs. Marianne followed her, and when they had closed the door behind them, she could see her sister's eyes fill with tears. Marianne embraced her. “That horrid woman, with her pretended sympathy and calculating looks and sly comments on the inconstancy of men! How dare she!”

Elinor tried to wave her off, but Marianne did not allow it. “She means to wound you, even now, when she cannot gain by it! Can you deny it?” Receiving no answer beyond a sigh, she asked, “Will you not write to him and beg him to come?”

Elinor turned to her, and Marianne marvelled at how quickly her sister could mask the violent emotions she must feel. If only she had displayed a portion of those feelings in Lucy's company! They might, as a result, have been spared that company for the duration of the Steeles' visit to Barton. Then again, there was the chance that Lucy would triumph over having provoked her target and be forever repeating the offence.

“You convinced me to write to Edward once,” Elinor said, “and I do not regret it, but I shall not do so again until I have more cause than the mean-spirited attacks of a woman I cannot respect. I shall get the better of it.”

Marianne could not help staring. “You always do,” she said, “though I know not how.”

That made Elinor smile. “I am sure you would prefer that I pull her by the hair and deposit her on our doorstep for her impudence.”

“I would not object to that,” Marianne admitted.

They laughed.

Several days of rain gave the Dashwood ladies a needed respite from callers. Their peace continued into the first day on which the sun was not constantly obscured by clouds, for Sir John and his lady left Barton to keep an engagement that had been postponed due to the weather, and Mrs. Jennings went to the shops. The servant who had conveyed this intelligence mentioned nothing of Miss Steele and Miss Lucy's whereabouts. Marianne did not concern herself with them. Even if the Steeles had not gone with the others, she doubted they would approach the cottage without Sir John or his mother-in-law at hand to smile on their neighbourly efforts. They would not visit from a genuine desire for her family's company. Lucy certainly would not.

The same rain that had kept neighbours from their door had likewise allowed for little variation in the course of their days. Thus, on the following morning when the post was brought in, Marianne took it up with eagerness. She was at first vexed to find nothing from Edward with which to console Elinor. Then all disappointment fell away as she recognised the colonel's hand. His letter was thin, so she did not expect the small note, addressed to M., that tumbled from it. She tore it open with relish.

I cannot wait to see you.

J.

The message was brief, but Marianne could barely hold the feelings it inspired. She felt them thrumming through her as she scanned the letter for particulars, and her excitement grew. “Mama!” she said, going through the house until she found Mrs. Dashwood. “The colonel is coming! He may even now be at the park!”

For the next few hours, Marianne sewed badly, conversed with an abstracted air, and flew to a window at least once every fifteen minutes. Elinor abused her good-naturedly at first but finally took pity on her and suggested she leave off trying to be useful. “Do go and play your feelings into better order,” she advised, not unkindly.

Marianne was grateful to comply. She went at once to the pianoforte and lost herself in song after song. At length she recalled the way James had appreciated her playing, paying it the compliment of true attention, and her feelings spilled into her performance, varying the volume, if not the tempo—for her sense of rhythm was too solid to be overcome by such memories. Other memories intruded, those times that her former, less worthy admirer had joined her at the instrument. She began to tell herself that man had no real taste, but she knew it to be a lie. Willoughby had taste. He was genuinely musical and shared many of her opinions and preferences. He had as much appreciation as the colonel for a creditable performance. What he did not have was James's moral strength, or fortitude, or compassionate nature.

What he did not have, she felt with equal gravity and lightness, was her heart.

* * *
The next day, Sir John called to issue an invitation. “I expect Brandon at any moment,” he told the Dashwoods. “Come in the afternoon and stay to dine with us.” For once, Marianne was as eager as Margaret to be summoned to the Middletons' table.

The ladies, as a rule, were not ones to linger overlong at their toilette. On this occasion, Marianne deliberated over trifles and wondered at herself, for she knew James would hardly care what colour ribbon she wore.

They arrived in good time. Marianne's expectation had built up to such a degree that she could not help but be cast down when she saw everyone in the room except that one person she had most wished to encounter.

“Brandon will be some time yet,” Sir John explained. “He is scrubbing himself into a respectable state. You should have seen him when he arrived in all his mud! There are branches down hereabouts, and I understand he was as much off the road as on it for the last few miles.”

“He is not injured, I hope?” inquired Mrs. Dashwood as she and Margaret chose the seats nearest Lady Middleton.

“Oh, not at all,” cried Sir John. “Nothing so dire. But I had better go and have a look at the damage while there is still light, much as I hate to leave this merry party. The sooner I start, the sooner I can return.” He called for a servant, with whom he shortly left the house. Lady Middleton could not seem to make up her mind whether to be affronted by his abrupt departure or proud of his sense of responsibility, but she soon recovered her usual placidity under the flow of Mrs. Dashwood's gentle conversation.

Mrs. Jennings had greeted the ladies with enthusiasm, and seeing the eldest and youngest settled comfortably with her daughter, by means of much winking and gesturing induced Elinor and Marianne to take their places near her. “You missed a spectacle, that you did!” she said with a laugh. “The poor colonel refused to sit with us even for a moment for fear of ruining one of Mary's chairs, and he barely looked at either of my cousins! What an impression he made after I talked him up as quite the catch! We shall see if he an't in better spirits once his clothes are put to rights.”

Miss Steele, who had nodded throughout Mrs. Jennings's speech, wrinkled her nose as if in doubt that any mere putting to rights could put out of her head the sartorial disaster she had so lately witnessed. Miss Lucy, equally prevented from speaking by her cousin's refusal to stop doing so, occasionally directed a sharp glance at Elinor, as was her habit.

Marianne could not but be interested in any thing to do with the colonel. From the descriptions of his appearance, one would think the man had been unseated from his horse and flung into the mire! Her curiosity must have shown on her face, for Mrs. Jennings looked especially at her as she expanded on her theme, throwing out broad hints and making liberal use of speculation where knowledge was lacking.

Some minutes passed before Elinor's persistent efforts to change the subject bore fruit. Mrs. Jennings then talked of her shopping and of some small presents she had brought back for the girls. Marianne could care for none of this. Her mind wandered to wherever in the house James was. If only their meeting could have occurred at the cottage! “Vastly good of her to think of us,” the elder Steele was saying, and the younger followed with something unremarkable. Marianne's patience was tested to its limit. She sat on the edge of her chair and willed the gentleman to come down the stairs.

At long last, he did.

Marianne was made conscious by Elinor's gentle touch on her arm that she had begun to rise, and she sank back down and awaited James's approach. He at first addressed Lady Middleton and Mrs. Dashwood, and after a few moments he walked towards their group. That they all, save Elinor, must be staring almost rudely at him she did not doubt, but he did not appear to mind it. He greeted those known to him and suffered Mrs. Jennings's inelegant performance of his introduction to the Steeles with good grace.

“You left...everything well at Delaford, I hope?”

Marianne had not forgotten, in her eagerness for his company, what it must have cost him to leave his ward and infant cousin to the care of others at such a time, but she could not risk more without stirring Mrs. Jennings's penchant for latching onto the smallest detail to truss up as a tawdry bit of gossip. She would not tolerate seeing James's dearest concerns treated in that fashion. Her brief pause and earnest look must inform him.

He returned her look with a nod, and she knew he understood her. “You are kind to inquire,” he said.

All the same, Mrs. Jennings insisted on her say. “Delaford is no doubt better than it has ever been, I am sure!” she said. “You fuss over it so, I would not be surprised to hear you have increased your income by a hundred pounds a year. And if it continues to increase, you will soon need a wife to help you spend it.”

“You must excuse me,” Marianne murmured, and she went across the room to sit by her mother. The impertinent remarks directed towards herself were bad enough, but this! She smiled weakly at her mama and Margaret and even at her hostess, whose behaviour was at least better than her mother's, and because she could not help it, she glanced again and again at the colonel.

Marianne was not long left to grit her teeth and try to ignore Mrs. Jennings as the latter gave voice to her amusement. (“See how I have run your poor sister off with my teasing!” she could hear the lady telling Elinor. “She will come back, never fear!”) Sounds in the hall alerted them to Sir John's return. He was not alone, but from his offers of welcome, the person with him was not an inmate of the house.

“I left the men to finish the work and came back to you at once,” said Sir John as he stepped into the room, “for whom do you think I met on the road? It is your Mr. F, my dear Miss Dashwood!”

Marianne turned to see that to which Elinor's shocked face bore witness: there, looking rather shocked himself at the sight of Lucy Steele, and almost as muddy as James reportedly had been, was Edward Ferrars.

---

Next