Page 48 of A Compromise By Design

“January invites opinions.”

“Everything invites my mother’s opinion. January simply provides more material than most months.”

Mr Darcy almost smiled. Not quite. The almost-smile was worse than either a smile or its absence, because it was the thing she recognised, the thing that was his alone, and it arrived and withdrew before it became anything she could hold.

“You are well?” he said.

“Very well.” The answer arrived before she had considered it, with the smooth automation of a response that had been given often enough to require no thought. “And you?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Charlotte appeared at Elizabeth’s elbow and said something pleasant. Mr Darcy was pleasant in return, and the knot of conversation expanded, as conversations at a public assembly are wont to do. Elizabeth talked to Charlotte about the latest novel that she had read. Mr Darcy talked to Colonel Forster. They were an arm’s distance apart and aware of every bit of space between them.

Once the evening had progressed and all had had time to arrive, converse, and settle into familiar patterns of both partaking in and observing the meetings going on around the room, the dancing began. Mr Darcy led her out for the first set, as he always did now, with the careful correctness of a man honouring an arrangement in every particular.

Elizabeth took his hand. They took their places, and the music began.

“I understand the militia may be relocated this spring,” she said, because the silence wanted filling.

“I had heard something of the kind.”

They briefly separated, turning away and then coming back together.

“It shall be a catastrophic disappointment to my younger sisters. Lydia has been gathering intelligence about the timing with rare focus.” Elizabeth glanced at Mr Darcy. “I am attempting to convince her that it would be not only impolite but impractical to beg Colonel Forster to delay.”

“That is…ambitious,” Mr Darcy said in the careful manner which he always spoke, especially about her family when they were making themselves ridiculous. Kind, always, and careful not to disparage.

“That is Lydia.” Elizabeth turned under his hand and returned, and they were facing each other again. “She will recover. She always does. The recovery involves a great deal of noise, but it is thorough.”

He said nothing for a moment. She watched him and he said, “You are very patient with them.”

“I am occasionally patient with them. More often I am simply resigned, which is a different condition, but produces similar results.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face, then vanished before it could quite manifest. “That is a very honest distinction,” he said.

“I am trying,” she said, “to be honest when I can.”

Elizabeth had not intended her words to have the weight that they did once spoken. She heard it after it was said and did not look at him, and Mr Darcy did not answer. Then the music moved them apart, and the moment passed into the dance.

∞∞∞

At the interval, Elizabeth stood with Jane, talking about nothing consequential and feeling rather relieved to have a conversation that required nothing of her, when she became aware of a change in the room.

An unsettling quiet swelled throughout the assembly. The kind of hush that descends when someone has entered who has not been expected, and whose presence demands a recalibration of the evening’s assumptions. Elizabeth turned, as the room turned, by the gravity of collective attention.

The woman in the doorway was perhaps sixty, with the bearing of someone who had never once considered that a room might not rearrange itself to accommodate her arrival. She was dressed very finely, with a sumptuousness and formality that would have suited a London ballroom better than the Meryton assembly rooms. Elizabeth could describe her expression as nothing so much as a sneer. Odder still, the stranger was looking across the assembly room with sweeping efficiency, as though she were searching for someone and was confident of finding them.

Her gaze landed on Mr Darcy. She moved toward him with the directness of someone who does not acknowledge intervening obstacles.

“How odd,” Jane said softly in her ear. “That must be some acquaintance of Mr Darcy, for her to approach him so directly. Has he spoken of expecting a visit?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, but I believe I could put a name to her all the same. I rather suspect that is Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

Jane blanched a little at that, as well she might. Miss Darcy had mentioned her aunt more than once, and in cautious terms that strongly suggested Lady Catherine was a formidable personality rather than an understanding one. It was not difficult to guess what she might think of her nephew’s engagement to a young woman of little wealth or consequence.

Elizabeth did not hear the first exchange between Lady Catherine and her nephew, for it took place on the far side of the room, but not for lack of trying. Despite the rudeness of attempting to hear another’s conversation, she could not stop herself from observing them closely. Mr Darcy’s composure did not lapse, but it was evident that it was held up with a certain effort. There was a slight shift in his posture, a stilling of expression, a quality of attention that was a little too careful.

Lady Catherine said something, and Mr Darcy responded. Lady Catherine said something more, and it was this second utterance that the room heard, for the lady seemed to have decided that the assembly’s acoustics were adequate for her purposes and adjusted her volume accordingly.