Chapter 18

Eighteen

Monday, April 20

He was enervated, and it was not quite a quarter past nine o'clock.

Darcy swore he never would forgive Fitzwilliam for being in the army, the viscount for being violently in love with a lady of the north, or the earl for being in Derbyshire. He was of the opinion that one of those gregarious Fitzwilliam men should have been there in his stead, playing host to the odd assortment of elegant, eccentric, and inebriated guests continually invading Rosings.

Still, there was no sign of Elizabeth although her contingent had the shortest distance to travel. Darcy's own coach had been dispatched to the parsonage to fetch them three tedious quarters of an hour ago, at about the same time as Lady Catherine's fit of pique over some drastic alterations that had been made to Anne's gown.

Farther down the hall, another clamour proved to the late arrival of the Hunsford party.

While footmen and maids accepted cloaks and hats, Lady Catherine and Anne greeted the party and accepted compliments on the latter's beautiful gown. Mr Collins, tripping over his words, upbraided his wife and cousin while simultaneously trying to exculpate himself and apologise to his patroness for their tardiness.

In no little agitation, Darcy strode towards them, and upon reaching Elizabeth, he bowed. "Good evening. Is everyone well? I thought your party might never arrive."

Tugging at an elbow-length glove, she gave him a playful smile. "Had I known you were so eager for my cousin's company, I would have suggested his second choice of cravat was superior to the first or third. Charlotte and I were already in our cloaks and waiting by the front door each time Mr Collins came down to ask his wife's opinion. Now it seems she and I are entirely to blame for our being tardy." She glanced at the others. "I hope Lady Catherine appreciates the effort he took on her account."

Smiling and looking at her intently, Darcy whispered near Elizabeth's ear, "You are the handsomest woman here." She was glorious in gold, as precious and as warm as the metal itself. How could any man fail to be affected by her loveliness? "An eternity stretches before me until I may claim your supper set. I doubt you will be without a partner all night, but I hope this evening may afford us an opportunity to engage in a private conversation." Invigorated by her presence, Darcy brought the lady's hand to his lips, thus marking his admiration.

"I shall count the hours, sir."

He had yet to release her hand. "Having agreed to stand up with Anne for the first set, I should go. Never before have I opened a ball, but hopefully I shall remember how the minuet is done. At her mother's insistence, my cousin is to call that old, stately dance." When the hired London musicians stopped tuning their instruments, he reluctantly said, "I must go."

Her gloved fingers slid from his, and she walked away.

Words raised in anger drifted again from the entrance door's direction. Her ladyship. Unable to place the calmer male voice, Darcy turned towards it.

Brinton! Why had he not considered the possibility of the master of Rara Avis being invited? Lady Catherine could not abide the man, so his cousin must have sent the invitation.

The newcomer, flourishing proof of his right to be there, wished felicity upon Anne, who soon hastened over to Darcy.

"Please, Cousin, do not let Mother turn him out." She cast a worried look over her shoulder as the commotion subsided. "Ah, it seems to be sorted now, and I believe Mr Brinton has just secured Elizabeth for the first set. Both being so terribly fond of dancing, they will be quite delighted with one another." She tugged on his arm. "Come, it is time for us to open this ball."

Ushering Anne to the ballroom, Darcy glowered at the gentleman accompanying Elizabeth. At another tug on his arm, he led his cousin to top position, all the while thinking Brinton would have been better off with a plain waistcoat rather than one with such gaudy, golden embroidery. He is a popinjay with a ridiculous sense of fashion, at least compared to my austere style.

Freezing in place as the minuet began, he recalled seeing something that very morning while re-examining the curtains in the back sitting room— Dubois. By the berry bushes, handing something to Gilchrist. By Jove! Was it my indigo waistcoat?

As Darcy and his cousin danced with controlled, ceremonious, graceful steps, he watched Brinton and Elizabeth doing the same. The deep blue fabric and gold embroidery of the gentleman's waistcoat perfectly matched that of Anne's open robe, and it could not be mere coincidence.

It was intolerable. Utterly galling!

After standing up with Mrs Collins, Darcy had danced the supper set with Elizabeth and had thoroughly enjoyed both the reel and her repartee, but following that delightful half an hour, as host, he was obliged to lead Lady Metcalfe into the dining room. Darcy sat at the lower end of the table with that lady at his right hand and Anne at his left, while farther up the table, Brinton had secured for himself a more delightful supper companion.

Throughout the evening, Lady Catherine had pestered Darcy about dancing a second set with her daughter, but he could not always be dancing, particularly with his cousin. It was, after all, his duty to ensure their guests' needs were being met, and each moment of that responsibility seemed to bring fresh agitation. Since there was a plethora of single gentlemen in attendance, other than his sets with Anne, Elizabeth, and Mrs Collins, he had not asked another to stand up.

From the corner of his eye, Darcy noticed his cousin's attention more often than not was taken up by the buzz of conversation taking place amongst Brinton and those nearest him. I , not he, should be sitting next to Elizabeth, engaging her in conversation, pouring her wine, serving her delicacies, earning her smiles.

Brinton, turning towards Elizabeth, placed his hand on the back of her chair and made a remark that instigated sweet laughter. Darcy wondered of what they spoke, knowing he never could compete with the man's sarcastic wit. Brinton is too exuberant, too theatrical, and too vibrant, while I am restrained.

After absently serving portions of flummery to Lady Metcalfe and Anne, Darcy trained his eyes again on the gentleman serving Elizabeth.

I should like to knock the spoon from the popinjay's hand and bounce it off his head, flummery and all. Stifling a sigh, he smiled at whatever Lady Metcalfe had just said to him.

Half an hour later, as a hush descended over the room in anticipation of Darcy's speech, he discerned a boisterous remark extolling Elizabeth's appeal.

"Miss Bennet," cried Brinton, "has thrown me into unceasing delight tonight with her uncommon union of grace, brilliancy, and wit."

Darcy rolled his shoulders and watched Elizabeth lift a glass to her lips. He supposed the sip of wine was meant to either conceal the fine blush overspreading her cheeks or to wash away the bad taste such extravagant praise had left in her mouth. She seemed so awkwardly circumstanced that Darcy's heart cried out to hold her close. Beyond the pale! A gentleman flatters delicately, never in a forward or intrusive manner. Clearly, Brinton's attentions are making her increasingly uncomfortable.

Desperate to intercede, Darcy was compelled to remain in his place and propose a toast congratulating Anne on having reached the age of majority. Quite an accomplishment, apparently.

The instant that duty was performed and the grand dining room and adjoining parlour began to empty, Darcy saw Elizabeth stand abruptly, say something to the others, curtsey, then walk out of the room. He signalled David, the footman, and quietly ordered him to keep a discreet eye on Miss Bennet and ensure her well-being.

Consoling himself with the fact that he , not Brinton, would have the honour of standing up with her for the final set, Darcy lost no time in striding over and taking the seat Elizabeth had occupied.

"Brinton, a word." Accepting a decanter of port from a footman, he poured two glasses and handed one to the younger gentleman. "Your voice carries, and I could not help but overhear your comments to Mrs Godsell about Miss Bennet. To speak in such extravagant praise is inappropriate at the best of times but particularly ill-suited to a supper table. Did you not take into account the discomfort of those two ladies or the others within your proximity?"

Brinton's eyes narrowed. "Never could I be like you, so rigidly opposed to anything not dictated by decorum and formality. Why is it wrong for an artist, or any man, to admire a beautiful woman? Do you not think Miss Bennet a darling in every feature and every gesture?"

To himself, Darcy admitted he, that very night, had wondered how any man could fail to be affected by her loveliness.

Slouching a bit, Brinton seemed absorbed in his own thoughts of her. Then, sitting up, chin jutted, he declared, "Miss Bennet will be my Muse, and I shall capture her radiance in oils, in song, and in verse." He slid his untouched glass towards Darcy. "I no longer partake of either alcohol or opium, remember? I am entirely happy without them. Life is to be lived, not tranquillised." Gaining his feet, he added, "By the bye, I am thrilled to have Gilchrist back in my employ. I was sorry to lose him after he and I had a little tiff around this time last year. Now, if you will excuse me, I am in pursuit of inspiration."

Back in the ballroom, Darcy prowled about in search of Elizabeth. He checked his pocket watch. Two o'clock. Two dozen couples were in place, ready to recommence the dancing, which he feared would continue for five more hours, at which time breakfast would be served.

What a devilishly long night! Though small talk was the bane of his existence, he exerted himself to mingle awhile, reminding people of the availability of tea, wine, negus, orgeat, and cake. Weaving in and out amongst a milling crowd of more than one hundred guests, he caught whiffs of perfume and perspiration as well as snatches of gossip he would rather not have heard.

Amidst the general hubbub, a lively Scotch reel began, and the floor shook from all the fancy footwork. Craning his neck, Darcy looked over the horde. His cousin was standing up with Mr Tottle .

But where is Elizabeth? She was not dancing. He was taller than most, still he could spot neither her brunette curls nor pale gold gown. There also was no sign of either Brinton or the assigned footman.

Extending his search, he moved room to room and asked those acquainted with her if they knew Miss Bennet's whereabouts. None of the ladies had seen her in any of the rooms in which they occasionally sought comfort, and Darcy's manners were at once deprived of their usual composure. Returning in haste to the ballroom, he reached his cousin just as Mr Tottle was escorting her to a chair.

"Anne, have you seen Miss Bennet recently?"

When she replied she had not, Miss Roche, standing nearby, said, "I have. She ran up the main staircase not five minutes ago." She tittered behind her fan. "With Mr Brinton hard on her heels."

Unsavoury images pressed upon Darcy's thoughts and sent his heart racing.