As they walk into the room, which only moments ago was alive with music and dancing, and laughter goes cold, silent. All eyes have turned from each other to his party. The smiles of adoration and ease have turned to curious looks, inquisitive assessments, suspicion, perhaps even jealousy. Lud! He hates these things.
He can hear the blood pounding in his head. Is it a headache? The light meal pushed upon him by Ms. Bingley begins to churn in his stomach. Perhaps he should have taken her bait and stayed at Netherfield. His service to his friend needn't include being miserable for an entire evening. While Charles seeks to establish himself in the neighborhood, Darcy felt it almost unnecessary that he, master of the universe, er, Pemberley, need be party to the assembly. He braces himself for the saccharine greeting proffered by what passes for gentry here. Sir William Lucas looks ridiculous, doesn't he know that? Clearly not, for even in his attempt to be understated and dignified, he comes off as solicitous to a fault.
Concentrate on Charles, he reminds himself.
Ever the charmer, Charles smiles graciously, thanks his host, and accepts his fate as the shiny object on display for the crowd. Charles does, in fact, shine in this environment. His sparkling smile stands in bright relief to the rest of the Netherfield party. Darcy can only imagine his own expression. Ms. Bingley looks pinched, Mrs. Hurst bored, and Hurst… Well Hurst frankly looks hungry. Darcy wonders at the wisdom of Charles bringing this group of people to a public assembly where they clearly do not wish to be.
No matter, the crowd seems to have lost interest during his musings. Or perhaps not. Though quiet, there is a low rumble of whispers, giggles. The dull roar starts to build as they make their way through the crowd. Charles smiles, Ms. Bingley nods, Darcy and the Hursts do something entirely non-committal.
The walk is slow, painfully so. People are now standing on their tiptoes to gawk. How many so-called prominent families must we be introduced to? The question comes to Darcy's mind like a whisper, much like those he can now clearly hear from the crowd. He tries to ignore them, not hear how the words are being strung together. Just when he thinks he has succeeded, the words become clearer, like rain falling. Drop… ten thousand…drop…Derbyshire…drop…earl…drop…single. The drops become mumbled torrents, a constant reminder of his importance in the world.
The headache has made itself comfortable now. It has settled in for the night, let him know that it will be with him for the remainder of the evening and probably through the next day. Wonderful, he thinks to himself. Nauseated, he continues with his slight nods, his mouth tightly closed to prevent casting his accounts.
The sea of faces start to blend, adding to the nausea. Wonderful, he thinks again. Biting his tongue slightly, he closes his eyes for a moment or two. The music is restarting. At least the spectacle of their entrance has quieted somewhat. He opens his eyes. Before him is a woman to whom he is being introduced. Not really attending to her, he takes a seat.
Charles is off dancing at first opportunity. The Hursts decide to join as well. A tall gentlemen has taken Caroline to the floor. Ah, at least it saves me from doing so, for now. The woman to whom he has been introduced is talking. Not making out what she is saying, his mind moves into his own thoughts. Sitting is better than walking through a crowd of onlookers, silence is better than filling the air with nonsense. Hearing his name, he realizes his closest sitting companion, Mrs. Short?, he thinks, is still talking, but she is directing her questions towards him. "No", "yes", "no", "yes", "correct". He answers her questions, but it seems a barrage. Does this woman not ever shut up? Finally, she does. His thoughts turn dark, to him. The snake. After a half hour, he notices Charles dance with an exceptionally beautiful girl. She has a lovely smile. Lud! Here we go again.
He seeks to wade through the crowd unnoticed, even by Charles, but he is caught. Demmit! He will be all over me to dance now. The argument he knew they would have went poorly. Why can't Charles just leave me be? What is wrong with leaving well enough alone? The building pressure from Charles resulting in his outburst:
"She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."
Damned Charles. A headache, a stomachache, dark thoughts about the snake, and an outburst. What a wonderful night at the assembly. One more negative stimulus and Darcy thinks he will be well on his way to Bedlam.
He thinks that perhaps some air might do him good stead. He makes his way to the outdoors. The cool air is better on his face. His grimace relaxes, and he feels well enough to return. Time to do his duty. He asks Miss Bingley to dance. She is a bit too delighted for his taste. As always, her remarks are either pointedly favorable towards him, or nastily unfavorable towards others. He is unsure if he can put up with another half hour of this. There it goes again-that undercurrent of giggles and whispers. People are silly. After escorting Miss Bingley back to her brother-in-law, he dances with Mrs. Hurst. At least she is not fawning. His relaxation is almost complete. Then he hears it, a throaty laugh that is clarion, full bodied, genuine. His eyes search for the originator. Charles' angel's sister. Who'd have thought that slip of a girl could make such a sound? Mrs. Hurst has troubled him little with conversation, but he knows he is being inattentive. "I'm sorry, what did you say madam?" He says it in a hurry, in an effort to recover. Mrs. Hurst is polite enough to forgive his inattentiveness, but she is not fooled.
The rest of the evening is spent hearing that infernal buzzing of giggles and whispers, interspersed with that girl's laughter-sweet and maddening torture that it is. The night ends with Hurst passing out in coach ride back to Netherfield. Let us hope we needn't recap the evening upon return. Why relive something so unpleasant?
Despite the respite from his hostess' company, as he makes his way to his quarters, his thoughts return to and replay in a loop, high night, low dawn. His man gives him an odd look, as if he knows something. Why does that little slip laugh like that? Why do I care? Wonderful.