Dizzy Lizzy.60, thanks for the fabulous suggestion that Wickham spread rumors about Darcy's childhood. I had not even considered approaching it that way, but I'm going to take your suggestion and run with it. FYI, the Bible references are to the KJV, the Song of Solomon, 4:9 and Matthew 18:21-22.

I had thought so many times about dancing with Miss Elizabeth that the actual event was sure to disappoint. In my imaginings I would be everything I ought to be. I should have been greatful for our companionable silence, but though I could think of nothing to say that would not be out of place, I longed to hear her voice addressing me.

I focused my attention on the little details of her that I wanted to remember: the three freckles by her nose that formed a triangle, the soft curve of her bottom lip that was slightly too large compared to the top one, the sweep of her brows with just a few hairs rebelling from following their fellows, the pattern to her blinks, the shine of her hair in the candle light, how the shadows and the light fell upon her womanly body, the sound of her swishing skirts and light feet, the feel of her gloved hand in mine. I finally understood all the longing in The Song of Solomon: "Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou has ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck."

Somehow she must have known of my longing for her conversation and she began to speak. "This is a merry dance." She paused, waiting for me, and I agreed.

"It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy.--I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples."

I pondered her words. Was she merely being witty or had someone told her all the things I had to be taught and was she now instructing me? If so it was a mean art. I decided to assume it was the former and smiled through the doubt and pain while I assured her that whatever she wished for me to say should be said. Would she instruct me or censure me now?

She looked at me, gave a slight tilt of her head that might be playful, smiled herself and then responded. "Very well.--That reply will do for the present.--Perhaps by and bye I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones.--But now we may be silent."

I could not read with what spirit her remarks were intended. Had George spoken to her about me? For something to say I asked, "Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?"

She looked at me intently. Her gaze was too strong and I focused my eyes on Bingley who was behind me, but waited for her response. "Sometimes," she said. "One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible."

I wondered, was this a veiled reference to my early years when I still had so much trouble communicating or was she commenting on my near silence during her last days at Netherfield? I asked, "Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine you are gratifying mine?"

"Both," she said, "for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds.--We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb."

I took some delight in our verbal sparring, but again wondered why she was speaking this way before I responded, "This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure. How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say.--You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly."

She looked down. Was she abashed by my response? She whispered, "I must not decide on my own performance." I wondered who was to judge it if not her or me.

We went down the dance, but the enjoyment I had taken in it before had vanished. When we could once more converse, I decided to try to discover whether she was much acquainted with George, and as a prelude asked, "Do you and your sisters often walk to Meryton?"

She answered yes, then smirked before adding, "When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance."

I felt the blood rush to my face. I wanted to hit George, but settled for saying, "Mr. Wickham is blessed with the ability to feign such happy manners as may ensure his making friends where he desires--whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain."

She wrinkled her brow before responding, "He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all of his life."

I felt my anger threatening to overwhelm me, but did my best to respond calmly. I told her, "There was a time when I wished for his friendship but he never desired mine. He was happy to pretend he was my friend when it suited his purposes. My father certainly desired that we be friends, and treated him as family but we have never been friends and never shall be after all that he has done."

My ears strained awaiting her response but we were interupted by Sir Lucas who made a reference to Bingley marrying Miss Bennet. Was that prospect likely and was this a general expectation of the town? My thoughts had been so focused on Miss Elizabeth, had I missed an attachment between my dear friend and her sister?

I turned my gaze from them and looked at Miss Elizabeth most earnestly. Would she respond to what I had revealed, or would the interruption silence her?

She looked at me and I could not decide what that look meant. Then she commented, "I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created."

"I am. I have tried to live by the Lord's instruction to forgive my brother's sin against me 'seventy times seven' but I confess that there are but two people to whom I cannot forgive, though the number of their offenses against me may be less than 490."

She shook her head slightly, "I am trying to make out your character, yet I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly."

Having already been bold, I decided to trust her. "I will tell you anything you wish to know, but I cannot here. Then, perhaps, you can properly sketch my character."

She did not respond while we went down the other dance and we parted in silence. I was dissatisfied, but blamed not her but him.

My mood was black and resentful when Mr. Collins approached me and became blacker still when he informed me that my aunt had suggested he find a bride at Longbourn. This information spurned me to investigate whether I might want to have Miss Elizabeth as my future bride. To resolve this question in my mind I decided to sit near her during supper. But instead of having an opportunity to speak with her once more, I heard Mrs. Bennet exclaim upon the good fortune of their family being joined to Bingley's when her daughter and he were wed.

Later, I stood near Miss Elizabeth, hoping she would give some hint that I should join her. Her family remained the longest after the ball concluded, but in vain I waited for a sign that never came.

That night in my bed, while I should have been sleeping, exhausted from the late hours of the ball, I could only ponder whether she might approach me another day, and if so, whether I should reveal all.