A/N: The Netherfield Ball, Part One


Darcy's Struggle


Chapter 7: Reeling and Unreeling


Monday, November 25, 1811


It was the day before the Netherfield ball. Preparations were taking place, hurriedly, hectically.

The Biblical rain of the previous week had kept necessary supplies at a distance in Meryton, or even in London, and the slough of mud slowed their arrival, even after the rain stopped.

Between Longbourn and Netherfield the road was nearly blocked by a massive puddle, a miry place in the road that forced carts up and onto the grass to pass it.

Darcy was standing on the back steps as he had stood on the front steps the day Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet left Netherfield — but this time there was no mist, only a pale yellow, bedraggled November sun. Servants worked to unload carts as they arrived, carrying boxes into the kitchen storeroom or deeper into the house, depending on the contents, complaining about the massive puddle.

Darcy had walked outside to take the air and to observe the moving, muddy spectacle. He was amused by the deep trail of mud that led inside, aware not only that Miss Bingley would hate it for itself, but also for the reminder it was of Miss Elizabeth's trek to see Miss Bennet almost two weeks ago.

Two weeks.

It seemed two years; it seemed two seconds.

His sense of the time between when she had entered Netherfield and now seemed to expand and contract. Constant inconstant flux. He recalled one of his Cambridge tutors, reading a passage from Plutarch, a passage about an even more ancient philosopher, Heraclitus. "It is not possible to step twice into the same river according to Heraclitus, or to come into contact twice with a mortal being in the same state."

Darcy was worried about Miss Elizabeth's state, the state of her heart — and its relationship to Wickham. Have there been further changes? Has she progressed past admiration to something deeper and more constant? Darcy was still almost certain Wickham could not have visited Longbourn. Darcy had heard — to his profound relief — that the militia were training on this day at last and would be all day long. Two servants carrying boxes had been talking of it when they passed close to Darcy on the steps. He had smiled to himself as they went inside, closing his eyes to bask in the sunlight, November-threadbare though it was.

Darcy had decided that his new path forward would begin at the ball.

No matter what, he would find a way to dance with Miss Elizabeth and talk to her, and he would deploy Wickham's tactics against Wickham. Darcy would insinuate himself between the two of them if he could. Wickham had never actually had to contend with Darcy; Darcy had always refused. He would refuse no more. Even though he knew that his apology to Miss Elizabeth for his remark at the assembly had been less than perfectly executed, he felt that she had accepted it, and so he thought her resentment of him, at least for his boorish remark, had been forgotten. He was behind Wickham in the sweepstakes for Miss Elizabeth's heart, but at least he was not locked in the paddock.

Of course, there was the question of what Wickham had told her — part of Darcy's hope in dancing with her was that he could discover what that had been and respond to it. He was not going to allow Wickham to interpret his character to Miss Elizabeth: Darcy was willing to reveal and to explain. He would not stand stupidly, silently by and expect her to decipher his character.

He was going to attempt something he had never done, to court a woman, to please a woman worthy of being pleased. In the past, he had never known such a woman; in the past, he had never been anxious to please any woman.

He had more than enough anxiety now.

He had made his decision. He would attempt to court Miss Elizabeth, starting at the ball. If she was receptive, he would visit Mr. Bennet at Longbourn and formally request permission from her father.

If she and her father allowed it, he would be committing himself. Courting was not an engagement — but it was the acknowledged means to that end. During the succession of rains, Darcy had finally understood that his duty-driven objections to Miss Elizabeth were old echoes, demands his parents repeated endlessly during his childhood, what he owed them, what he owed himself. The objections were odd acoustic illusions: the words were his parents' words but the voice was his own. He had internalized their demands that completely. No more. He would no longer indoctrinate himself in their place.

They were right, of course, by their lights; Miss Elizabeth was ineligible. She was not the woman they had imagined. But Darcy no longer cared. She was the woman. He had realized on Sunday that there was no one, at present, with the authority to keep him from marrying as he chose to marry, and there were no financial obstacles.

Yes, my Aunt Catherine still reckons me destined for her daughter, Anne de Bourgh, but that will never happen; neither of us wants it. The Earl, my uncle, will sniff at my decision disapprovingly, but I can certainly bear that.

He was the new Fitzwilliam Darcy — and he felt invigorated, reckless. Ready for risk, ready to battle for the fair lady's hand.

He was no longer above the fray.


The musicians could be heard faintly downstairs, preparing for the ball by playing snatches of reels.

Steele finished tying Darcy's cravat and stood back, inspecting not only it but all of Darcy's clothes, and his boots. "Fine, sir, very fine, if I say so myself."

Darcy smiled and nodded, and began to whistle along with the softly audible music.

"You seem happy to be attending a ball, sir. I must say, that is most unusual. Normally, you are less eager for ballrooms than for bleeding by a doctor."

"At least the doctor's leeches are identifiable as such; they aren't disguised as fashionable young women or the mothers of fashionable young women."

Steele chuckled as he stepped forward to make a minute adjustment to Darcy's collars. "True, sir, and I know disguise is your aversion."

"True, true," Darcy agreed absently as he turned to look at himself in a long mirror. Steele had done his usual extraordinary job. Darcy was tall and elegant, his wide shoulders filling his black coat, his white cravat whiter than white.

"Could it be that your happiness anticipates the return of a certain dark-eyed young woman to Netherfield?"

Darcy looked up from tugging on his waistcoat to meet Steele's eyes in the mirror. Steele kept his face impassive, except for an almost imperceptible lift of one white eyebrow.

Keeping secrets from Steele had never been possible, and Darcy had yielded to that fact long ago, but Steele rarely let Darcy know what he knew.

Darcy made himself respond. New habits. "It could, Steele. I am hoping to make amends for…failing to dance with her at the assembly. I am hoping for that…and more."

Steele bowed by nodding. "Very good, sir. Are you quite convinced the young woman will consent to…dance with you?"

Darcy turned to face Steele. "Convinced?" Darcy tugged on his waistcoat again, rolling his shoulders slightly. "The few times I have idly imagined asking a woman…to dance…I never imagined any doubt about the outcome, any doubt about her consent."

"I can understand that. You are who you are, sir." Steele gestured to Darcy, not only to his clothes and person but all that he represented. Wealth, Pemberley. "But — tonight?"

Darcy blew out a breath. "Tonight I venture into terra incognita, Steele. I am not certain. I am far from certain…"

"Such a risk is unlike you, if I may say so," Steele observed.

"Yes, it is," Darcy said, wishing his hands were not becoming clammy.

The two men were quiet for a moment, and then Steele picked up Darcy's handkerchief from a table and held it out to him. "Regret at not asking is worse than refusal, sir. I have had to know."

Darcy blinked. In all their years together, Steele had never mentioned anything about his past. "I am sorry, Steele," he said, then tucked the handkerchief away.

Steele shrugged. "Long ago, it was long ago. I wish you the best tonight. Speak out of your heart. You are who you are."

Steele's repetition of those words with a changed inflection struck Darcy as changing their meaning from acknowledgment to encouragement.

Darcy checked his pocket watch.

It was time for the ball to begin.


Darcy had not yet seen the ballroom in full decoration, brilliant with candlelight.

As he entered, he had to grant that Miss Bingley did know what she was doing. Everything gleamed or glowed. The music had started in earnest, although no one was dancing. It was still early, and only a few visitors had arrived. The Bennets were not among them. Several red-coated officers were already present, but Wickham was not among them.

Darcy walked across the highly polished floor to stand beside Bingley. Bingley nodded to him but never took his eyes from the door. Miss Bingley joined them a moment later.

"Well done, Miss Bingley," Darcy said with a bow. "Everything is lovely."

She glanced at him as if checking his sincerity, then she smiled, pleased. "Thank you, Mr. Darcy. Your spirits seem to have improved."

"Yes, the sunshine has helped. I am not normally one to be much under the influence of the weather, but all that rain…"

"I know. And now all the mud. That is what I will most remember when we are gone from Netherfield. The mud." She glanced at Darcy from the corner of her eye. "I had the servants spread gravel at the bottom of the front steps, hoping to keep our guests from tracking it in. Shovels and buckets were needed to clean the rear steps and the hallway to the kitchen." She shook her head.

Beside them, Bingley suddenly straightened. Darcy looked up. Many guests had arrived at almost the same time, and among them were the Bennets, the whole family.

Miss Lydia, who had pushed her way not only to the front of her family but to the front of the entire arriving group, stood and marveled at the ballroom. "La, la! Isn't it sublime? And to think Mr. Bingley went to all this trouble for me. That I was the one who encouraged the idea, I was the one who chose the date!"

She threw out her arms and twirled a turn, everyone watching. Mrs. Bennet clapped and squealed in an encouraging response as Miss Bennet hurried to her sister and tried to stop her twirling. "Lydia! Don't be a spectacle," Miss Bennet said softly.

Darcy looked past them to Miss Elizabeth, careful not to react to Miss Lydia. He was hoping Miss Elizabeth would see him, acknowledge him, but she was instead surveying the room, her eyes, he realized, moving from red coat to red coat. He saw a slight frown of disappointment on her face when she realized none were Wickham.

Darcy walked to the Bennets and bowed. "Good evening. Welcome to Netherfield."

Miss Lydia had finally stopped twirling and she smirked at Darcy, shaking her head. "Dreary Darcy," he heard her murmur. Mrs. Bennet raised one eyebrow toward him coolly. Mr. Bennet bowed but without speaking. It was the first time Darcy had seen the man. Miss Mary and Miss Kitty were on each side of their father but a step behind him.

Miss Elizabeth stepped forward and curtsied. "Thank you, Mr. Darcy. The ballroom is so beautiful my heart aches."

Darcy was experiencing a similar sensation but not in reaction to the ballroom. "Miss Elizabeth, may I secure a dance with you? Perhaps the first if it is not promised to another?"

He noticed that her spirits seemed less lively than he expected; she was a little wan. From behind her, Mrs. Bennet frowned, shaking her head angrily. Mr. Bennet reached out and took his wife's hand and when she glanced at him, he gave her a brief but meaningful glare.

Miss Elizabeth's eyes widened and showed a moment of doubt in response to Darcy's request.

"I am sorry but my first dance is promised. Perhaps the second?" She collected herself and smiled at him, the unsureness he had seen in her eyes back again. What does it mean? Of what is she unsure? The unsureness was there before Wickham and afterward.

"The second dance, yes."

Darcy had expected this and prepared himself for it, or hoped he had, but he could feel himself becoming wooden, stiff, in response to the disappointment, her search for Wickham. He fought himself and smiled back at her. "I will look forward to it." He hoped his response was free of wounded self-consequence. He was also exerting himself to avoid showing an indelicate display of regard or any peculiarity of manner. He wanted to match her normal freedom and ease but he knew that was hoping for too much.

It was only then that Darcy wondered where Mr. Collins was.

No cleric had entered with the Bennets. No cleric was visible in the ballroom, no hen-shaped man in black.

Darcy made himself turn and walk away, passing Bingley with a nod as Bingley freed himself from a chatting, early-arriving couple and hurried toward Miss Bennet.

The ballroom had filled; the first dance was soon to begin.


Darcy stood against the wall with a cup of punch in his hand.

He kept himself from focusing solely on Miss Elizabeth, discipline, but his eyes returned to her frequently. She was often near the entrance, or checking it now and then, but she was also trying to quiet and restrain Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty, who were flirting loudly, dramatically, and uncontrollably with a small group of officers, drawing as much attention to themselves as possible.

"We will dance with you all," Miss Lydia all but shouted, "and you will have to settle it among yourself which ones of you we like best!"

Miss Elizabeth heard the shout and lowered her eyes, blushing. Darcy could feel her mortification with her sisters from across the room.

The music of the first dance began and couples took their places. Miss Bennet was on the arm of Bingley. Her blue-silver dress truly did make her look like an angel. Darcy watched her face for a moment and understood his friend's puzzlement. Her smile suggested more a universal benevolence for all in the room than it did any particular passion for Bingley. But Bingley was beaming anyway. Maybe he knew Miss Bennet well enough to see something Darcy did not see.

Darcy then saw Miss Bennet notice Miss Elizabeth. Her beautiful, benevolent face showed sisterly concern.

Miss Elizabeth was frustrated. Now that Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty were dancing, she was focused on the entrance, but still Wickham had not appeared.

The stream of officers from Meryton seemed to trickle and then to end. He saw her shoulders sink. She was lovely and disappointed in her golden gown.

Darcy put his punch glass down on a nearby table and circled the dancers quickly to where Miss Elizabeth stood, the corner of her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes downcast as they had been after Darcy's insult at the assembly.

He bowed yet again, as perfectly as only years of training and polish could allow. "Miss Elizabeth, I know I was not so fortunate as to be the one to whom you promised this dance, but may I stand in the gap?"

She took note of his bow, scanned the entrance again, shook her head, and curtsied handsomely. "Yes, Mr. Darcy, thank you." Her eyes flashed with something that passed too quickly for Darcy confidently to name it. Gratitude?

And then her relief at having a partner eclipse her frustration. He held out his arm. Her gloved hand on his arm sank him in delight and terror.

How can she be so necessary to my happiness so soon?

They entered the dance together.

"I am unhappy with myself that this is our first dance, Miss Elizabeth," Darcy stated. "We should have danced at the assembly. Again, I apologize."

She was silent. They parted and then came back together. "I have accepted your apology, Mr. Darcy. A second need not be offered." Her tone was not critical, not arch. Sincere.

Darcy nodded and gave his attention wholly to her as she danced.

He had never had such a partner. Her grace, her ease, her loveliness.

For a few moments, he allowed her and the dance to absorb him silently and completely. She seemed as absorbed in the dance as he was, smiling a shy smile up at him. His movements called to hers, hers to his as she mirrored him and he mirrored her. Two reflections, one dance.

He lost himself in her.

But he felt he had to speak.

As they came back together, he caught her eyes, and willed himself forward, knowing the potential risks. "Was it to Lieutenant Wickham that you had promised this dance?"

Her eyes shifted from his; her shy smile hid. "Yes. He pleaded for it the other day, the day you met us. Just before the rain, shortly after we reached Longbourn."

Forty days and forty nights. Miraculous rain. World destroying, world renewing.

"He and I have known each other for many years," Darcy noted in an exactingly neutral voice.

"Yes, he mentioned that. My sister, Lydia, mentioned your name to him after he told us that he had grown up in Derbyshire. As you might imagine, it took Lydia only a minute more to find that he had grown up at Pemberley. We all have heard that it is your home."

They parted again.

Darcy's frustration was rising, his old frustration with Wickham.

Entanglement.

It seemed to Darcy that no matter where he went, he met Wickham coming back.

When Miss Elizabeth returned to Darcy, she spoke first. "He told us you have not been such good friends of late as you once were."

"That is…true." Darcy inflected the word to suggest that it was and was not.

"Why did you turn against him?" she asked, her voice only barely audible above the music, a blush on her cheeks. Her eyes were beginning to shine with that peculiar brightness, but the question seemed to be genuine, despite the accusation buried in it.

"I'm not sure that best describes what happened between us. — May I ask what he told you of me?"

They parted yet again before she could answer.

When they reached each other again, she continued in the same soft voice, not quite answering. "He told us that he was glad to be making new friends since some of his old ones had cast him off."

Darcy knew there must have been more to it than that and he made himself respond to her immediately, before another parting. "Lieutenant Wickham has no old friends, Miss Elizabeth. He only has new ones, and he never keeps them long enough for them to lose their novelty.

"It is flattery and not steadfastness that is his metier."

She gave him a searching look as they danced away from each other, her lips parted, her eyes full of thought.

She returned to him as the dance ended, confusion legible on her face.

Darcy offered her his arm, after a gesture toward the punch table, and, after a moment, she took it. They walked side by side.

"I am willing to tell you more of Lieutenant Wickham, Miss Elizabeth, and willing to offer you proof if you wish it, proof of what I say." He waited for her to face him. "Do you think his absence tonight is due to his forbearance or to his cowardice?"

She winced a little, and then lifted her chin, her eyes locking with Darcy's. "I do not know. He claimed the wrong was all on your side, and that he therefore would not shrink from attending the ball. He promised."

Darcy judged that he had said enough about Wickham. Miss Elizabeth had lowered her eyes and made the glossy floor her object.

Darcy gathered himself and put his gloved hand softly atop hers.

"Since I have had the pleasure of the first dance, I will yield the second, but I would like to dance with you again tonight, if I may." He paused. "I have never enjoyed dancing more." He paid her the compliment in a voice tender and warm.

It took her a moment to lift her eyes and acknowledge him, his words. She was at a loss, her red lips open but her voice stopped by his compliment. Darcy did not triumph in that reaction but for once he had managed to say what he wanted to say and to say it as he intended.

I made myself agreeable.

"Yes, that would be…Yes, I would be pleased to dance again, Mr. Darcy." Her spirits had lifted; she was her lively self again.

Her hand still on his arm, he led her to Miss Bennet, leaving after she sat down on the small couch beside her sister. Miss Bennet slid closer to Miss Elizabeth and took her hand.

Darcy turned to see Bingley standing by himself. He looked at Miss Bennet and then back at Darcy.

He motioned subtly for Darcy to join him. When Darcy did, Bingley stepped close and whispered quickly to Darcy. "Miss Bennet told me that Mr. Collins proposed to Miss Elizabeth yesterday. He took the break in the weather as a favorable sign, something about a dove and an olive branch. She refused him. He has been in a babbling, towering rage since, as has Mrs. Bennet. Collins took himself to Lucas Lodge. Charlotte Lucas and her father stayed home to attend to him.

"Mrs. Bennet purposed to leave Miss Elizabeth at home tonight. Mr. Bennet was pleased by Miss Elizabeth's refusal, and so he countermanded Mrs. Bennet's punishment.

"It was a bitter circus." Bingley put his hand on Darcy's shoulder for emphasis: "Miss Bennet's exact words, Darcy. Miss Elizabeth arrived upset but determined to hide the fact."

Darcy understood what he had not understood when Miss Elizabeth first entered: Mrs. Bennet's anger, the exchange between her and Mr. Bennet. Miss Bennet's concern. Miss Elizabeth's fortitude in stepping forward to speak to Darcy.

He felt a tidal upwelling of sympathy for Miss Elizabeth.

He had never recognized it before but there was something of allegory, something of exemplarity in the name of her home: Longbourn.

She had borne that place, her parents and her sisters, for a long time. What was the word in Scripture? Longsuffering.

A small part of Darcy even regretted Wickham's cowardice for Miss Elizabeth's sake. It was no wonder she had been eager for that first dance and frustrated by Wickham's absence.

Darcy had done right by taking Wickham's place.

He had lifted the spirits of the woman he loved.

I, Fitzwilliam Darcy, lifted Elizabeth Bennet's spirits.


Darcy felt so alive that he had another glass of punch.

Surreptitiously, he watched Miss Elizabeth dance. He knew she knew he was watching. She danced with Bingley and then with two different officers and two different Hertfordshire young men. She was her generous self with each partner, talking, and dancing well. She had stopped glancing at the entranceway and instead, she glanced at Darcy. At first, her glances were simply curious, but they eventually became complicated. The familiar, peculiar brightness united with amusement. There was a challenge there too, but it was not aggressive, as it had been on her first day in Netherfield. It felt flirtatious.

Darcy put his punch glass down, bumping the table carelessly but not upsetting anything, or breaking anything. He danced with Miss Bennet, who seemed very pleased both with his asking and with him. When they finished, she thanked him pointedly with a glance at her sister. He knew that Miss Elizabeth, seated for a moment, had closely attended to that dance, and she smiled at him like a blessing after he bowed to her sister.

Under that blessing, he even danced with a few of the younger Hertfordshire girls without partners. Each of them stared up at him during her dance as if he were a fairytale prince who had ridden to town on a cravat-colored horse specially for her rescue.

Miss Lydia continued to whirl among the red coats, talking more loudly still as she drank more punch. "Don't you try to kiss me," she said to her current partner, a tall, thin man whose red hair clashed with his coat, "I've only got so many kisses to give tonight, and I'm running out."

Darcy turned away at this, but not before he saw Miss Elizabeth drop her head to hide a furious blush.

Later, when everyone had sat down to eat, Miss Kitty insisted on playing, and she did, treating Mozart as if it were nothing but a daunting piece of long division. Mr. Bennet stood and almost pulled her from her seat at the pianoforte, scorning her, insulting her ironically all the while.

Darcy was embarrassed by it, embarrassed to have to witness it but especially embarrassed for Miss Elizabeth. He now knew that her evening, including the time before she arrived, had been a drumbeat of mortifications. Her mother's temper and trumperies, Wickham's unanticipated absence, her sisters' shameless vulgarity and self-presentation, her father's public humiliation of his daughter.

Given the crowd at mealtime, it had been beyond Darcy to manage to sit with Miss Elizabeth. But he looked at her as her father and Miss Kitty sat down, and he kindly smiled at her. She lifted her chin and smiled back at him thankfully.

Darcy did not manage to eat anything; he was too engrossed in Miss Elizabeth. But he drank another glass of punch.

When the dancing resumed, he was sure to be near Miss Elizabeth. He asked for the dance, and she agreed. He knew that a second dance between them would create interest, and he heard the ripple of whispers in the moment of silence before the music.

"I have not told you how becomingly you are dressed tonight, Miss Elizabeth."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Darcy. And I have not told you how becomingly you have behaved tonight. No man in the room has been more agreeable, or done more kindness." He thought the last comment was an indirect acknowledgment of their night, their dances, and their looks, but he was not certain.

They danced together even better that second time, with even greater mutual absorption. With spirit and flow. A reel. Despite the other dancers, the world contracted to the two of them, to their steps and her smiles, and Darcy was struck by the way a dance could be a type of marriage, a shadow or semblance of it. With this reel, I thee wed.

When the dance ended, Darcy leaned as close to Miss Elizabeth as he dared. "Would you be willing to meet me in the library in a few minutes, assuming you can leave without drawing undue attention?"

She stiffened. "Why, Mr. Darcy?"

He knew that she had just been through the ordeal with Collins, and he could understand her wariness. Besides, the request certainly skirted impropriety.

"Perhaps I have more questions about Dr. Johnson?" he answered teasingly.

It took a moment, but a smile grew on her lips, slowly reaching her eyes. "Indeed, are you struggling to regulate a new passion?"

Darcy flushed hot; he knew his face was red. She flushed a moment later, only then realizing how what she said might be taken.

It took them a moment to overcome the comment, their blushes.

Darcy tried to smile back without undue self-consciousness. "I have something I wish to give you."

He did. He had hidden it in the library before he went upstairs to dress. But he did not like the pretense — his true reason for wanting her to meet him was not the gift, but his hope that the gift would solemnize his accepted request to court her.

She glanced around the room and he did too. The whispers had died down, eyes had moved on.

"Yes, Mr. Darcy, I will meet you, but the meeting must be brief, and I need hardly add that the library door must remain open."

He laughed. "You need hardly add that."

"Then I will talk with you again soon." He saw caution but also anticipation in her eyes.

They parted and he drank another glass of punch, hoping to firm his nerves.

And then he ducked out of the ballroom.


A/N: Part Two — and the fallout? — next time. Please review if you can!