Thanks to MarieAntionette for noticing that I had missed a chapter. I tried to finish Chapter 12 before driving from Sydney to Melbourne. Only just got it finished before I had to depart, but didn't have time to post it. Thought I would do it when I stopped for lunch but… by the time I got to Melbourne, it was 'finished' in my mind. Just as well someone is on the ball. Thanks again, MarieAntionette.
The title of this chapter was inspired by YepItsMe.
Chapter 14 Where there's smoke
Though the next few days were inclement, in between his new duties in the regiment, Lieutenant Wickham did his best to keep an eye on Darcy. He had hoped that the weather might give him free scope to pursue his own activities, but when Colonel Forster saw the rain was set in, he declared that war was conducted in all seasons. His men complained. The good colonel dismissed them with a scowl, adding as his parting shot that they should all be glad they were not marching on Moscow! Denny had then helpfully explained that this was a reference to Napoleon's disastrous campaign in the Russian winter, to which George replied with an eye roll that he could read the newspaper just as well as the next fellow. Wickham could only be glad the militia's drills were few due to the weather.
Nonetheless, Wickham borrowed Captain Carter's horse to ride out to Netherfield as early in the morn as he could rouse himself. He traded posts with other officers so that he could also watch for Darcy in the evening and teach Denny to do so. From these various excursions, he learnt that Darcy no longer took a morning ride as had been his wont since he was old enough to sit astride a horse; that he only left the house at night.
It took Wickham two nights to realise that Darcy did not emerge from a door for these jaunts, but climbed out his bedchamber window, which was quite strange. Could it be that Darcy was trysting with some rich widow in the area—a liaison he wished to keep secret from his friend or, more likely, the encroaching Miss Bingley? It was all very mysterious and un-Darcy.
Once he had established that much, Wickham had sufficient information to start pumping the local gentry. He discovered that Darcy suffered from terrible migraines, which were apparently the cause of his leaving various social functions early. Whether these were real or not, Wickham could only surmise. At first, George concluded Darcy's headaches might have arisen as a result of the injury he had sustained during their encounter over Georgiana, or might be covering some general weakness Darcy still felt. George heard there had initially been a rumour that Darcy had been severely injured in a duel before he came to Netherfield; but this was now held to be false, for he had not been seen by the local apothecary and no London physician was known to have ever visited Netherfield during the current tenancy.
But then George recalled that Darcy had been wearing black when he had climbed through the window to attack him with that damnable snarl on his face. He remembered Georgie complaining about how distant Darcy had become since his return from the Continent. Wickham began to think that Darcy's corruption—for, based on his previous saintly habits, George could call it little else—could be traced back to his 'Grand Tour' with Colonel Fitzwilliam. George hated Darcy's cousin Richard Fitzwilliam with a vengeance, for he had never been able to pull the wool over his eyes*. George had no trouble imagining the worldly colonel introducing Darcy to those famed Viennese brothels and spent an entertaining half-hour imagining the scene during one of his interminable watches at Netherfield.
When the skies cleared on the afternoon of the Netherfield ball, most of the regiment's officers were engaged not with their duties, but with the business of smartening themselves up. They polished their boots and their buttons, bought pomade for their hair, and had their whiskers shaved to points by the local barber. Colonel Forster even took a bath at the barber's shop.
Denny, who was just as eager to join his comrades in their preparations, was instead sitting in the long grass on a hillock overlooking Netherfield, watching the manor house. He had been waiting for Wickham to join him for over an hour and was about to give up and walk back to Meryton when he saw George riding towards him on Captain Carter's horse. After tying the horse to a tree shielded from the house by the backward slope of the hill, Wickham joined Denny in the grass.
"You're late," grumbled Denny. "We should be getting ready for the ball."
"I'm not going to the ball," said Wickham, shocking his friend. Just that very morning Wickham had talked animatedly of the new heiress in town, Miss King.
To Denny's dumbfounded expression, Wickham sought to explain himself, "I have unfortunately been called to London on some important business."
"But what of Miss King?"
"You will have to dance with her for me," said Wickham airily. "I want a detailed report. If she is not as plain as a pudding, I might be interested in her, but these heiresses are often shockingly ugly. Now, back to the business of spying. What has happened on your watch?"
"Bingley and Hurst went shooting half an hour ago," sighed Denny. "Other than that, nothing."
Wickham grimaced. It seemed that despite Darcy's recent descent into depravity, he was just as boring during the day as ever. Yet even as they watched, a figure emerged from the manor house and headed for the stables. Snatching the spyglass Denny had borrowed from Chamberlayne—a present from his parents upon joining the militia—Wickham trained his beady eye upon it.
"It is Darcy's valet, wearing an apron and carrying something," he observed.
After begging for the spyglass to be returned, Denny continued to watch the valet but was soon impatient to be gone. "He is walking back from the dovecote, probably having retrieved Mr Darcy's dinner. Can we go now?"
"Half an hour more," said Wickham and then proceeded to distract Denny by giving him an entirely fictional account of his important business in London.
In truth, Wickham's sudden wish to remove himself temporarily had been prompted by local gossip that Darcy's uncle, the earl, would be attending the ball. Whether there was any truth to the rumour, George had no way to know. Quite likely it was hopeful bibble-babble, seeded by the information that George had recently imparted on Darcy's noble relations at the Lucas's soirée, Yet, he thought it was safest to make himself scarce—unlike London, he could not just disappear into some alley in Hertfordshire.
George's half-hour was almost up when Finn re-emerged from the manor house and let loose a pigeon. It seemed to head directly for them before passing slightly to the south. Before Denny knew what was happening, Wickham had taken aim with his musket and felled the bird.
"My God! That was a crack shot!" cried Denny in admiration. "Something like!"
Denny would have immediately stood up, but Wickham held him down. Two of Netherfield's grooms walked out of the stables and looked in their direction.
"Keep low until we are hidden by the crest of the hill," said Wickham, slithering backwards.
"They heard!" said Denny.
"Do not worry," assured Wickham. "They will ascribe it to Bingley and Hurst, even if it was in the wrong direction. People are always willing to believe what is most comfortable."
They soon retrieved the bird. As Wickham had suspected, it was wearing a harness.
"Jiminy!* Pigeon post!" exclaimed Denny as Wickham untied the harness and attempted to extract its contents. "And I thought they just liked squab!"
Wickham, intent on the puzzle of the harness, let this naive comment pass without sarcasm. Finally he found the trick of the harness and pried it open. Inside was a letter addressed to 'Charles B' and four vials filled with a dark substance. George opened one, sniffed it, and covering the rim with his forefinger, tipped it up to smear a little of the substance between his finger and thumb.
"It is blood," Wickham said in puzzlement.
For the Bennet sisters, the few rainy days leading up to the Netherfield ball seemed longer than a sennight. Any hopes they had of ogling goods in the shops of Meryton before settling on the ribbon or shoe rose they could afford faded with each successive drizzly day. The carriage could not be had—the horses were needed for the farm. For the majority of the sisters, to be cooped up with their cousin under such conditions was intolerable. Only Mary was sanguine about their situation, attempting to engage her cousin in a series of theological discussions, which turned out to be of a very restricted nature. Mr Collins had no interest in such philosophy. He very practically drew his liturgical material from his books of sermons, based on topics suggested by Lady Catherine.
Only the appearance of Charlotte at Longbourn every day gave succour. Miss Lucas brought cheer and, when it became obvious that the rain was not going to let up, she even eventually brought the desired ribbons. Her daily advent was a pleasant surprise to Elizabeth, who had not expected her friend due to the rain—for Charlotte usually travelled to Longbourn on foot. The Lucas carriage was generally employed by her parents in their rounds of visiting. Lady Lucas typically visited Longbourn only once a week, after midday on Thursdays, which in no way suited Charlotte's more frequent timetable. But for once, Lady Lucas seemed to be thinking of her eldest daughter—Charlotte was dropped off every morning and picked up in the evening so that she might partake in the Bennets' preparations for the ball.
With the exception of Mary, who deplored the frivolity, all of the sisters had a project, which involved changing the sleeves on a gown, or adding some contrasting ribbons, or some such. Charlotte helped with all these activities with good-humoured energy—pinning, tacking and smiling all the while. Mr Collins was also an unlikely participant in the preparations. He read to his cousins from Fordyce's sermons and frequently gave his unsolicited opinion when any question arose on colours, placement or modes. His presence was odious and while only Lydia was openly hostile to him, there were several who heartily wished him away and certainly gave him no encouragement. But Charlotte smiled at him occasionally and suggested his views were interesting and novel.
At last the day of the ball arrived. After hours of hair-curling, powdering and primping, the Bennet sisters assembled in the vestibule for their evening of gaiety. Jane's golden curls were admirably set off by her cornflower blue silk dress, the fabric a present from her Aunt Gardiner. She had finished tatting a pair of golden gloves to match. Her sisters were more economically dressed in muslin. Safe from Mr Collins' attentions, Lizzy was looking very fetching in light green, having crocheted a matching beaded necklace to adorn her graceful neck. In contrast, Mary had dressed more modestly, wearing her blue muslin with a high-necked chemisette. She had eventually conceded to the hive of activity by painting a reticule made from a scrap of Jane's blue silk. Kitty had re-worked her pink gown, which had been lengthened with a flounce and let out to accommodate her expanding chest. What the bodice had gained in width, it had lost in height and she now sported a most pleasing décolletage. However, Lydia's modified lilac gown was deemed too daring even by Mrs Bennet, who made her youngest daughter pin a strip of lace to the top of the bodice, bringing it back within the bounds of propriety. The overwhelmed Mr Collins had to shield his eyes during this operation.
At last Mr Bennet was coaxed to join them from the library in his black silk knee breeches. Eyeing the large ostrich feathers in his wife's turban askance, he gave them all a tight smile and ushered them out the door.
Fortunately the rain had stopped that afternoon, which precluded the making of two trips. The ladies climbed inside, Mr Bennet mounted onto the box, which John Coachman had covered with a hammercloth for the occasion, and Mr Collins assumed his position on the dickie* seat with a dignified air. Lydia and Kitty could hardly contain their excitement. They punctuated the three-mile journey to Netherfield with a series of giggles and shrieks that eventually drew their father's remonstrance.
Mr Bennet heaved a thankful sigh when the manor house was gained, the carriage step let down, and the ladies handed out one by one by their cousin.
They were among the last guests to be greeted by the receiving line. Mr Bingley's face lit up as soon as Jane emerged from the Bennet carriage, a fact that did not escape his sister. As Caroline had given her brother a warning lecture that very morning about not being overparticular, she was not pleased. But her efforts proved for nought, for as soon as salutations were exchanged with all the Bennets, Bingley declared it was time they were getting inside and offered Jane his arm.
Caroline pursed her lips. As her brother's hostess at Netherfield, she considered it her prerogative to disband the receiving line and made her point by waiting to greet Mr Denny and Mr Chamberlayne. The junior officers, who normally would not have merited her attention, had been delayed by Denny's tardy arrival back at his lodgings after his earlier surveillance with Wickham.
For her part, Lizzy was not surprised by the absence of Mr Darcy or Mr Hurst from the receiving line; neither were known for their social graces. But she knew she was looking particularly fine and had hoped to assuage her hurt feelings from the assembly by capturing Mr Darcy's attention. She could not get their last meeting out of her head and she thought it was time that Mr Darcy showed publicly that he at least no longer disdained her. As she followed her sister and Mr Bingley inside, Lizzy assured herself that she did not really care for Bingley's guest, though she had to admit the mysterious Mr Darcy had begun to pique her interest rather than just merely annoy her.
Most of Lizzy's hopes for the night were pinned on Lieutenant Wickham. It was not as if Jane's warnings had fallen on deaf ears—Lizzy had no serious intentions towards the lieutenant, but she was not averse to a little dalliance. After the Lucases' soirée and the impromptu morning tea at Longbourn, even Jane could not deny that Lieutenant Wickham was first among the officers in beauty and address. If the lieutenant could be gallant towards Lizzy in the dowdy dress she had worn to the soirée, she was sure he could appreciate her in the more pleasing attire she had adopted for the Netherfield ball.
Lizzy got no further than the vestibule when she was greeted by Charlotte, looking stunning in a maroon silk gown Lizzy had never seen before.
"Charlotte! You look marvellous! Where did you get your dress?"
"Mama brought the silk back from London for me on her last trip with Papa—hoping to do mutton up as lamb," said Charlotte blushingly. "I tried to give it to Mariah, but Mama pointed out it is not an appropriate colour for a young girl."
"You have stitched it wonderfully! Such a professional job!"
"It was made by a dressmaker in Luton, Lizzy," admitted Charlotte guiltily, knowing the ladies of the Bennet family sewed all their own garb. "I'm afraid I would be scared to even cut silk; terrified of making a mistake with the pattern."
Lizzy was a little surprised by Lady Lucas's sudden largesse. The Lucases generally spent all their money on decorating and entertaining. Poor Charlotte had next to no dowry. As Charlotte was twenty-seven, Lizzy supposed that Lady Lucas had decided on one last ditch effort* to marry her daughter to one of the officers of the militia, though only Captain Carter and Lieutenant Wickham were old enough to be eligible. Poor Charlotte would be guilty of cradle-snatching* with any of the others.
"It looks very well!" said Lizzy generously. Indeed, Charlotte was no beauty, but the colour suited her complexion admirably. "Have you had any appreciative comments?"
Charlotte shrugged. "Colonel Forster complimented me, but I'm afraid he is taken," she said with a mock grimace.
Taking Lizzy's hand, Charlotte pulled her friend into the noisier ballroom and thence into a corner so that they might talk more confidentially.
"Have you seen Lieutenant Wickham yet?" asked Lizzy as they went, standing on tiptoes to see above the crowd.
"He is not here," said Charlotte mournfully as they arrived at their destination.
"What?" exclaimed Lizzy in surprise. "But he asked me for the first two dances and the two before supper!"
"Captain Carter just told me. Lieutenant Wickham went off at the last moment on some business to London. He sent his apologies."
Lizzy tried not to seem too disappointed, but she was a little annoyed. Now she was partnerless for the first two dances, though she thought it likely that she would find another partner for the two before supper. It was too bad to start the evening sitting against the wall. Charlotte was already promised to Mr Harding, the parish curate, who came up to claim her hand as the music started.
Lizzy pressed back against the wall, feeling all the shame of being one of the few unmarried females without a partner. As she watched the lines form, she saw Mr Darcy pair with Miss Bingley at the head of the line. He was not wearing his regular black garb, being instead attired in white stockings and black silk knee breeches—the court dress of her father's generation. Lizzy noticed he had very shapely calves, which had previously been hidden by his boots. His dark blue swallow-tail coat bore none of the embellishments sported by similar coats around him—there were no enormous brass or mother-of-pearl buttons, just an elegant coat of exquisite cut that framed his broad shoulders nicely. Lizzy was so lost in admiration that she completely failed to notice young Mr Goulding of Haye Park approach.
"Are you free, Miss Elizabeth?" he asked with a bow.
"Oh, yes!" said Elizabeth, hardly knowing what she was saying. "It is a nice coat!"
"Why, thank you!" said Mr Goulding, whose coat did sport large mother-of-pearl buttons. "It is from a London tailor."
Lizzy blushed at being caught daydreaming, but quickly regained her equanimity. She smiled as she was led out to the dance. Mr Goulding was neither handsome nor well spoken, but Lizzy knew he had a kind heart and, unlike Mr Collins who had claimed Kitty as his first partner several days ago, he was not an embarrassment. So she felt she had done very well after being left in the lurch* by Lieutenant Wickham. Mr Goulding, on the other hand, could not believe his luck. Living further away than the majority of the guests, he had had no chance to solicit a partner before the ball and had certainly not expected one of the elder Bennet sisters to be free. He and Lizzy joined the end of the line just in time for the first progression.
After the first two dances, Mr Goulding reclaimed Lizzy's hand to escort her to the punchbowl. He had just passed Lizzy her cup when Mr Darcy appeared at his elbow. Up close, Lizzy could see Fitzwilliam Darcy looked remarkably handsome. His thick, wavy black hair was pomaded to perfection; his immaculately shaved square chin jutted over a snowy white cravat, affixed in a waterfall with a large emerald pin. Elizabeth noticed his eyes flick to the choker at her neck.
"Miss Elizabeth," Darcy said, giving a brisk bow.
Lizzy's heart gave a little shrill of triumph. Calming herself, she introduced Mr Darcy to Mr Goulding. After exchanging pleasantries, Darcy made no secret of the fact that Elizabeth was his object. Mr Goulding bowed and went off to seek his next partner.
Darcy moved a little closer so that he might be heard above the hubbub of the surrounding conversations. "Miss Elizabeth, I was hoping that you would introduce me to your father."
Elizabeth's heart sank. "Of course," she replied, trying not to let her disappointment show in her voice.
Looking across the dance floor she saw her father talking to Squire Goulding. They had not yet departed for the card room.
"I was hoping to speak to him of his work on alchemy," Darcy added softly, now that they were alone.
Elizabeth looked at him curiously. "There is no other topic he would prefer to discuss," she assured him.
Lizzy felt several pairs of eyes turned towards them as they walked across the dance floor together—most notably, Miss Bingley's, whose stare might have turned Lizzy to stone. The introduction was made and, as expected, Elizabeth saw her father's eyes light up as Darcy brought up the topic of alchemy. Lizzy had already imparted to her father the information that Mr Darcy was a member of the Royal Society, after the Lucases' soirée. She could see her father was gratified to be sought out. When Squire Goulding laughed and absented himself to the card room, Mr Darcy took his place beside Mr Bennet.
Lizzy was distracted when a red uniform appeared at her elbow. A small illogical part of her mind hoped that Lieutenant Wickham had changed his mind and arrived after all. She turned. It was Captain Carter.
"Miss Elizabeth, are you free for the next two?"
Elizabeth smiled her acquiescence and they chatted inconsequentially with their backs turned to her father and Mr Darcy while they waited for the band to strike up. All the while, Lizzy clutched at snatches of the more interesting conversation behind her. Royal Society... Lord Pevensey... English alchemists... the Philosopher's Stone. The music started. Damn! Just when it was getting interesting! Regretfully Lizzy took Captain Carter's arm as he escorted her to the dance floor.
The captain proved a pleasant partner. He danced well and, now he knew her better, chatted amiably. They progressed. Throughout the dance, Elizabeth watched her father and Mr Darcy whenever the steps turned her head in their direction. Her father was getting expansive, gesticulating with his hands, clearly enjoying himself. Darcy listened silently, his head bowed.
So it continued. Elizabeth's hand was claimed next by a very nervous Chamberlayne, and following that, by Mr Bingley. As a potential brother-in-law in waiting, Elizabeth gave him more of her attention. He spoke entirely of Jane throughout their dance, his eyes shining—so clearly in love.
For the last set before supper, Elizabeth found herself partnerless. As she nursed her glass of punch, a sinking feeling overtook her. Without Lieutenant Wickham, a much anticipated night was turning out rather flat. She looked at her sister Jane, who was once more dancing with Bingley, and tried to partake of her sister's obvious joy, but she couldn't quite make the connection. Sighing, Elizabeth returned the empty punch glass to the table, picked up her shawl from a chair and walked out onto the terrace through the French doors.
Why was she so unhappy? Surely Lieutenant Wickham's absence could not have overset her so? No, it was a disappointment, but the canker ran deeper. She had always enjoyed a ball for the sheer sport of it, the jumping around. Now she saw it for what it was—an elaborate mating ritual that she wanted no part of. Why had the shine worn off? Her cousin's proposal? Definitely that had been sickening. Or had it been Mr Darcy's insult at the assembly? She had never been snubbed by a gentleman before...
Thinking herself alone and endeavouring to shake off her gravity, Elizabeth began to hum softly—but it was a sad song, Greensleeves.* Then there was a movement in the shadows, and Mr Darcy stepped forward into the light streaming from the ballroom.
"Oh!" said Elizabeth. "I thought you were still talking to my father! I mean, I thought I was alone."
"I did not wish to importune him too long," replied Darcy. In truth, he had escaped shortly after Mr Collins had joined their group and begged Mr Bennet for an introduction. The parson had begun to fawn over Darcy in a most embarrassing way, drawing Darcy's attention to their connection via Lady Catherine.
"Trust me, my father can talk about the subject without a reply for hours. He was probably as happy as a sandboy*... I beg your pardon... as a pig in mud."
Darcy hid a smile by biting his lips. "You have no brothers. Where do you get your cant?" he asked.
"Charlotte's brothers mostly, via Charlotte. Pray, do not tell anyone I said that," she added belatedly. "Charlotte would not like it."
"Of course not. Thank you for keeping my secret of the other night."
"Oh! Think nothing if it! Have you had any luck with the chicken thief?"
"I think he has gone, whoever he was," said Darcy honestly. "The thefts seemed to have stopped."
"Maybe they were deterred by my shot? Are you sure it was not a fox?"
"Yes. Foxes cannot open gates."
"Ah! So what are you doing out in the dark here now?"
Darcy gestured and Elizabeth saw he had a cigarillo between his fingers.
"It is not lit," she pointed out.
Darcy looked at her strangely—his mesmeric powers usually convinced people of the authenticity of the charade. "It goes out if you do not draw on it frequently enough," he said, sticking it between his teeth and fumbling in his pocket.
Lizzy looked at the end of the cigarillo. It looked like it had never been lit. She judiciously decided to say nothing.
Transferring the cigarillo to his hand, Darcy withdrew a small tin from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, extracted a short stick and bit down it. With an alarming hiss, it flared into a sputtering flame, lighting his face in a macabre way.
"My goodness!" said Lizzy, jumping. "What is that?"
"A sugar match," he said, lighting the cigarillo and stubbing the match out on the balustrade.
"May I see?" asked Lizzy.
"You won't be able to see much," Darcy said. "It is just a burnt stick. Better if you look at a whole one."
He lay the cigarillo on the balustrade and retrieved the tin once more from his pocket, fishing out one of the little sticks to hand to her. It had a thin strip of paper wound round one end.
"Better if we peel this off," he said, loosening the paper.
Underneath, there was a small glass bulb attached to the stick.
"The bulb contains sulphuric acid and is coated with a mixture of potassium chlorate and sugar. Crushing the bulb mixes the two components and ignites the surrounding paper."
"But with your teeth?" asked Lizzy in horror.
Darcy did not say that he typically used his fingers. "One generally uses scissors but they are cumbersome to carry round."
"Fascinating," said Lizzy, handing it back. "I was just reading the other day how to make various acids: aqua regis and dragon's blood."
"Dragon's blood?" asked Darcy, looking up from his task of loosely wrapping the strip of paper round the denuded match. He would get Finn to fix it later—the matches were made exclusively for Darcy and were expensive.
"It sounds very exotic, does it not?" smiled Lizzy. "I suppose it is, for it is gold dissolved in aqua regis."
"I was aware that it is difficult to dissolve gold but was not aware that the solution is called dragon's blood."
"The acid must be made fresh," explained Lizzy. "It must be heated and the solution replenished until it goes to completion."
"And how much gold have you dissolved to date?" enquired Darcy.
Elizabeth laughed. "None. I have only the chain of my ruby cross and am rather loath to part with it."
Darcy directed a penetrating glance at her and Elizabeth realised for the first time that he was looking into her eyes instead of staring at her neck.
"I suppose I had better go back inside," she said, a little breathless.
"May I take you to supper?" Darcy asked.
Elizabeth's glance fell once again on his cigarillo. He had not taken a single puff.
Darcy saw the direction of her gaze. "I can smoke this at any time," he said and almost stubbed it out on his palm before catching himself.
"Very well," Elizabeth replied.
Darcy carefully stubbed out the cigarillo on the balustrade and offered his arm to escort her back inside. That was his mistake.
Footnotes
pull the wool over his eyes - deceive him
bibble-babble - idle talk
Jiminy - an expression of surprise, an alteration of Gemini used as a mild oath in the mid 17th century, a euphemistic form of Jesus (Christ).
do mutton up as lamb - dress an older woman in fashions more appropriate for the young
Last ditch—the use of "last ditch" to indicate extremity is much older than World War I-but so is the use of ditches or trenches on the battlefield. The OED gives examples of some uses of it. OED, s.v. ditch: "to die in the last ditch, to die, resisting to the last (see DIE v.1 3); so to be driven to the last ditch, i.e. to the utmost extremities... a1715 To die in the last ditch
left in the lurch — left in an difficult position without help. The phrase originates from the French board game of lourche or lurch, which was similar to backgammon and was last played in the 17th century (the rules having now been lost). Players suffered a lurch if they were left in a hopeless position from which they couldn't win the game. The card game of cribbage, or crib, also has a 'lurch' position which players may be left in if they don't progress half way round the peg board before the winner finishes.
cradle-snatching* - marrying a person much younger than oneself. Perjorative. It would only have been applied to men when the age difference was huge eg a 60 year-old man marrying a debutante. For women, only a few years would have earned them the title.
Greensleeves - Alas my love you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously...
happy as a sandboy - sandboys carted sand, thirsty work. They drank a lot of ale, for water was not sanitary, and were frequently lightly intoxicated and merry.
Pinterest captions
[1] It took Wickham two nights to realise that Darcy did not emerge from a door for these jaunts,
[2] George hated Darcy's cousin Richard Fitzwilliam with a vengeance, for he had never been able to pull the wool over his eyes*
[3] They polished their boots and their buttons, bought pomade for their hair
[4] had their whiskers shaved to points by the local barber.
[5] "You're late," grumbled Denny. "We should be getting ready for the ball."
[6] "If she is not as plain as a pudding, I might be interested in her,"
[7] Snatching the spyglass Denny had borrowed from Chamberlayne—a present from his parents upon joining the militia—Wickham trained his beady eye upon it.
[8] Whether there was any truth to the rumour or it was hopeful bibble-babble* seeded by the information that George had recently imparted on Darcy's noble relations at the Lucas's soirée, George had no way to know
[9] Wickham had taken aim with his musket and felled the bird.
[10] "Jiminy!* Pigeon post!" exclaimed Denny as Wickham untied the harness and attempted to extract its contents.
[11] For the Bennet sisters, the few rainy days leading up to the Netherfield ball seemed longer than a sennight.
[12] settling on the ribbon or shoe rose they could afford
[13] to be cooped up with their cousin under such conditions was intolerable.
[14] Only the appearance of Charlotte at Longbourn every day gave succour.
[15] Jane's golden curls were admirably set off by her cornflower blue silk dress
[16] She had finished tatting a pair of golden gloves to match.
[17] Lizzy was looking very fetching in light green,
[18] having crocheted a matching beaded necklace to adorn her graceful neck.
[19] wearing her blue muslin with a high-necked chemisette.
[20] painting a reticule made from a scrap of Jane's blue silk.
[21] Kitty had re-worked her pink gown,
[22] she now sported a most pleasing décolletage.
[23] Lydia's modified lilac gown was deemed too daring
[24] Eyeing the large ostrich feathers in his wife's turban askance,
[25] Mr Bennet mounted onto the box, which John Coachman had covered with a hammercloth for the occasion
[26] Mr Bingley's face lit up as soon as Jane emerged from the Bennet carriage
[27] Caroline had given her brother a warning lecture that very morning about not being overparticular
[28] …she was greeted by Charlotte, looking stunning in a maroon silk gown
[29] Mama brought the silk back from London for me on her last trip with Papa—hoping to do mutton up as lamb*
[30] "Have you seen Lieutenant Wickham yet?" asked Lizzy.
[31] she saw Mr Darcy pair with Miss Bingley at the head of the line.
[32] His dark blue swallow-tail coat bore none of the embellishments sported by similar coats around him
[33] Mr Goulding, whose coat did sport large mother-of-pearl buttons.
[34] She felt she had done very well after being left in the lurch* by Lieutenant Wickham
[35] Lizzy could see Fitzwilliam Darcy looked remarkably handsome.
[36] Elizabeth began to hum softly—but it was a sad song, Greensleeves.*
[37] Darcy looked at her strangely—his mesmeric powers usually convinced people of the authenticity of the charade.
[38] He was probably as happy as a sandboy.
[39] "I was just reading the other day how to make various acids: aqua regis and dragon's blood."
[40] "And how much gold have you dissolved to date?" enquired Darcy.