Pamela Aidan - An Assembly Such as This

“Now, Louisa, that is too cruel!” Miss Bingley gave her sister’s hand a small slap. Mrs. Hurst protested contrition until her sister continued slyly, “I counted only two chins on the lady, but then I did not have the felicity of seeing her sitting down, as you did.” Mrs. Hurst let out a small shriek, covering her mouth with her hand while Miss Bingley settled back in her chair with an ill-concealed smirk. “Really, these country folk are not very entertaining.” She glanced covertly at Darcy. “It was all horses and hunting with the gentlemen. And the ladies! Not a one could speak of current fashion or had even the slightest acquaintance with the theater! Poetry is likely as unknown a language here as is Italian,” she concluded with an arch smile in Darcy’s direction. Mrs. Hurst giggled obligingly, but his lack of response appeared to decide her upon a more sober course.

“Charles, I have chosen to accept three particular invitations to dine and one afternoon social during this next week. Please oblige me by making room in your schedule for them.”

“May I ask, dear sister, where we are engaged?” Bingley templed his fingers and rested his chin on his thumbs as he turned and winked at Darcy.

“Wednesday night with Squire Justin, Thursday with Mr. and Mrs. King. They are accounted quite prominent and are said to be worth three thousand a year, if you can imagine! Friday we dine with Colonel Forster and his wife. Do you suppose the woman laughs so on purpose, Louisa, or am I the only one put in mind of a donkey?” At each name Bingley sank a little lower in his chair, and when the colonel’s name was mentioned, he looked to have given up hope. “…and Saturday evening at Sir William Lucas’s.” Miss Bingley ticked off the last name on her list and looked up to see her brother brighten considerably. “Is this acceptable, Charles?”

“I leave the social aspect of the campaign in your capable hands, Caroline. I request only that you leave me some time for more gentlemanly pursuits and that you plan on attending services while we are here. Regularly,” he added, with a look which communicated that he would brook no objections.

Miss Bingley’s eyes flew involuntarily to Darcy, whose return of her regard was the picture of blandness. “Of course, Charles. That goes without question, as you well know.”

“Now,” said Bingley, capitalizing on the success of his demand and the disorder into which it had cast his sister, “I wish to observe that the morning went splendidly. Caroline, you are to be congratulated.” Miss Bingley demurred sweetly. “I have no doubt that our Morning In will be the subject of much conversation and that we are well launched into Hertfordshire society.” He allowed his sister her opportunity to disclaim her achievement, however briefly, and proceeded with determination. “You must know that I have proposed a shooting party for tomorrow morning and expect that six or more gentlemen will come. If you will arrange the breakfast and notify the household staff, I will endeavor to alert the stablemaster, groundsman, and gamekeeper of our plans.” Bingley’s fingers tapped the arms of his chair at each detail, his face flushed with the delight of having his own estate to order as he wished. “It will be my turn tomorrow, my dear sisters, to advance beyond the ground you have taken today.”

During the ensuing rush of questions, admonitions, and assurances between Bingley and his sisters, Darcy withdrew into himself. He had noted his friend’s despair at not hearing a particular name in his sister’s list of social engagements and, subsequently, his elation at the mention of Sir William. Having personally observed the close relationship of Miss Lucas with one of the Bennet sisters, it was not difficult for him to deduce the reason for Bingley’s revival. He hopes that Miss Bennet will also be one of the party. It is entirely probable. Which means… He let the thought go unfinished and forcibly brought himself back to the problem of his friend and Miss Bennet.

He reached for his wineglass and, cupping the bowl gently in his hand, swirled its contents as he stared unseeing down into the deep red vintage. Perhaps he was reading more into Bingley’s regard for her than was or ever would be there. His friend would be the first to admit to a propensity for falling in and out of love faster than a hare has kits. There was no reason to suppose this attraction was any different. Darcy brought the glass to his lips and held the wine momentarily at the back of his palate before allowing it to slide down his throat, feeling its warm and heady glow spread. Let it take its course. Offer other inducements to distract his attention. Keep him busy with Netherfield . He carefully replaced the glass on the table before him. Surely, it will pass.

As Darcy replaced his wineglass on the table, his hostess motioned for the footman to refill it, but he covered the bowl with his hand and shook his head.

“Is the wine not to your taste, Mr. Darcy?” she asked assiduously. “I would gladly send for another.”

“No, do not trouble yourself,” Darcy replied. “The wine is excellent.” He began to rise from his place but was forestalled by Miss Bingley’s request.

“Mr. Darcy, you cannot be leaving so soon. We have yet to hear your impression of Hertfordshire society.” She looked round the table to garner support for her request. “I am sure it will be most amusing.”

Darcy looked to Bingley, covertly seeking deliverance, but his friend could only grimace and shrug his shoulders. Shooting him a ferocious frown, Darcy resumed his chair and turned a countenance of hastily assumed indifference to the ladies. “As you say, Miss Bingley, the country people here are ‘not very entertaining.’ They are, though, the sort commonly referred to as the ‘backbone of the Empire,’ and as we must look to them to supply much-needed brawn, it is, perhaps, unreasonable to expect a surfeit of wit.”

Of the two ladies, Miss Bingley regained her composure first, but not before she had resorted to her napkin, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. “But what of the ladies, Mr. Darcy?” A cruel gleam of anticipation illuminated her eye. “Surely you do not include the local females in the supply of brawn?”

“Not at all, Miss Bingley. I would not be so ungracious.”

“But, sir,” she pressed on, “you have acceded to their lack of brawn and have discounted their wit. On what basis, then, may we discriminate among the ladies of Hertfordshire?”

“You hint at the most obvious where females are concerned, Miss Bingley. You wish me to comment on their physical attributes, their beauty, if you will.” Vastly uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, he motioned to Bingley. “It is your brother rather than myself to whom you should apply for that judgment.”

“We know what Charles thinks,” she replied, a note of peevishness in her voice. “To him they are all diamonds of the first water. It is your opinion we would hear; is it not, Sister?”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy, do tell us,” Mrs. Hurst requested brightly, then glancing at her sister, added mischievously, “I would especially enjoy your further views on the Bennet girls.”

“Darcy,” intoned Bingley with a pretense of menace, “I will not countenance a comment on Miss Jane Bennet save of the highest order. You may confine your assessment to her sisters…to Miss Elizabeth, perhaps? Now, she would be my idea of beauty if it were not for her elder sister.”

Silence fell as all three of Darcy’s dinner companions awaited his reply. It passed through his mind as he wiped his hands with the napkin on his lap that in some mysterious way Miss Elizabeth Bennet was continuing to exact her penance for his stupid blunder. So, with as much insouciance as he could summon, he made it clear as he criticized her face, her form, and her manners that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was not his idea of perfection in a woman.