Page 3 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious "Miss B"
Darcy bowed stiffly. “Madam.” They followed the couple across the room.
“There!” Bingley’s voice rose with excitement, and Darcy followed his gaze across the room to where a group of young women stood near the refreshment table. “There she is. Miss Bennet.”
Darcy studied the object of his friend’s fascination. She was indeed attractive—tall and graceful, with fair hair arranged in a simple but elegant style. Her gown was lavender coloured, well-made but not fashionable, and she wore it with the kind of natural grace that could not be taught. When she looked up and caught sight of Bingley, her face lit up with a smile that transformed her from merely pretty to genuinely lovely.
“She is handsome,” Darcy admitted. “Though I wonder at the wisdom of forming an attachment so quickly.”
“Wisdom be damned,” Bingley said cheerfully. “Some things don’t require wisdom, merely courage.”
Mrs Phillips had obviously overheard, for she beamed at them both. “Oh, you are speaking of our dear Jane. Such a sweet girl and so devoted to her family since their poor father’s death. She and her sisters have shown such strength through their trials.”
“There are five daughters, I hear?” Darcy asked.
“Five daughters in total,” Mr Phillips explained. “Jane is the eldest. Then there’s Elizabeth—the one in the blue gown there, with the dark hair. Then Mary, Catherine, and young Lydia.”
Darcy’s gaze shifted to the woman in blue and felt something unexpected. She was not classically attractive likeher sister—her features were too sharp, her manner too independent. A gentleman came up to her and spoke briefly. She dipped her head to the side, shook it and the man departed. There was confidence in her mannerism, self-assurance that seemed at odds with her recent loss.
“Come,” Bingley said, tugging at Darcy’s sleeve. “I must pay my respects to Miss Bennet, and you must be properly introduced.”
Before Darcy could object, he was being led across the room towards the group of young women. As they approached, he could see the family resemblance between the sisters—the same fine eyes, the same elegant bone structure—but each was distinctly individual. The youngest appeared to be barely out of the schoolroom, while the middle sister had the serious air of a bluestocking.
“Miss Bennet,” Bingley said, sweeping into a bow that would have been perfectly proper at Almack’s. “How lovely to see you again.”
Jane Bennet curtsied. “Mr Bingley. What a pleasant surprise. I was not certain you would attend our little assembly.”
“Nothing could have kept me away,” Bingley said with such obvious sincerity that Darcy nearly winced. “May I present my friend, Mr Darcy? Darcy, Miss Jane Bennet.”
“Miss Bennet.” Darcy bowed.
“Mr Darcy.” Jane’s voice was soft, musical. “How do you do?”
“And this is my sister Elizabeth,” Jane continued, gesturing to the woman in blue. “Lizzy, Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy.”
Elizabeth Bennet curtsied, but her manner suggested she was merely going through the motions of politeness. When she straightened, her eyes met his with a directness that seemed at odds with her subdued circumstances. There was a gravity about her that spoke of recent trials, yet she held herself with quiet dignity.
“Mr Darcy,” she said. “Welcome to Hertfordshire.”
Her voice was pleasant enough, but Darcy caught the slight emphasis on his name, as though she had already formed some opinion of him. The thought rankled in a way that caught him off guard.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he replied.
An awkward silence stretched between them, broken only when Bingley stepped forward with his usual good humour.
“Miss Bennet, I wonder if you might honour me with the next dance?”
Jane’s smile was gentle but genuine. “I should be delighted, Mr Bingley.”
As the couple moved towards the dance floor, Mrs Phillips swept across the room like an admiral’s flagship.
“Mr Darcy, you must dance with our Elizabeth. She is an excellent dancer, I assure you, and such a sensible girl. You will find no better partner in the room.”
Darcy glanced down at Elizabeth Bennet and found her watching him with what might have been resignation. The suggestion that he should dance with a country nobody, no matter how sensible, was presumptuous in the extreme.
“I thank you for the recommendation, madam,” he said, “but I do not dance.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when he saw Elizabeth’s eyebrows rise slightly. A faint flush crept up her neck, though whether from embarrassment or something else, he could not tell.
“I see,” she said. “How refreshing to meet a gentleman who speaks so plainly about his aversions. It saves everyone such awkward misunderstandings. I shall be sure to spread word of your preferences.”
