Page 62 of The Cheapside Runners
With that, she was gone and the door closed, so the ladies turned excitedly around to try to work out who the scoundrel was. They stared intently at the groups for some time, but nobody could quite make out who was trying to compromise whom.
In such a short time that she must have run breakneck down the stairs, they found Mrs Black entering the ballroom. She was dressed in a ballgown that matched the elegance of the settings, and her raven-black hair was tied up in an Apollo knot with ringlets that everyone (even Jane) envied more than a little.
She fit right in as if she were born to the first circles—aside from the fact that she was moving through the crowd like a horse at full gallop. How she avoided knocking anyone over was a mystery to everyone. It became clear she was headed for the far side of the ballroom, where they could barely see the dancers, let alone ascertain their intents.
They all gasped when she paused briefly beside a tall gentleman standing by the side, spoke what could not have been more than a half-dozen words to him, and dragged him into the dance with about as much subtlety as she used to toss her charges around the barn on Brutality Day.
Miss White and Miss Blue both gasped in shock, “Good Lord,that is—” but they both paused politely without finishing the sentence. They both realized they were about to break one of Mrs Black’s rules, so they shrugged and turned back to the railing.
A couple minutes later, they startled again as another dancer fell to the floor rather hard and lay on the ground gasping like a beached fish.
They could not hear anything when Mrs Black knelt down beside the man in apparent sympathy, looking more like a very concerned nurse than anything else. After she spoke to the poor fellow a bit, she stood abruptly, spoke to the man she had dragged into the melee less than three minutes earlier, and then disappeared entirely, leaving the tall man staring daggers at the man on the floor.
It was all quite mysterious, but when Mrs Black pulled a young lady from the dance and marched her over to an older man who seemed likely to be her guardian, they suspected they had seen the whole story.
The injured man was still moaning with what little breath he could muster and clutching his chest.
Miss Red said, “I would bet a month’s allowance that we just saw a practical demonstration of a palm on the solar plexus.”
“His foot does not look all that good either,” Miss Blue added.
They watched in wonder, their mind full of questions.
~~~~~
Fitzwilliam Darcy was rather uncharacteristically enjoying an evening at a ball, though whether it was for his own advancement or to please Mr Gardiner was not entirely certain.
He had spent most of his adult life feeling like a hunted animal, and he tried to avoid balls when he could, and hide out on the walls when he could not. Gardiner had turned that on his head, by suggesting any hunted animal would be better off finding a safe den to hide in than running from the hounds.
With that change in his perceptions, he had started a new tactic. He despised the term ‘wallflower’ since he had effectively been one most of his life, and they did not make a special derogatory word for him (though many probablydidhave lots of other words to say). He preferred to think of them asoverlooked ladies. There were always a dozen or two who were overlooked for one reason or another (or no reason at all), so he just danced with them. None of them took it as a sign of anything other than politeness, and he found that, on average, they were better conversationalists than the husband-hunters.
He had just finished his third dance of the evening with Miss Alexandra Whitting, a cousin of one of his friends from Cambridge, and was sitting out one set, giving due consideration to whether he should supplement the evening with some of the earl’s famously lethal punch.
His ruminations were interrupted when a striking woman with raven-black hair, gorgeous olive skin, dark eyes, and a Spanish accent stopped and said a few words.
“Sir, I need your help, and I need itnow! Follow my lead!”
He was just about to give her a good chastisement, and probably would have, had she left him full control of his options. Unfortunately, she gave him the option to either go along or measure his length on the floor, because she took his arm and dragged him into the dance. He briefly worried it was an elaborate compromise attempt, but he somehow doubted it, since it would be a suicidal attempt at best.
For the next minute, he found himself being led through the dance, which was slightly unnerving, but also somewhat thrilling. The lady seemed more intent on other dancers than him, so he had the chance to examine her closely, and he liked what he saw very much.
She seemed tall, though careful examination showed her to be of average height, so he assumed there was somethingcomplicated about her gown that fooled the eye into thinking she was taller. He was not bothered by that, since men did the same sort of thing routinely (or worse). She had raven-black hair and olive skin. Since she spoke with what sounded like a Spanish or Italian accent (which was very attractive in its own right), he supposed she was of Mediterranean descent.
He was just admiring her face and figure, along with the way she danced, when a nearby man tripped over his own feet and went down like a falling tree. It was all quite confusing since his mystery lady was close to the bumbling fool and just barely managed to jump out of his way. It reminded him of the Bennet’s idiotic cousin at the Netherfield ball, although to be fair, at least the parson managed to stay on his feet.
The man who had fallen seemed to be even clumsier than he at first appeared because he was curled up in a ball, apparently unable to breathe properly. His mystery woman leaned down and spoke soothingly to the clumsy fool for a moment or two, then abruptly stood, returned, and spoke emphatically.
“Mr Darcy,” she began, which left him wondering how she knew him. “I happen to know that man on the floor is a Navy deserter named George Wickham. Desertion in time of war is a hanging offense. Can I trust you to see he gets returned toactiveservice in a more… ah… reliable regiment… or faces the appropriate punishment. He is a vile man, and he should not be allowed back into society… ever!”
He stood stunned, and stared at his arch-nemesis, whom he had believe gone from his life forever.
“You may count on me, Miss…?” he asked.
She gave him what felt very much like a measuring look, as if deciding if he was up to the task. It seemed clear from the way Wickham was writhing around on the floor that she had hurt him somehow. He was impressed.
“Thank you,” she said, apparently ignoring his perhaps too-subtle request for her name.
“He has been the bane of my existence for some years. I have a cousin who is a colonel. He will do his duty to king and country.”
