Page 5 of Transforming Mr. Darcy
He grimaced and touched his throat. What was the matter with him? He was not garrulous or as effortlessly amiable as Bingley, but he generally had more facility with the English language than this.
He cleared his throat once, twice, but his voice did not return. He made his way to the punch bowl. Perhaps a drink would help.
Bingley met him near the refreshments and handed him a cup. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
Darcy sipped the punch and tried to speak. Nothing. He cleared his throat and made another attempt. Still nothing. He closed his eyes briefly and opened them to find Bingley staring at him.
“My word, Darcy,” his friend said quietly, his normally cheerful expression lined with concern, “you do seem ill. Shall I call for the carriage?”
Darcy felt no more ill than he had the last time he had appeared in public, but it was no use. He was sorry to cause Bingley such anxiety, but he could not remain in public this way. He bobbed his head once. Bingley clapped him on the arm and hurried away.
He glanced back where he had left Miss Elizabeth to find her watching him, her head tipped to one side in a gesture of curious unease. She extracted herself from her conversation and made her way over to him as the younger guests began to roll up a carpet in the back of the room. He bowed and then lifted the ladle in the punchbowl in lieu of asking whether she was thirsty. He even gave her another little smile, though it only amounted to a slight upturn of his lips.
She laid a gloved hand over his and shook her head. “Mr. Darcy, are you well?” she murmured, raising her dark eyes to his. She pulled her hand away and strangely, he wished she had not.
He allowed himself to be lost in her gaze for a moment before he frowned and lifted one shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she released a small, airy groan. He did his best not to shiver at the sound.
“I am sorry, sir.” She appeared distressed.
Why was everyone apologising to him? She could not have possibly had anything todo with his . . . infirmity. Darcy shook his head at her as Miss Mary Bennet played a jig on the pianoforte and a few sets began to form. He did not care for dancing at such events as these, preferring conversation as a rule. But he did wish he might have asked Miss Elizabeth to dance. Doubtless, she would have enjoyed it.
“I hope you are yourself again soon,” she told him kindly. As she walked away, he could see the outline of her form through the thin muslin of her gown, silhouetted as it was in the candlelight. Had his throat not been so dry already, the sight of Miss Elizabeth’s fine figure moving away from him would have done the trick.
“Mildread,”Elizabeth muttered as she nearly fled from Mr. Darcy. Her fairy godmother would be nearby—she always performed her spells in person. Elizabeth escaped through a door into the hall and then a dark, unused parlour. “Mildread.”
“Yes, my dear?” her fairy godmother replied.
“Where are you?” Elizabeth asked.
The darkness lifted enough for Elizabeth to see Mildread sitting in the corner of the room with an embroidery needle and a vast quantity of impossibly thin gold thread. With a quick puff of air, Mildread lit a single candle. It gave off a good deal of light, but the wax did not melt.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Mildread asked mildly.
“I was until you stopped Mr. Darcy’s mouth,” Elizabeth complained. “You cannot still be angry with him.”
“Of course not. You are the one who has been talking over him all week. I rather thought you would approve.” Mildread regarded Elizabeth with a mild sort of exasperation.
Elizabeth pinched her lips together. There was no pleasing Mildread. After all her blathering this week to prevent Mr. Darcy from falling into error again, her fairy godmother hadstillcast a spell on him.
“I merely thought to spare you both. Despite your best efforts, he was about to say something unflattering, and then you were going to refuse to dance with him.” Mildread did not look up from her work.
“I was not!” cried Elizabeth. She paused, perplexed. Would Mr. Darcy have asked her to dance? Hehadsmiled, but was it for her? It made him very handsome, the smile, andthe look he gave her when they stood together at the punchbowl had been . . . she shivered. He had the most beautiful eyes, and she felt she could see every one of his emotions inside them. Dare she believe . . . that look hadnotbeen disapproving.
“He would not have asked,” she added, uncertain.
Mildread nodded and hummed a little fairy song, the glimmering notes tracing a score in the air before vanishing in a puff of silver.
“This is very pretty,” Elizabeth said, coming a little closer. She examined the intricate scrolling design, which glowed brightly in the candlelight. “I have never been able to do this sort of detail work as well as you and Mamma.” Even Jane could not match Mamma’s needlework.
“Your Mamma loves beautiful things. She was willing to work at them. Perhaps you only need practice,” Mildread replied, glancing up and catching Elizabeth’s eye.
Mamma was endlessly patient with her fine embroidery, but she did not extend that kind of forbearance to her daughters. Elizabeth placed a hand lightly on the fairy’s arm. “Please, Mildread? Mr. Darcy does not know how he sounds, I am sure. He is the eldest son of a wealthy family. He has probably never been gainsaid in his life.” Before Mildread had come to stay, Elizabeth would not have requested leniency for such a man. She would say he had reaped what he had sown.
Instead, she felt a kinship with him. Elizabeth well remembered the shock she had been given when her fairy godmother arrived. It had not taken long to fall afoul of Mildread’s notions of polite behaviour. She had been far more judgmental and prone to eavesdropping at eighteen than she was now, and Mildread had found her wanting. Her fairy godmother’s punishments had humiliated her even though she knew why she had been so afflicted. How much worse it would be for Mr. Darcy!
“His friends will fear for him,” was all she said.Shefeared for him.
“Why should you care?” the fairy inquired gravely, her grey eyes soft and round. “What is Mr. Darcy to you, other than the man who insulted my handiwork and who now follows you about the same as a dog who wishes to be fed?”
