An Assembly Such as This

Darcy eyed the man dangerously for a moment, a sharp retort nearly bridging his lips before his valet’s unruffled mien brought home to him the humor of it. He could not laugh, the problem was too imminent, but he could step back from the precipice of ill temper he was perilously close to plunging down.

“I was not addressing you, Fletcher,” he growled in a much subdued tone as he turned to divest himself of the damp dressing gown. “Although I do apologize for the towel. I was not shying it at you apurpose.”

Fletcher passed Darcy his small clothes and then shook out the fine linen shirt, ready to slip it up his arms. “It is I, Mr. Darcy, who must apologize for my levity. It was inexcusable, sir, and I will take steps —”

“No, no Fletcher, it is quite all right. I stood in need of just such a diversion. Notwithstanding” — he paused and caught Fletcher’s eye in the mirror before him — “such displays should be indulged in judiciously.”

“Yes, sir.” Fletcher bent over his task of unrolling the silk stockings and, in a carefully preserved silence, handed them to his master. They were soon followed by the black silk garters. The entire process of dressing became a blur to Darcy, his mind fixed upon his ill-preparedness for his coming meeting with Elizabeth Bennet and his dislike of large social gatherings. In point of fact, his stomach was already beginning to knot, and a chill moisture was forming at his brow. What shall I say to her? he silently asked his reflection in the mirror as he buttoned his collar.

Fletcher hovered quietly about him, assisting him with this and that, all the while evidencing a hesitant, sympathetic concern that only served to heighten his disquiet. For a few insane moments, Darcy was sorely tempted to unburden himself. To lay the problem before another and ask for advice seemed sweet relief. But, of course, he could not. Not since his sire had died had he entrusted his cares to anyone in even the smallest detail. No, it was a ridiculous notion!

He made no pretense of trying to tie his neckcloth and motioned Fletcher to the task. With deft movements, the valet knotted an exquisite fall and, after placing the emerald stickpin in its snowy folds, retrieved the shimmering waistcoat, holding it out for Darcy to shoulder. As he rose from the chair, their eyes met. Fletcher opened his mouth, almost speaking but, at the look of firm refusal in Darcy’s face, resumed his place. In silence, he slipped the waistcoat up over Darcy’s shoulders and then picked up the coat.

“Your coat, sir.”

“Thank you, Fletcher,” Darcy acknowledged quietly. He finished the last button on the waistcoat and then eased into the black evening coat. The valet tugged at the lapels, straightening the seams, and checked the fall of the tails. “How does it look, then?”

“Excellent, sir. Were you making an appearance at Court, none could find fault.”

“No one, Fletcher?” He snorted, then added under his breath, “You are wrong there, my good man. There is one, I fear.”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

“What?” Darcy rounded on him, startled by the valet’s audacity.

“Shakespeare, sir. Hamlet.”

“I know it is Hamlet, but what do you mean by it?”

“Mean, sir? Why nothing, Mr. Darcy. One of many memorable lines from the play, don’t you agree?” Fletcher bent over and began collecting the discarded items from his master’s bath. “Although Hamlet is not my favorite play, sir.”

Darcy had a distinct premonition that he should not pursue where his valet teased him to follow, but he could not seem to help it. “And that would be…?”

Fletcher paused in his task and looked at him intently. “The Comedy of Errors, Mr. Darcy, The Comedy of Errors.”

The sound of tuning instruments and the rushing of servants broke upon Darcy immediately when Fletcher opened the chamber door. He took a step toward the portal but then stopped and looked back to his desk in indecision.

“Mr. Darcy?” the valet inquired.

“A moment, Fletcher.” Darcy walked over to his desk and opened the drawer for his personal correspondence, extracting a folded sheet, which he opened and began to read. A slight smile graced his features as he refolded the letter and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. Patting his breast at the letter’s resting place, he stepped determinedly to the door. “Good evening, then, Fletcher. I will ring for you around two, I expect.”

“Very good, sir. My best wishes for the evening, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy nodded his reception of his valet’s regard and turned to the steps. The musicians now fell silent, and Darcy, pausing at the top of the stairs, could almost feel the entirety of Netherfield draw in its breath, straining for the signal to begin. The sound of an approaching carriage broke the stillness, and as servants scrambled to receive the first of the guests, the musicians struck their notes. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Darcy pulled on his gloves as he slowly descended the stairs and slipped into the glittering swirl of Hertfordshire society. The ball, it seemed, was begun.

The music had been playing a full three-quarters of an hour, and still they had not come. Darcy pulled at his gloves again, smoothing them over his hands as he nodded in response to several greetings cast his way. The lateness of the Bennet family surprised him, for if he had been a wagering man, he would have laid odds that Mrs. Bennet would be among the first to arrive at a ball given virtually at the behest of her daughters. As it was, he had filled his time doing his duty by Bingley, but he took care to do so circumspectly, skirting the fringes of the ever- burgeoning company as he tensely awaited Elizabeth Bennet’s arrival.

Not all the guests were unwelcome, of course. Darcy’s greeting of Colonel Forster and several of his senior officers was returned politely if not with actual warmth. If there was any lack of that, it was well supplied by Squire Justin, whose response to Darcy’s salutation was marked by an intimate litany of sly but affectionate observations of his neighbors and punctuated with infectious chortles of laughter. Darcy did not succeed in avoiding Mrs. Long and her hopeful niece and was saved from being forced to give them a setdown only by the timely intervention of the vicar and his lady.

Excusing himself with gratitude for their rescue, Darcy retreated to the window overlooking the drive and peered into the night. Could something have happened? He lifted his chin and tugged discreetly at the knot of his neckcloth. If she does not come soon…A carriage swung into view, its lanterns bobbing madly as the horses were pulled to a stop at the torches that lit the foot of the stairs. The stable lads sprang forward and grabbed the harness of the leader while an underfootman opened the carriage door and flipped down its folding steps. Darcy leaned closer to the window, squinting against the flickering of the torches. She has come!

He backed away from the window and plunged into the crowded room, making his way toward the hall and its receiving line of the Bingleys and Hursts. His progress was not fortunate. By the time he had gained the door, Elizabeth and her family had already been handed down the line and had dispersed into a gathering that continued to swell. He turned back, hoping to discover her in the gallery to the ballroom. His progress again was slow, and he was silently cursing the success of Bingley’s little country ball when he saw her.

She was talking to one of the officers as they made their way to the ballroom before him. He could not see her face, but her form was unmistakable to him. Her hair was caught up with delicate ribbons entwined with the daintiest of flowers, leaving three delightful curls to swing enticingly about her neck. He quickened his steps, only to be blocked by some callow youths who, looking distinctly uncomfortable in their dress uniforms, stopped and gawked about them as if they had never been in polite society before. Darcy maneuvered around them, determined to reach Elizabeth before she was once again swallowed up in the crowd. She had not gone far. She was, in fact, only a few yards away, apparently listening to the officer, a Mr. Denny, most earnestly.

The young officers he had overtaken pushed past him, all now holding the hands of females whom Darcy was able to identify as Elizabeth’s younger sisters. They encircled her and Denny and, one of them pulling on that officer, bore him away to the ballroom. Elizabeth turned, waving them off with a wistful smile. As she did, Darcy finally saw her complete. The sight utterly ravished him. It was, suddenly, painful to breathe. The roaring of the blood through his veins caused the world about him to go silent.