Story excerpt

Here is a short bit from one of the stories I am writing, which has no title at present. It is Pride and Prejudice from Darcy's point of view, and this scene is the one where he first meets Elizabeth.



That night, he barely slept, and arose feeling stiff and weary. The day was dull, and he hardly saw anyone until the evening. He had brought a book from Bingley’s minuscule library, and was preparing for a quiet evening of reading, and writing to Georgiana perhaps, when Charles and Miss Bingley came into the room, dressed for a ball. Bingley was looking quite up to the notch, neater than usual, and Miss Bingley was wearing her most elegant gown.

“Good gracious, Mr. Darcy, you are not going in that, are you?” said Miss Bingley, eyes wide and little mouth open in shock.

“Darcy, I thought you prided yourself on dress.”

“Going? I am not going anywhere, but will wish you well and stay comfortably here,” said Fitzwilliam, somewhat bewildered.

Bingley looked offended and disappointed, though.

“You said you would.”

“I said nothing of the kind.”

“It was implied!”

“Bingley, why will you insist on misunderstanding me?”

“Darcy, you think this will all be easy for me, that I will make a good impression with no difficulties, but it won’t and I won’t. I’m as nervous as ever Georgiana could be.”

Fitzwilliam nourished an inward smile at this confession, but his resoluteness was failing him.

“Darcy, I want someone there on whom I know I can depend to support me, and I can depend on you. I thought you would be coming.”

Can I deny him that?

“I shall not dance,” he said finally, and walked up to his room, missing completely Bingley’s gratified and sincere smile and thanks, but feeling slightly guilty that he had ever thought of disappointing him.

However, he grumbled as he changed himself quickly into suitable clothes to be seen in, and mentally prepared himself. Hertfordshire residents, he would meet after all. He couldn’t avoid it, could he, not even if he had every reason to?

But in his heart, he knew Bingley was right, and that was irksome. He confessed to a sort of pride in knowing that he was more knowledgeable than Charles. No, not pride. It was honest fact. But here, Charles Bingley had (probably unknowingly) made his excuse groundless, nearly rubbed it in his face, and insisted that he go to the Assembly. Well, but he should not get the pleasure of seeing Fitzwilliam Darcy enjoying himself unless there was a worthy cause for such emotion. Ha, no, he would be Bingley’s support, but was determined to be displeased rather than have Bingley triumph again.

“Darcy! We shall be late!”

Fitzwilliam quickly grabbed his cloak, and, with a parting burial of his hopes of a domestic evening, took a deep breath, stood up straight, and set his mind on being whatever Bingley needed him to be.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Darcy. We have been waiting some time.”

If Miss Bingley had known the irritation this caused her Darcy, she would have held her tongue.

“I am glad you will come,” said Bingley, granting Darcy the smile that the latter had overlooked before. Fitzwilliam gave him a faint smile back as he climbed into the carriage. He resolved never to think of abandoning his friend again. It was his duty to be of use here, and at least it was not a totally unpleasant one for his nature.

There were no words as they rode to the small Assembly. Small, he assumed it would be, in such an area. Bingley always said that Darcy was pessimistic, and Fitzwilliam couldn’t help noticing every time that tendency appeared in himself, however he felt that it was not wrong to be so.

Yes, the Assembly was most certainly small. And few chaises to be seen, he noted. They walked in, Bingley smiling, Miss Bingley with an indifferent look, and he with as blank a look as he could portray.

He didn’t really notice who introduced Bingley and, by proxy, himself, or to whom they were introduced. He was seeing how little use he could be to Bingley, except as an ornament, a rich man to make others envy. How he hated that idea. That Bingley would drag him—no, Bingley was insecure. It was to Bingley’s credit that he showed no improper pride, but confidence? The man didn’t know the meaning of the word, Fitzwilliam was sure, at least not in comparison to himself. Fitzwilliam planted himself in a corner, and fell into recollections that had nothing to do with the country-dances and conversation that were all around him. His reveries were often about Bingley, and he noticed with interest Bingley’s partners, which were many.

His first was exceptionally lovely, Fitzwilliam granted, but his second had hardly a good feature. Which prompted Fitzwilliam to pay attention to the other young women, but he soon noticed that Bingley had instinctively found the loveliest one, and indeed the only lovely one. There were some who were pretty, but nothing like Miss—he believed it was Miss Bennet. No, Hertfordshire had no cause for such boasts as he had heard Bingley relate the other day.

Bingley’s every movement was his study, being the only thing that was nearly interesting, but he could not help hearing conversations all about him that gave him little pleasure. Some matrons were discussing matrimony for their daughters, in terms that left him with no other feeling than disgust. “Setting their cap” for a man, was what the mothers readily approved of when they saw it in their daughters, also “gaining” them. Such an affront to gentility! And the men were talking of drink, or cards, or horses, and with if at least fewer vulgarities, with no less ignorance. There were some young ladies ogling the few young men that were there, and giggling frantically whenever one looked their way. Typical country assembly was his most gracious determination.

Then he saw Bingley leave his partner, who, he noted, was Miss Bennet again, and walk over towards him. He was prepared to congratulate his friend on his success, for he had heard many people speak of “Mr. Bingley” with admiration. But Bingley’s expression should have warned him, and all preparations went to the wind with the first words out of Bingley’s mouth.

“Come, Darcy, I must have you dance. I can’t bear to see you standing about in such a stupid manner.”

Bingley was insufferable. Had he not noticed the hints? No, Bingley was innocent and fond of dancing. Now he needed firmness. Masking his weariness with this oft-breached subject as best he could, he answered:

“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner, an impossibility here. At such an Assembly as this”—with a wave of the hand towards the giggling girls—“it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.”

There, Bingley! Misunderstand that, if you can!

Bingley made some comment on the great amount of pretty girls, and how fastidious Darcy would be if he could not resist their charms. Here, perhaps, Fitzwilliam could turn the conversation, and return to his original intention.

“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” he complimented very smoothly.

Fitzwilliam was relieved and was grateful for Bingley’s nature, as Bingley dissolved into ardent admiration of Miss Bennet. All was mended. But no, Bingley was in too good a humor to be considerate of his friend’s inclinations.

“But there is another Miss Bennet sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Let me ask my partner to introduce you!”

Fitzwilliam turned around, feeling completely cold towards Bingley’s intentions at that moment, and beheld the young lady. Bingley thought her very pretty, but Fitzwilliam saw no resemblance between that young lady and the elder Miss Bennet. If it had been any other man, Fitzwilliam would not have tolerated such insolence. To ask a man, whom he knew to dislike dancing, to ask a young lady in the middle of a dance! And when the man had not danced another dance that evening with any but Miss Bingley and her sister, it was uncommonly particular attention, which he was surprised Bingley missed. It was like shouting out a proposal to such a company as this. He would squelch Bingley, once and for all.

“She is tolerable, I suppose,” he answered, wishing that that which he admired in Bingley in all other points were not so problematic here. “But not handsome enough to tempt me. And I am in no humor to give consequence to ladies who are slighted by other men.”

Go away, Bingley, please. I will not raise any hopes here, of all places.

“Go back to your partner, and enjoy her smiles. You are wasting your time with me.”

Bingley, it appeared, did finally understand, for he sighed and returned smiling to his partner.

Out of the corner of his eye, Fitzwilliam saw the young lady recommended by Bingley look almost amused, and suddenly wondered if she had heard their conversation. He did recall, now, that she had caught his eye the moment before. Well, as if that was of any consequence. She probably did not hear him. And if she did, what better set-down for her grasping and vulgar parents? Now feeling in a very foul humor, he tried to think on something pleasant: Pemberley, and Georgiana.

But he couldn’t help but notice Bingley’s glance at him when he led the lady whom Fitzwilliam had refused (he later learned she was Miss Elizabeth Bennet: one of the renowned beauties of Hertfordshire) being led to the floor by Bingley himself. Did Bingley disapprove of him? It was not something to help his mood, however justified he felt.

It was very late before they were back at Netherfield.