7 • Demonstration

James lay in bed, the cat on his chest while he pondered all he had heard. He had felt inclined to toss Wickham’s accusations aside until he had mentioned the Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Mr. Collins had not been silent regarding her throughout the evening but James had the suspicion he was ignorant of the lady’s nephew. Wickham had procured that information himself, and with such ease as to give it credence.

“What is it?”

The cat’s paw flexed on his collarbone as if to keep him from startling and disturbing her rest. Instead, James looked at Jane with surprise. She smiled softly and extended a finger to wiggle between the cat’s ears. “She purrs so loudly when you’re awake, as if she’s trying to be heard over your thoughts.”

As if in confirmation, each exhalation yielded loud dry rumbles, only broken by a sharp yawn. Her jaws spread so far she rolled onto her side, whiskers tickling James’ neck. Jane chortled quietly.

“Darcy is Lady de Bourgh’s nephew,” he said.

“Oh?” her tawny brows lifted.

“Wickham grew up with him.”

“Based on their confrontation, the years did not reap fondness?”

He hesitated. “No.”

Jane rolled onto her stomach, holding the pillow to her chest for leverage. “Did Wickham tell you all this last night?”

James’ brow furrowed, but a look to the window revealed dawn lightening the sky. “Yes.”

“Why does another family’s disputes trouble you?”

“Because Charles and Darcy have remained close, and Charles is too transparent to cause discord.”

“Excuse you,” Jane scolded. “I may become the lady of his household.”

“Indeed,” James seconded, “which means you may have to witness these matters firsthand. The Darcys and de Bourghs are not Bingleys, but their proximity may erase such distinctions. I don’t want you caught within their divisions.”

She was quiet for a time before she asked, “Was Wickham’s departure from Lord Darcy so severe?”

James relayed what had crossed between Mr. Wickham and himself. Jane listened patiently, with astonishment and concern. When he had finished, it was not in her nature to question anyone who revealed even a drop of good intention. This resulted in her speaking for all parties, insisting, “They have both been deceived, I think. We can form no idea on how, exactly. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them.”

James listened and voiced, “I do remember his saying at Netherfield of the implacability of his resentments. An unforgiving temper would yield a dreadful disposition.”

“You can’t take that as his attestation,” Jane defended. “Consider this from Mr. Darcy’s side, to be treating his father’s favorite in such a manner—and one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, especially on who has such value for his character, could be capable of it.”

“Well do exonerate everyone, will you?” James retorted. “I’ll have no one to despise otherwise.”

She gave him a look. “His most intimate friends cannot be so deceived of him, can they? I admit Charles’ kindness can make him ignorant but his sisters not so.”

James huffed, the feline rising on his chest. “I am more inclined to think the sisters see Darcy as a rare beast for capture than Wickham is able to craft such an intricate lie. Such facts and names were given with ease, but let Darcy contradict them if he can.”

“You’re not going to confront him about this, are you?” Jane startled. “Lizzy, please, just leave this alone. Wickham will go wherever the king bids and Darcy or his enemies need never enter our lives again. I certainly shan’t ask any Bingley for their knowledge about it.”

When they might see a Bingley again was unknown until later that very morning. James heard the commotion downstairs from his place within the cat’s fur. Lifting his head from the soft fur, he recognized Charles’ voice bidding the family good morning. “Oh! But where is the young Mr. Bennet?”

“The oaf is lazing upstairs!” Lydia chimed.

“Hush,” Jane’s soft voice defended. “Forgive him, he hardly slept last night.”

“My word, doing what?” came Caroline’s voice. James lowered his head back down. He let his consciousness fade back to slumber, until he knew by the sudden volume of his sisters that Charles had finally made the arrangements for his ball.

When he heard the Bingleys depart, he descended the stairs to find his family fluttering at the dining table, apart from Mary, Mr. Bennet, and Mr. Collins, who appeared tranquil in comparison. Lydia was singing the melody of her favorite dance before she looked upon Collins.

“Do you dance, Mr. Collins?”

He perked up pleasantly. “I am by no means of opinion, I assure you, that a ball of this kind can have an evil tendency. I am so far from objecting to dancing that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening. I dread neither a rebuke from the Archbishop or Lady Catherine, and I take this opportunity to ask one of my cousins of soliciting the first two dances of the evening.”

“First two?” Lydia huffed.

“Are you volunteering, darling?” Mr. Bennet smiled to himself from behind his London newspaper. Lydia gaped like a horrified fish until Mary diverted their attention.

“While I can have my mornings to myself, I think it no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all, and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for everybody.”

Lydia was truly lost for speech. Mr. Bennet chuckled and patted her hand. “I am sure the young men will await your hand patiently for a dance.”

As for James, he listened to Lydia distracting herself by talking to no one in particular about which members of the regiments were going to the ball. When Mr. Collins left she hissed how she had anticipated giving those dances to Mr. Wickham or a few other names lost on James’ ear.

“Lydia,” their mother scolded. “Just last night I heard Mr. Collins compliment you on your wit and vivacity. And what a thought: to be the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, right across from Rosings Park!”

The roses in Lydia’s cheeks wilted and James coughed over his large cup of tea. The threat of Mr. Collins’ finding a wife was suddenly a very real terror in Lydia’s eyes, while Mary was contemplatively silent beside her.

It was an even greater dread that it rained all but constantly until the night of the Netherfield ball, limiting the youngest Bennets’ visits to Meryton. Not that James minded; he occupied himself in the kitchen with the windows open, listening to the rain while wax and oils simmered on the stove. His father helped him cast the larger candles while Jane quite liked staining paper for labels or wrappings; overall decorating the candles for their intended recipients.

When the evening of the ball arrived, the Bennet household was all but turned upside-down. Ribbons and petticoat skirts hung from doorways while lost mates of shoes were kicked aside in the corridors.

“Mama! My blue one! Where’s my blue one?” Lydia called through the walls.

James and Jane frowned at one another and then at the robin’s egg dress she had somehow left in their room. “Don’t tell her,” James brightened.

Jane guffawed. “You’re cruel.”

“It’s the fool’s fault she left it here. Are you ready?”

She sat at the vanity table for him to stand behind her and do her hair. Baby’s breath and forget-me-not flowers waited on the surface for him to braid delicately into her hair. He had already combed his hair and was dressed in his grey trousers and waistcoat though his shirt had yet to be tucked in. He could hear through the wall that Lydia settled on her green dress instead and was eagerly imagining what Mr. Wickham would be wearing.

“The winter dress attire or the summer?” she asked Kitty loudly. “Oh, I do hope it’s the winter!”

“Speaking of,” Mr. Bennet was heard, “It will be a cold evening. Bring your coats.”

“Kitty, could you find my shawl—”

“Coat, Lydia,” her father reiterated. “Surely you can bear to be seen in it for the moment it takes to get out of the carriage and reach the cloak room.”

“But papa—”

James interrupted, “If I have to take care of you because you couldn’t be bothered to wear proper garments, I’ll make you drink three pots of vinegar.”

The house was silent. Then they saw a coat angrily land on the banister outside of their door, ready to be taken downstairs.

Dinner was a rushed affair, the daughters eager to taste the sort of hors d'oeuvres a cook such as the Bingleys could afford would make. By the time they piled into their carriage and entered the queue of guests and regimental horse riders, James was just as eager as Lydia to see Wickham, simply for the reason that it meant getting out of the carriage.

“Oh, there’s the Colonel! And—” Lydia was pointing out of the window.

“Do you see Wickham?” Kitty asked.

“Not yet! He must already be inside!”

James, of course, had not shared with her how one of their hosts might allow all of the regiments in, apart from one. Thinking upon it now, he realized he was quite eager to see Wickham for his own personal reasons. He swallowed thickly in the stuffy carriage and waited patiently for them to rock to a final stop.

“Goodness,” Mrs. Bennet sighed, her fan waving energetically despite the descent of late autumn around them. “Go on girls, up you get. We mustn’t keep Netherfield waiting.”

Lydia flew up the stairs with Kitty in tow. Mr. Collins had ridden with Mr. Hill on the box seat, and was now busy admiring various persons he thought he recognized from Lady de Bourgh’s card table. No one paid him much attention.

“Jane, dear,” their mother tried to usher ahead. “Why don’t you greet him with your father?”

“I’ll stay behind, mama,” she refused kindly. This obviously displeased their mother but they were already within the entrance of Netherfield, and Charles stood beside his sisters to welcome their guests. His eyes brightened upon seeing them.

“Mr. Bennet! I’m so pleased you could make it! How are you, Miss Lydia and Katherine?”

They curtsied in unison before Lydia spoke for the both of them. “We’re absolutely breathless at the decorations! The music within sounds divine already. I’m so pleased you kept your word for a ball, Mr. Bingley!”

“A person is nothing without their word,” he smiled kindly, and then turned, “Wouldn’t you agree, William?”

The family turned to see Lord Darcy coming down the grand staircase to meet them. “I do,” he said simply.

Lydia leered slightly and reclaimed Bingley’s focus. “I am so glad you invited the regiments! I am so eager to be reacquainted with Colonel Forrester, Mr. Wickham, and of course, Mr. Denny,” she said, considering herself clever.

None of the Bingleys gave any reaction to the names she offered apart from Charles. “We’ve just met Mr. Denny,” he chimed. “Your aunt and uncle Philips arrived with him not moments prior.”

James let his eyes slide to Darcy on the step, his added elevation allowing him to examine the heads coming through the doors, those craned to see the high ceilings of Netherfield house, as well as ogling him and the Bingleys in turn.

“All right,” Mr. Bennet ushered gently. Lydia, Kitty, and Mary went ahead through to the other rooms. Mr. Bennet stayed long enough to keep Mr. Collins’s introduction brief, along with Mrs. Bennet’s. This left Jane and James to finish.

Charles took her hand and kissed its back. “You are a vision, Miss Bennet.”

Pink roses blossomed in Jane’s cheeks as Caroline said, “You’ve dressed with more than usual care, Mr. Bennet.”

Charles tore his gaze from Jane to see James’ cool grey trousers under his newer buttoned, black coat. It was thin and weak against the approaching winter, but for a formal engagement, it tapered to his waste and accentuated his figure very well. James chose to keep his tongue dull at this moment and remained silent. Charles smiled and reached for his hand. “Jamie, you look well—”

James did not take his hand, causing them to look down at the canvas sack he was offering, along with a medium sized wooden crate. “It’s rather late in the season,” he apologized, “but for the insects.”

Charles opened the bag to see the tall column of a cedar candle. Then in the crate, were much smaller candles of coffee, cinnamon, wine, lavender, and earl grey. Charles picked one up at random to smell, his features flattening with awe. “You made these for us? Jamie, you needn’t have—”

He shook his head. “It was the least I could do. Opening one’s home to strangers is no small thing, no matter how large the vessel is. I hope wherever you settle, these might help the transition.”

Charles was truly expressionless at this. Caroline frowned as her eyes wandered over the personal candles. She picked up the one smelling faintly of sweet rosé. “There is one for each of us?”

“Jane, you decorated these, surely?” Mrs. Hurst diverted with her own awe. “Your calligraphy is marvelous—”

Charles broke through his sisters on either side of him and pulled James close in embrace. The air startled out of James’ chest upon the abrupt contact, his arms opening to move the crate aside, leaving them chest to chest. James’ eyes softened, his lashes heavily fluttering over his eyes. The sensation of Charles against him was…more than pleasant.

“Charles, this is quite inappropriate,” Caroline reminded quietly.

James felt Charles’ fist clench the back of his coat before he unwillingly released him. “Shall we light the big one, then? Tis not the season for mosquitos but the flies stubbornly abound.”

And so a footman took the gifts and the Bennet siblings moved on. They found their sisters in the room with the food, decoratively piled on silver tiers. Lydia and Kitty were eagerly pestering their aunt and Mr. Denny, the latter of whom was looking and sounding apologetic upon the eldest siblings’ arrival.

“Oh!” Lydia exclaimed haughtily. “But he must be here! He wouldn’t dare miss such an occasion!”

“I am sorry, my dear,” Mr. Denny said with great sadness. “I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now if he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here.”

Mr. Denny stopped quickly with a glance around them. This part of his intelligence, though ignored by Lydia, was caught by James. It had previously been a source of reprieve or humour, waiting to meet Mr. Wickham here, but now the emptiness of his absence left James realizing how desperately he had wanted to see him. After the warmth Charles had left on his coat front, James had been looking forward to Wickham’s conversation, his wit, as well as his open understanding. Against his better judgment, James felt a keen sharpening of understanding regarding the displeasure shared amongst his younger sisters towards Mr. Darcy.

It was a strange surprise when the man himself, the Bingleys, and the Hursts joined the rest of the party, having quickly finished greeting the rest of their guests. It was an even better surprise that Charlotte Lucas was with them, having arrived last. She and James greeted each other immediately, the latter drawing her away to the cloak room.

“Goodness, you haven’t tired of company already?” she teased, handing her satin, wool-lined cloak to the footman. “This is quick, even for you.”

They exchanged jaded expressions with one another as he also transferred his coat. As they left the room, he said tersely. “Wickham is not here.”

“Am I supposed to know who that is?”

He quickly informed her of everything that had transpired between himself and Wickham, including the past Wickham had shared.

Charlotte listened with great patience and receptivity. “I understand your liking and unease, but really, I’m surprised at you. Your sisters could each experience the same event and then retell the account in vastly different detail. To so quickly despise Lord Darcy seems a bit illogical.”

“You sound like Jane,” he grumbled.

“I should hope so,” Charlotte said with lifted brows. “She is the keenest Bennet apart from you and your father. That is immensely flattering, thank you.”

He could not help but laugh, and she shared in his mirth. Her gloved hand touched his cheek. “Really, Lizzy, you were not formed for ill humour; I miss the days when anger and sorrow did not dwell long in your spirits—”

“Charming moldings,” Mr. Collins interrupted. His head was craned toward the domed ceiling. “Marvelous frescoes. Not as many as Lady Catherine would deem appropriate but a charming country estate, nonetheless.”

He continued on his way, possibly not even noticing to whom he had spoken. “Who was that?” Charlotte wondered.

“That,” James said bluntly, “is my cousin. Mr. Collins.”

“Oh,” she acknowledged.

“Mm,” he returned, watching the man interact more with the Bingleys' furniture than people until the first dance was announced, which he clearly intended to follow through with Lydia.

“When did he arrive?” Charlotte asked as they moved to the ballroom and watched Lydia remarkably handle Mr. Collins’ missteps. It was likely due to Kitty and her partner beside them that Lydia did not erupt then and there.

“A year ago? A month? It’s hard to say now.”

“What is his given name?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You’re certainly a harvest of information,” she retorted.

“I can tell you about Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her parsonage,” he returned, which made her frown before he related the oddities of his cousin to her.

“Mr. Darcy’s aunt?” she brightened with interest. “Well they ought to know one another shouldn’t they?”

“They don’t,” he corrected, “And I daresay I wouldn’t wish that experience on Darcy.”

“What experience?”

They both turned toward the unmistakable voice. “Lord Darcy,” Charlotte curtsied, and James bowed as much as the closeness of people allowed. “We were just watching the dance. James’ sisters and cousin are in it.”

Darcy nodded distantly, his gaze vaguely crossing over the dancers. “It is finishing.”

Indeed it was, as announced by the seething arrival of Lydia beside James. “I demand salvation,” she all but hissed.

“How fortunate, you’re with a cleric,” he said pleasantly.

“He thinks I am to dance with him twice!”

“I remember, that is what was promised,” he nodded.

“Lizzy!” she hissed desperately.

“What am I to do?”

“I don’t know! Dance with him yourself!”

“I think that might put mama in an early grave,” he declined. “I have already done my part in greying her hair.”

“Please, Lizzy!” she pleaded, as Mr. Collins joined them.

“I have not decided if the music is avant garde or misplaced. I should think I would have heard the melodies of high fashion but I do understand that one’s preference limits one’s awareness in these matters.”

“It is quite all right, Mr. Collins,” Lydia proclaimed. “An unknown melody can misplace one’s steps a great deal. It’s the unfamiliarity, you know.”

“I do,” he nodded. “I have been credited many a time for my lightness of step and quickness of foot.”

“I can’t imagine where,” Lydia said bluntly, and then her tone changed. James eyed her narrowly even before she had reached her point. “Mr. Collins, I am afraid I’ll need to gracefully decline our next dance. That is, unless I have a proper demonstration. You know, Jamie is also known to be good on his feet.”

She cast her charming smile on her brother, whose silence held the weight of sororicide. Mr. Collins was considering. “It would be quite unprecedented for two men to partner for the dance, however I suppose this would not be a coupling, so much as a teaching and demonstration. Indeed.”

James had the horror of his cousin’s gaze landing on him. “Cousin, would you do me the kindness of teaching me the dance?”

James was suddenly jealous of water and its ability to evaporate. “I do not think this the right place and time—”

“It is absolutely the right place and time,” Lydia interrupted sharply, her charm fading. “Mama is with Lady Lucas in the other room along with most of the officers. The start of the ball is the best time for a demonstration, before the guests eat and drink their fill and come to the ballroom.”

Do this while there are so few eyes, so I needn’t be seen in your stead! she glared silently. They stared venom at each other.

“The lesson shan’t last four minutes,” Charlotte said beside him. James looked every bit betrayed.

James found himself in the line of dancers, facing Mr. Collins. The only comfort was that it was a group dance in which a leader and a follower were not determined, and Jane and Charles stood beside him. They peeked at him and he explained tersely, “He asked for a demonstration.”

They nodded their mutual understanding as well as silent apologies.

Watching Collins dance had been a sorry affair. Being the partner to it was something else entirely. It was a dance of mortification.

Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn, often moved wrongly without being aware of it, despite the very obvious examples all around him. He bumped into Charles and very nearly stepped on his feet. When it came time to walk around each other in a counter-clockwise circle, he insisted on doing the opposite. When the dancers held hands to form a circle, Collins was meant to stand opposite James; instead he crossed in front of Jane, thinking he was meant to hold the hand of his partner, not the people next to him. While some might think this romantic, it disoriented everyone involved.

He returned to Charlotte’s side with the same absent-mindedness that had taken him to the dance to begin with. His jaw hung open since Mr. Collins first rejected one of his corrections, and he had never quite closed it. “Dear Lizzy,” Charlotte giggled warily. “You look as if you’ve just returned from war.”

He inhaled as if his lungs had been empty for the entirety of the dance. “I wonder if this is how it feels.”

She laughed fully and pulled him into the next dance. The familiarity of Charlotte rejuvenated James’ spirits, who then danced with a local officer’s sister alongside her brother and Kitty. They seemed as close as he and Jane, lending to merry and pleasant conversation between the four of them before he danced with the Longs’ daughter beside Jane and Charles once more, with Charlotte nearby. Afterward, the four of them went to the wine display with laughter in their throats. James finished a glass of water before starting his second helping of wine. He turned, intending to ask Charlotte for another dance—

“Mr. Bennet.” Lord Darcy stood behind him instead. “Would you join me in the parlour adjacent to the library during the next dance?”

“Alright.”

Darcy nodded slightly and left.

It was a long moment before James processed what had occurred. Charlotte stood beside him, patiently waiting. Slowly, he looked at her. She nodded. He shook his head in immense disbelief, “What? Why?”

Charlotte, greatly amused, shook her head in turn. “I cannot say. I daresay you may find him very agreeable. Go, the musicians are almost ready. But Lizzy—”

She caught his sleeve, “I caution you to guard your tongue. Darcy may be the only lord here but this does not change his station. Do not let your fancy for Wickham mark your behavior as unpleasant in Darcy’s eye, a man whose consequence is ten times that of Wickham.”

This left Jamie without words, so he made no answer as she gave him a little push. James was now aware of how his raiment stuck to him after his exertions. He made his way to the breakfast parlour, knowing it was next to the library, but when he arrived guests were visiting the pudding table, whereas Darcy was nowhere to be seen.

Crossing through to the library, a footman gave him a look, and James knew why as he entered the dark and empty library. James supposed it was his previous occupancy in this house that allowed him to pass. As he traversed the library, James peered out of the windows at the veranda, and he knew the lack of light shining through other windows meant he had entered the side of the house restricted to guests.

Apart from the doors to the terrace and breakfast parlour, there was only one other door in the library. James’ hand lingered on the knob. Should he knock? He was invited, but it may not be the correct room…

He knocked lightly, opening the door on silent hinges. Darcy stood in the center of an unfurnished room, beneath the bluish shards of moonlight striking the floor from windows set within the ceiling. Dying leaves had sporadically fallen over the glass, leaving kaleidoscopic shadows.

James shut the door behind him, and Darcy turned to him, but they stood for some time without speaking a word. James could hear the music faintly through the walls, and began to wonder exactly how long Darcy intended to keep him here. Having been invited, he considered not breaking the silence, but then impatiently fancied a sort of punishment in making the man speak.

“You asked me here, my lord?”

“Yes,” Darcy replied. Then silence.

“Why?” James drawled slowly. Charlotte might have fainted at the slight.

Darcy, however, gave no indication of insult. Or it was his request in which James' punishment awaited: “I would appreciate your hand in this dance.”

Breath wavered in James throat as if he had not heard him. “Pardon?” he blurted.

“A demonstration, as it was called,” Darcy reiterated.

James blinked, analyzing. “You want me to dance with you? This dance is specifically for a man and a woman.”

“A leader and a follower, yes.”

James understood, now, Darcy’s reasons for bringing him here. “I suppose you’re not asking me to teach you how to follow. But you’ve danced before.”

“I have, although…” Darcy wavered, “it does not bring me the sense of ease with which your feet seem to move.”

James relaxed somewhat. “You mean your dance teachers could not find a method to help you keep to a tempo?”

Darcy’s eyes did not move from him. “More like I outgrew their teachings quicker than they could manage.”

James inclined his chin, understanding. It was not abnormal for young Meryton boys to suddenly outgrow their trousers and leave their boyish grace behind. “What would you have me do?”

“Can you follow?”

“I have four headstrong sisters, of course I can follow.”

It was a testament to either Darcy’s patience or his determination that he simply gestured for James to stand opposite him. Darcy bowed at the hips, inducing James to as well. The dance was well underway in the main ballroom but the tempo was repetitive, allowing them to listen and wait for the moment the step sequence restarted—

The immediacy of their steps falling into place was lost in the wake of Darcy’s lack of gloves. The way he moved with James was easy, reminding him of Charlotte but the bare skin holding his hand was far from her satin. They stepped toward one another, Darcy taking James’ hand as they turned to walk through the rows of dancers who were not there. The shadows of the windowpanes above served as their markers, parting ways to walk around invisible dancers like the curves of cloverleaves. Resuming their place in the line, they stepped toward one another, and stepped back, the dance bringing them together and then pulling them away.

“This is usually when you engage your partner in conversation,” James reminded the next they came together.

“Is it,” Darcy said, not so much as a question but a reply.

James frowned slightly as they moved down the line. “Do the sisters not speak to you when you dance with them?”

“They speak. I listen,” he answered, striding through the clover curve. James could not help but laugh. Caroline’s courting seemed to be as effective as a fly bouncing off a horse’s flank. Darcy’s eyes were on him. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Not you, no.”

“What then?”

Darcy took his hand, and they walked. “No no, if you’re here to practice, it is your turn to remark on something trivial, such as the size of the room, or the number of couples.”

Darcy’s lips curved with a glance at the lack thereof around them. “I hadn’t considered—do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?”

“Sometimes. It would look odd to be entirely silent, yet for the advantage of some, conversation may be arranged as such they may have the convenience of saying as little as possible.”

“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that your are gratifying mine?”

“I am not the one disgusted by dancing with a man, my lord,” James declared quietly.

Darcy went silent, but James could feel his gaze on him all the while. Finally, “You were listening, then. At the Meryton ball.”

“I am capable of observing how private balls are pleasanter than public ones. As gatekeeper, you may limit the options and choose more specifically who to bother dancing with.”

“Your tone suggests this is a trait not to be desired,” Darcy intuited.

“That is not for me to say,” James countered. “I cannot ignore a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We share an unsocial, taciturn disposition.”

“You mean to insult me, James,” Darcy said, taking him by surprise. They faced each other across the line. “We do not share this disposition at all. I have only seen amiable qualities as to be desired in social environments.”

James was not sure how to respond, much less was he sure if Darcy had just given him a compliment. He made no answer, and they were again silent until James realized they had danced through silence and another song had started in the distance. James’ step halted, his hand having lifted to take Darcy’s hand once more—

“Do you and your sisters often walk to Meryton?” Darcy inquired, pulling him into the next dance. This music was slower. Darcy’s palm rested against James’ as they revolved around one another.

“Yes,” he admitted, “well…we are close to our mother’s sister.”

“Mm,” Darcy acknowledged, and whether this was his final response or not was negated by James’ step faltering. Darcy looked him over with vacant inquiry.

“I don’t know these steps,” he admitted reluctantly.

“It is a variation of the waltz,” Darcy explained.

“Oh,” James scoffed. “I’ve never danced the waltz.”

“Why not?”

James peered at him. “We country folk prefer something a bit more lively. A ball for us is a large affair. The waltz is…”

“Intimate,” Darcy finished.

“There’s a word for it—what are you doing?”

“Teaching you,” Darcy said as he helped James stand erect with a hand on his waist, pulling him forward. “It is an equal exchange, is it not?”

James was inclined to think not. Darcy moved with the skill of a well-taught pupil. The only area he lacked prowess in was conversation.

“What—?”

“We waltz down the line, and then part similar to before,” Darcy narrated. “Right foot back.”

“If a woman ever asks me to waltz, I will lose my dignity as a partner,” James muttered, watching Darcy’s feet.

Darcy chuckled, snapping James’ gaze back up. “It is easier than you think,” he assured, and pulled James along. Just as before, once they were down the line, Darcy released him and they mirrored each other’s curved paths. They stepped together, palms touching as they joined in the parting touch, and stepped back; seemingly for the other couples to waltz past. When they rejoined Darcy instructed, “Put your hand on my shoulder.”

James lifted a brow at that. He had a wonderful view of the man’s cravat. White silk—

His spine shot erect as fingertips slid up his spine. “Do not slouch,” Darcy explained. “If the idea is to converse with your partner, you must look at them.”

“What were we even speaking of?” James all but growled.

“Your aunt,” Darcy said rather pleasantly.

James paused, his thoughts coming full circle before he ventured, “Yes, when you met us the other day, we had visted her and had just been forming a new acquaintance.”

The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread his features. “Do not speak of him.”

Their dance slowed. “You truly hate him so much?”

“Yes,” Darcy surprised him. “If love and hate rest within the same chamber of the heart, he has marked his place in mine.” They stood stagnantly in the light, Darcy stiff around him.

“Love?” James echoed with disdain. “Then he has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship, and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”

Darcy’s features were hard, but moonlight cut through his irises, making his eyes appear both cold and soft, sunken within his face. “Wickham is blessed with the happy manners that ensure his making friends. Whether he may be capable of retaining them is less certain... Has he so captured your loyalties?”

Yes James was ready to say, but…something…in his tone made James falter. “He has my sympathies,” he revised.

Darcy’s lips parted, a furrow between his brows. “Then he has told you very little.”

Air stopped in James’ throat. “What?”

Darcy was close. He spoke softly. “As one who values the study of people, I would think prejudice beneath you.”

James blinked, unable to navigate where this was going. “I remember you saying you hardly ever forgave; that your resentment, once created, was unappeasable… I imagine this makes you very cautious in its creation.”

“It does,” he affirmed gently.

“Then it is incumbent for those of stubborn opinion to secure a proper judgment at first.”

“To what purpose?”

James’ jaw angled upward to meet him. “To illustrate your character…my lord.”

“You may forgo my title. You forget it often enough anyway. Am I so difficult to read?”

James’ features stiffened, but not out of anger. “I am trying to make it out.”

“And what is your success?”

He swallowed thickly, gently shaking his head and looking away. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you, which puzzle me exceedingly…”

The hand holding his let go in exchange for Darcy’s fingers to run along his jaw, gently bringing their gazes back together. “Then allow me to make the correction: I was not disgusted by the prospect of dancing with a man...nor in the execution of it.”

James’s eyelashes were heavy over his eyes. He realized too late that he was staring at Darcy’s mouth. His waist was sensitive to Darcy’s hand there, as well as the slight pressure pulling them flush together. Darcy’s lips were soft and full, and James’ eyes were closed before he could help it.

Darcy’s mouth was as soft to the touch as to the eye, but not as soft as the pressure with which he applied. Light and fleeting was the kiss upon his lips, and tremulous was the breath between them when he parted.

The hand left his waist.

James could no longer feel Darcy’s breath on his mouth.

A heel clipped on the floor, opening James’ eyes.

The last he saw of Darcy was his back as he shut the door behind him. James was assaulted by two unavoidable thoughts: how desperately he had awaited a second kiss, and how swiftly Darcy had removed himself from the room.

James took several moments to recover himself before he rejoined Jane. However, upon viewing her, he saw a woman very happily settled. Standing with Charles and others, though the others were there for him they laughed with her and engaged her in eager conversation. Charles’ hand occasionally touched her waist or her hand, moments of agreement and affection. She was the lady of Netherfield in all but name.

James removed himself before meeting her, determined not to venture near her lest he shatter the moment, and future.

Charlotte was nearby, so he joined her. She brightened at the sight of him and tilted her head. He knew the words resting on her tongue but shook his head sharply, denying her inquiries as to his recent dance partner. Charlotte frowned with worry, but accepted his wishes, which was fortunate since James realized Darcy had not gone far. The man’s gaze was on Charles, clearly observing him but refraining from joining his intimate party. This, however, put him right in place to hear Charlotte’s father, Sir William Lucas, address James.

“Hello, Jamie,” he said a bit loudly, and far from sober. “Viewing the local rituals?” he said with a blatant look at Jane and Charles. He lifted his walking stick to gesture about the room, “Lovely venue it will be, certainly…for a certain desirable event. What congratulations will flow in! Ah, but let me not disturb ye young people.”

On any other occasion, James would not have minded Sir William’s banter, but as soon as his red face passed by, Darcy’s stern and shocked one was in view. He met James’ eyes for such a moment as might have been accidental, so sharply did he cut his gaze to Charles as if he was just now understanding what was happening between them.

It was a strange and wholly unwelcome distraction in the arrival of Mr. Collins, who disclosed, “I have just found out, by singular accident, that there is now in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of this house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have though of my meeting with a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discover is made in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.”

“You are not going to introduce yourself to Lord Darcy,” James said, both demanding and beseeching.

“Indeed I am,” Mr. Collins nodded. “I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s nephew, cousin! It will be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se’nnight.”

“Your ignorance is finely placed,” James hissed darkly. “You addressing him without introduction will be considered an impertinent freedom. Forgo whatever compliments to his aunt.”

“Mr. Bennet,” Collins said, in what he thought was an assertive tone, “cousins though we are, I am of a clerical office, and I consider such offices to be as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom—”

Both Charlotte and James were the epitome of blunt and unflattering surprise. Collins said a great deal more regarding clergy-this or humility-that but it was lost on James until he finished with the insult, “Pardon me for neglecting your advice, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young farmer like yourself.”

He watched in horror as the man so unfortunately tied to his family approached the most prominent member of the assembly. It was a small consolation to see the absolute shock and perplexity on Darcy’s features.

“Did he just equate himself with the king of England?” Charlotte said with a good deal of dark humour and awe.

“As well as the stupidest gutter rat,” James rephrased. He turned to leave her. “I’ve lost my patience with this place.”

“Jamie!”

James turned to find Charles too near to escape. “Were you going outside? That sounds lovely. It has gotten quite stuffy in here.”

“No, I…I was leaving.”

Charles stared at him. “Leaving? Is the ball really so terrible?”

“Of course not,” Charlotte salvaged with a look to James. “Jamie isn’t feeling well.”

“Is the heat too much?” Charles wondered eagerly. “Come, we must go outside.”

Charles grasped two glasses of wine on their way out, and thus James was swept to the veranda, the evening appearing far from over. “I have missed you,” Charles said, looking out over the stretch of grass, gardens, and lake, made blue by the night. “We’ve barely spoken tonight. I feel as if I’ve barely seen you in weeks.”

He handed a glass to James, who simply set it down for a maid to find later. Charles’ lips on his own paused, and lifted. He joined James where he leaned against the balcony. “What is the matter?”

He sighed, “A growing number of things.”

“That sounds dreadful,” he uttered, deadpan.

“Indeed,” James could not help but huff a laugh.

Charles’ knee bumped his thigh. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” James answered easily, refusing his gaze.

“Jamie,” Charles scolded mildly. “This is not how friendship works.”

“I’m not convinced you can claim much on the matter—” James accused, but Charles’ lips cut them short. James was washed within the familiar scent that was Charles, along with the added salt of perspiration and taste of wine. Like an ember falling into James’ chest, a sudden, hot anger infused him. As if sensing this, Charles pulled back slightly, silently asking why James was not returning his kiss.

“You should have kissed me earlier,” James almost whispered. Charles thought this an allowance to kiss him again, but James’ hand on his chest stopped him. “Charles…whatever you are seeking to explore under the excuse of drunkenness needs to stop.”

The blue in Bingley’s eyes was sober as he slowly leaned back an appropriate distance away. It hurt more than James could bear to ask, “Are you in love with my sister or aren’t you?” His voice was hoarse.

Bingley was thoughtful in his silence. “I…I feel a great deal for her. I may even love her,” he admitted.

“Then why are you here with me?” he dreaded.

“I have never been in love, so my confidence in such matters is weak,” Charles looked away. “I did not mean to take advantage, Jamie, I am sorry.”

“It is not me who deserves the apology,” he returned.

Fear was prevalent in Charles’ eyes. “Do you truly wish me to?”

James swallowed, but his throat was dry. “No. I want to be forgotten. I want Jane’s happiness. If you can provide her that, then I will be satisfied.”

Charles’s chin slowly fell as he contemplated this, inducing James to add, “I do not mean you must marry her. If the feelings are not there then they never will be, but if something is present, then nurture it. Do not distract yourself with me.”

“I understand,” he replied softly, nodding. “You…are a very good brother, Jamie. I respect and admire you for it. Please do not misunderstand, I do care for Jane very much, but I will feel amiss if our friendship comes to a close tonight.”

“Well,” James played at a scoff. “Far be it for me to be cruel to a potential brother-in-law.”

Charles smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. “I am now sorry Mr. Wickham is not here.”

Whatever cheer had been returning to James’ heart faded quickly. “Why?”

“You seemed…crestfallen when I revealed he was not here. Are you quite happy in his company?”

James knew what Charles was really asking. “Yes. No. I mean…we haven’t—”

“I understand,” he chuckled. “I hope, if he does make his reappearance, that he makes you very happy.”

James could feel Charles preparing to go back indoors, so he quickly curtailed, “Does he speak of him? Darcy, I mean.”

Charles’ brows lifted. “William? No? Oh,” he tipped his head in acquiescence. “I suppose it is no secret the Wickhams were stewards to the Darcy family until this generation. But William seems no worse for wear without a Wickham by his side, if that is what you mean?”

It wasn’t, but Charles had verified himself as ignorant. James replied, “I had just heard that Mr. Wickham and Darcy knew one another. I expected he would be here.”

“I certainly sent an invitation,” Charles provided, “but it was he who refused to come. Wickham was already well on his way out of William’s life by the time I entered their intimate circle, so he bore no obligation to meet me.”

James nodded and changed the subject. “I am feeling better now.”

“Once more unto the breach?” Charles teased. He opened his elbow to him, and James curled his arm within it.

The calm established between them was short lived, however.

Upon entering the house once more, a voice singing from the piano room paled James’ complexion. He left Charles to find Mary at the keys. It was not that she had an unpleasant voice, but a weak one, which leant itself to uneven notes which her lack of artistic style could not disguise.

Scanning the room, James found his father, who sensed his son’s eyes on him met his gaze. James silently entreated him to interfere, lest Mary be singing all night. He took the hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, approached her:

“That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.”

Mary, perplexed at having been stopped, did not quite understand and sat for some time on the seat before her father patted her hand and pulled her along. James was sorry for her but the next consequence of the evening came in the form of his mother. He found her among her usual party, particularly Lady Lucas. It was a blessing that Charlotte was among them, engaging Mr. Collins with distracting conversation, but his mother was as loud as ever, and Lord Darcy was agonizingly close enough to hear.

“Mama, if you love your children at all, you will stop talking,” he said behind her.

“Oh Lizzy darling!” she sang. “I was just talking of how soon you are likely to have a sister married!”

“Stop talking,” he uttered darkly. “I hear no wedding bells. You shouldn’t speak so loudly.”

But the wine was in her and she only scolded him for being nonsensical. “Really, darling, three or four months, and I expect I’ll have but three daughters in the house! Perhaps less soon after! Engaging to such a fine young man with such amiable connections might surely open other doorways…to other chapels!” she chortled.

He rubbed his eyes. “For heaven’s sake, speak lower. You haven’t any advantage for saying such things than to make our family a further laughing stock than we already are.”

As much as James tried to check the rapidity of his mother’s words, the endeavor was in vain. He was only saved by the arrival of Charles with Jane, and his mother began her pursuit of inviting him to their house for dinner.

“It would make me so happy for you to share a family dinner with us, Mr. Bingley! At any time! Truly, there is no need for any formal invitation, you are always welcome!”

Charles grinned, all grateful pleasure, and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her.”

Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and was ready to quit the assembly only once theirs was last carriage to leave it. She was all a flutter with mindless chitter of wedding clothes and new carriages for the event she was sure to happen. James could only appreciate Charles’ pleasant tolerance of her and ignore Darcy, who had once met James’ gaze with such a darkness as he did not want to think about.

He was pushing his arms through the sleeves of his coat, his sisters following their mother into their carriage when he heard Caroline remark behind him, “Wedding satins and—is she really speaking of garters? Not only is she out of her mind, forgetting how poor she is, but her vulgarity forgets she is still in the presence of company. William, do you agree? I am quite finished with tonight—”

“Her vulgarity is only comparable to your over familiarity, Miss Bingley,” he finished sharply. “I would appreciate it if you addressed me as Mr. or Lord Darcy.”

James did not dare turn around. Although for different reasons, he was quite finished with this night, indeed.

* * * * * * *

Not three days later, Netherfield was empty.