It was meant to flatter—soften hard features, warm pallor into glow, blur the sharper edges of aging relatives and overeager suitors. A tool of subtle courtship and social mercy.
Tonight, it only made the ballroom feel like a greenhouse—humid and overripe with expectation. The kind of evening where every word seemed to hang in the air too long, and everyone laughed a beat too loudly to be sincere.
She had danced once with Mr. Denny, who always led like he was preparing for cavalry maneuvers, and once with a Purvis cousin she had never met before and could not pick from a crowd again if she tried. He had trod on her hem, then her toe, then attempted to apologize in four different tenses while nervously attempting to discuss horology. Or possibly horticulture. She had stopped listening.
The rest of the evening had been passed smiling in a way that was technically polite, watching Jane float past on Mr. Bingley’s arm, glowing and flushed like a woman recently knighted, andquietly declining invitations from men who offered either poor conversation or poorer posture.
Elizabeth perched on the edge of a tufted settee beside a ficus that had clearly been over-watered into submission. Her journal rested on her knee, open to a fresh page. Her pencil tapped the margin like a drumbeat of determination.
She had not intended to write tonight. But her hands needed something to do. And her pride had demands.
Journal Entry – Netherfield Ball:
Miss Markham—delicate as lace. Likely to faint if someone says the word “waltz” at a proper contre danse.
Miss Lattimer—speaks only in compliments. Mostly about herself. I believe she has congratulated her own cheekbones twice.
Miss Everly—attempted to discuss agricultural yields. I fear I encouraged her. We reached turnips. I may go back later and try her on barley.
Mr. Darcy is executing a lap of the ballroom with all the enthusiasm of a man inspecting livestock. He is dancing with every eligible youngwoman in Hertfordshire, provided she has never made eye contact with me.
Miss Brereton. Miss Lavinia Goulding. Miss Margaret Wells. Miss Lattimer again.
He has declined two offers to be introduced to “charming young ladies”. They were Kitty and Mary, and they were standing right there. He pretended not to hear the first and misheard the second.
I saw no such confusion when Miss Brereton asked if he liked poetry.
I do not exist.
Correction: I exist only as something to avoid.
He has crossed the floor twice to do so.
Mr. Darcy has the social agility of a weathered boot.
She closed the journal with a snap just as Jane passed by again, cheeks flushed and lace slightly askew, Mr. Bingleytrailing beside her with the air of a man who believed punch was a romantic overture. Jane looked breathless and delighted; Elizabeth tried not to hold either against her.
Darcy stood a few feet off, speaking to no one and managing to look as though the entire arrangement—the beverages, the music, the company—had been organized exclusively to irritate him.
He made a short, formal bow as they passed and immediately turned to Miss Brereton, who had been lurking artfully in the vicinity with a fan and a neckline that had slipped fractionally lower every hour.
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. He had a perfect opportunity there, but he had not asked Jane to dance. He had not spoken a word toanyof her sisters all night. And he had not so much as looked at Elizabeth since she entered the room.
Which was all very proper, of course. Sensible. Undoubtedly in keeping with whatever code of glacial civility he held sacred.
It was not as though she had expected—well. Anything.
Certainly not attention. Or acknowledgment. Or the barest nod of acquaintance. Their understanding was perfectly clear—he needed a bride in a hurry, and neither of them wanted it to be her. So, apparently her sisters were off-limits as well.
Still.
The evening unfolded with increasing clamor—faster dances, louder laughter, and the particular kind of gaiety that often precedes a headache. Charlotte dropped beside her once and laid a hand lightly on her arm.
“Are you certain you are not ill?” she asked, low enough to pass for subtle.
Elizabeth smiled. “Only bored.”
Charlotte did not look convinced. “Then you must apply yourself. There are at least three gentlemen near the windows who appear both available and possessed of adequate limbs.”
