Page 10 of Mr Darcy’s Quizzing Glass

Revulsion had hit him within minutes of entering the fusty, overcrowded hall, full of half-drunk revellers bouncing about to clanging music played at too fast a tempo—and with a fiddle badly out of tune. A moment later, the music had thankfully ended and eyes had turned towards the Netherfield party, landing on him, the vaunted newcomer esteemed for his apparent mastery of all things known to man.

Darcy had felt their stares, heard their whispers—‘ten thousand a year’, ‘nephew of an earl’, ‘the ton’s sharpest mind’—and had done his best to avert most of their feeble-minded attempts at conversation. He had gritted his teeth and danced with Miss Bingley, who—despite being the hyperbolic source responsible for much of the ridiculous notice—had appeared just as revolted.

Looking back, he could laugh at that irony were he not so vexed. That she had taken pleasure in trumpeting their connexion was irksome but unsurprising. Miss Bingley’s character had been evident to him for nearly all of their acquaintance—well before he had discovered the quizzing glass. Her preening, grasping qualities could not be concealed beneath fashion and sharp wit, and now, in her ambitions for him, she had tarred him a pompous bang-up. I must tell Bingley to speak to her—after I wring his neck.

Sighing, he accepted the reins from the stable hand and mounted his horse. A good hard ride would help clear his mind. He rubbed his eyes and looked out over the autumn countryside. Pretty enough, but nothing to Derbyshire. He began a slow trot towards a field that looked promising for a fast clip before taking a ride up that rise—the highest point in the county, apparently, but laughably humble compared to anything found near his home.

Half an hour later, he was standing atop Oakham Mount, surveying the landscape and feeling the irony of his stance looking down upon the denizens of Meryton. It was preposterous. In ordinary circumstances, he would disregard the reverence shown him. Certainly, he did not enjoy fawning attention from anyone, particularly those staring, their mouths open in astonishment and lacking the wit to form words. He did not need a quizzing glass to see that they were all dull, vulgar, or indecently curious.

Except for her. The slim dark-haired girl with whom Bingley wished me to dance.

And there it was, the singular moment which Darcy had tried to forget but which had kept him tossing and turning much of the night. Closing his eyes, his mind drifted to the previous evening, and he tried again to make sense of it.

Bingley’s excessively cheerful chatter was unceasing. Darcy had tolerated a few introductions, but he had no desire to look at a country miss pining for a partner, and said so. But then the lady walked past, turning to give him an arch look before joining her plain friend, where she continued to gaze at him—and laugh.

Drawn by the sound, he glanced over in her direction, only to be shocked by the warm, brilliant light radiating from her. Her eyes flashed with mirth, but as dazzling as they were, it was the luminous glow around her that took his breath away.

What...how am I seeing this? Staggered, his hand flew out to grip a chair; the other reached for his waistcoat pocket in search of the quizzing glass before patting his chest to see whether he was somehow wearing the blasted thing. Of course not; the glass sat in its box in his study at Darcy House. He had felt no need of it here, where there was no one of any importance.

Never had he seen the lights and shades of a person without the quizzing glass, and here he was seeing this...bright and dazzling, yet soft and alluring light unlike any he could recall. Turning away, he rubbed at his eyes before looking again at the throngs of dancers and merrymakers. Blue and yellow gowns, grey and green jackets, heads with bonnets and without...unremarkable, a blur of revellers as common here as elsewhere. Exhaling slowly, he turned back⁠—

She was gone. Her friend stood in the shadows, observing him with what appeared to be concern. Despising that she likely saw his discomposure, Darcy turned away, mortified that he was exhibiting the same gape-mouthed gawping as everyone in this dreadful place.

I am seeing things.

He was tired. His head ached. And this place, unbearably warm and crowded, the stench of sweat and heavy perfume in the air, only worsened it. The revolting punch he had been forced to imbibe would likely wrench his gut all night.

“Have you a delicious tale or two of insipid conversation to share?” Miss Bingley stood too close, exuding contempt and her expectation that he shared it. Undoubtedly, she wished him to dance with her a second time. “Such an insufferable gathering. I am all apologies that my brother dragged you to this backwater and into the company of these primitives.”

Despite the unsteadiness he still felt, Darcy bit back a reprimand for how she had portrayed him to the ‘primitives’ and gazed out over the assemblage. His opinion softened enough to suppose they were as well-dressed and articulate as the townspeople of Lambton, and yet, unlike there, he had no reason to know them. “It is a different sort of company from that found in town, but not unlike what I find in the towns and villages in Derbyshire. Although,” he added before the lady could begin her tribute to the environs of Pemberley, “there seems to be a special kind of light in this hall, one not from the candles.”

Miss Bingley turned and surveyed the room. “I see nothing special here.” She gave him an ingratiating smile. “I am sure the light is finer in Lambton’s assembly hall, if still nothing to the ballrooms at Pemberley.”

Shrugging, he began searching for the relief of an open window, but the lady was not assuaged.

“How do you bear it, sir? None here are as distinguished as you, nor as finely dressed.”

“Is your point that I should be mortified by my failure to dress more modestly to suit my company? Or am I to be congratulated for refusing to conform to the standards of the neighbourhood?”

The lady’s confusion was apparent only by her pause; she soon recovered, however, and in a lower voice she clearly hoped inspired a mutual confidence, said, “Not a man here wears a quizzing glass. Such unrefined society!”

“Perhaps, and yet you may note I am not wearing mine. If you will excuse me.”

Darcy had moved to his right, towards a large open window, where he stood for the final hour of his sentence, staring outside, glimpsing the reflection of a soft, flickering light moving about the room, and willing himself not to have gone mad.

EIGHT

Elizabeth Bennet took her seat at the breakfast table and buttered a piece of toast as she listened to her family chatter about the previous evening at the local assembly. After her mother had finished her critique of Susannah Goulding’s ‘hideously ill-advised’ puce gown, Mr Bennet turned to his favourite observer of Meryton’s social scene.

“And you, Lizzy? Have you any thoughts to share on our neighbours’ laces and buckles, or perhaps a quip on some ill-timed dance steps?”

The amused gleam in her father’s eye prompted Elizabeth to mention the evening’s most anticipated—and yet terribly disappointing—character. After swallowing a bite of toast, she said gravely, “The renowned Mr Darcy was certainly not as I expected.”

“He was taller than even Mr Robinson,” said Lydia.

“And the knot in his neckcloth was more elaborate than anything Mr Goulding has ever displayed,” supplied Kitty.

“Ah, perhaps it was tied too tightly, and thus was responsible for his strangled expression of disgust,” Elizabeth said innocently. To say nothing of his staring.