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The thought made Darcy faintly nauseous. “I cannot tell her while we remain in France. Who knows what her reaction will be? Once we are safely on English soil, I will tell her immediately.”
Darcy had trouble identifying the emotion he read on Adele’s face. Was it…pity? “I just hope you have the time,” she said sadly.
***
The bed at chez Laurent was very comfortable—wide and soft. Elizabeth sank into the pillows gratefully. Miss Laurent had provided a simple dinner and, noticing Elizabeth’s continued fatigue despite her afternoon nap, had encouraged both of her visitors to retire early. William had not objected; no doubt he was more fatigued than he appeared.
As Elizabeth relaxed, her mind drifted, supplying her with the sorts of nonsensical ideas and images that populated the state between wakefulness and deep sleep. Eventually her drifting thoughts coalesced into an image of a scene…a ballroom, no, an assembly room.
The assembly room at Meryton. Somehow she knew the name.
Other people were dancing, but Elizabeth was not. With insufficient men to partner all the women, she was sitting out, watching the dancers and trying not to observe the two men standing before her. As their shapes sharpened in her view, Elizabeth recognized one as William. The other man, blond and smiling, seemed familiar, but she could not recall his name.
"Come, Darcy,” the man said. “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner."
William drew himself to his full height. "I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner.” He sniffed disdainfully. “At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, Bingley, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with."
This declaration might have provoked Elizabeth’s ire, but it was all so amusing. Mr. Darcy obviously thought very h
ighly of himself if he could only bring himself to dance with two women in the entire assembly.
"I would not be so fastidious as you are," cried Mr. Bingley, "for a kingdom! Upon my honor, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty."
"You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," said Mr. Darcy, regarding a very pretty blonde woman across the room. Elizabeth immediately recognized the woman as her sister Jane.
"She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld!” Mr. Bingley exclaimed. “But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you."
He means me! Elizabeth realized, frozen in her chair. She had no desire to stand up with a man as proud and disagreeable as Mr. Darcy, but it was already too late to escape his notice.
"Which do you mean?" Glancing around, Mr. Darcy caught Elizabeth’s eye. She hastily glanced away, but he had noticed her and knew she was without a partner. How awkward!
Mr. Darcy replied to his friend with cool civility. "She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."
Mr. Bingley shook his head at his friend but made no further comment before hurrying away to find Jane. Mr. Darcy’s head turned in Elizabeth’s direction, but she kept her face impassive and hoped she was not blushing. Once he had disappeared into the crowd, her breath came more easily.
There was no reason to be ashamed. Nobody had overheard. And really, the conversation had revealed nothing more than Mr. Darcy’s lack of character. A fine gentleman indeed! He might be rich in wealth but certainly not in manners.
She allowed her eyes to range about the room, but the sights blurred in her eyes. Upon most days she might have ignored such a slight or laughed at it, but today it was more difficult to forget. She had not yet managed to secure a single partner while she watched her friend Anna Preston dance with her newly betrothed. She was happy for her friend, but the news was another reminder that Elizabeth’s own chances of marrying well were vanishingly small.
And then Mr. Darcy found her tolerable, but not handsome. Her hands clenched into fists. I will not cry. I will not cry. Nonetheless, one tear escaped from her eye; she dashed it away impatiently. No doubt her skin was decorated with ugly pink blotches as well. If only she could depart the assembly that very minute! But all her sisters were agreeably engaged, and her father had disappeared into the card room. She was quite trapped.
She stood, making her way blindly through the crowd to the ladies’ retiring room, where she could dab her eyes and blow her nose—and claim she suffered from a trifling cold. Tears pricked her eyes, and Elizabeth quickened her steps so she would reach the retiring room before she disgraced herself further.
Elizabeth forced her eyes open to stare at the brown linen canopy, willing herself awake as she might do after a nightmare. Well, it was a sort of nightmare. Mr. Darcy—William—had been vile to her, insulting her without any provocation. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and her lungs labored to obtain sufficient air. She slowed her breathing lest she trigger another bout of coughing.
It was only a dream. I am not that person. I am not attending an assembly in Meryton; I am lying in bed in France. The repetition did little to calm her racing heart, and Elizabeth knew why: the source of her unease was lying beside her in the bed.
It was only a dream. It had no connection to reality. But the words failed to soothe her. In truth, the images had not felt much like a dream. Events had unfolded logically and sensibly in the way that dreams never did. It felt as if she had uncovered a buried memory—a memory of her first meeting with William.
Rubbing her eyes, she felt moisture and silently berated herself. It was fruitless to cry over something that happened months ago—or perhaps was an invention of her befuddled mind. But the melancholy from the dream persisted.
Resigning herself to wakefulness, Elizabeth sat up and rested her head against the headboard. The man in the dream had been haughty, arrogant, and uncaring of others’ feelings. Had her William ever behaved in such a way? It seemed impossible to reconcile that William with the man she knew. Perhaps it was only a dream.
As she dried her eyes on the sleeve of her nightrail, she tried to take a rational view of the situation. Perhaps her dreaming mind had combined different memories. Perhaps the incident had unfolded as she remembered, but with a different man. Her memory was nothing if not faulty. The dream might be part memory and part fantasy.
As she prepared to slip under the covers again, William stirred and looked up at her. “My love, are you all right?” Even in the dim light cast by the moon her tears must have been quite visible.
No. Such a tender man could never have said such awful things. Her dream must have been a very flawed representation of reality.
