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In short, I was overwhelmed. I hate to admit it as I like to think myself equal to any situation, but that is the truth of it. I had spent so much time in the sick room that I had neglected the drawing room and I found myself quite out of my element.
At that first assembly in Meryton, many of the local boys asked for a dance as was expected. I accepted, quite happily at the time, and the first few dances went well enough, if a trifle awkward. Then came the fourth set, which was promised to Timothy Goulding. The first dance was a jig and we twirled along quite merrily, or so I thought, until a tricky turn had me stumbling into my partner. I was more than a little embarrassed by my mistake, but Mr. Goulding made it infinitely worse by hopping about on one foot as though he were dreadfully injured.
He laughed a bit—I suppose he thought it was a good joke to make fun of a lady’s dancing at her first ball—and when I did not laugh with him, he looked at me quite sourly and said loudly enough for the couples near us to hear, “My foot hurts too badly to dance the second with you. My apologies, Miss Lizzy.” And he walked off, leaving me alone in the center of the dance floor.
I burned red from embarrassment. His apologies! He was not sorry in the least, and his nasty little smirk made that abundantly clear. He was not satisfied with embarrassing me in the dance and pointing out my mistakes, but he had to quit in the middle of the dance, and with such a flimsy excuse, too! He had been holding my hand nearly the entire time. There was no way he was hurt. It was impossible!
He rejoined his gaggle of friends near the punch bowl and they all had a merry laugh at my expense. I wanted to cry, I was so angry at him.
It was three years ago now, but Timothy Goulding has remained one of my least favorite people. In fact, I find that generation of Gouldings unworthy of the space they occupy in Meryton, but that is neither here nor there.
That ridiculous man asked me to dance one other time. It was six months after my come out and I was looking particularly fine that evening, or so my family said. It must have been true for all my dances were taken within minutes of my arrival. Mr. Goulding asked for a dance and I said there was nothing available. The last set still remained, but there was nothing available tohim, so I had not lied precisely.
I smiled at him sweetly and looked away, welcoming the next gentleman who approached me. Timothy Goulding never asked me to dance again—a small mercy I have not ceased to be grateful for.
The evening of the assembly arrived and I piled into the carriage with my mother and father, Jane, and Mary. As we climbed out in Meryton, my mother pulled me aside.
“Remember, Elizabeth. Be careful.”
I nodded, only slightly irritated. She meant well, but really! I had turned twenty that summer. I was not a child anymore.
We joined the crush of friends and neighbors where I found Charlotte and rushed her off to a quiet corner to interrogate her about our newest neighbors. I had not gone to London that spring as Aunt Ida was traveling, and I will admit I was a little starved for society.
“Truly Eliza, I do not know much more than you. I met Mr. Bingley briefly when he came to call on Papa, and he seemed amiable, but it was only a moment. We must find out more tonight.”
I had no choice but to agree with her and find my partner for the first set. After we had danced, bowed, and curtseyed to one another, I rejoined Charlotte just as a party entered the assembly. The entire room seemed to quieten with their arrival.
There were three men, one with a boyish look about him, one who appeared to be in his mid-thirties and looked as if he wished to be home by the fire, and another who wore a haughty expression and seemed somewhere between the other two in age. They were accompanied by two ladies, whom Charlotte informed me must be Mr. Bingley’s sisters as she knew he was bringing two of them. She labeled the boyish one as Mr. Bingley, but she was not certain which of the other two was Mr. Hurst, his sister’s husband.
I studied the party as they moved closer. One of the ladies looked like a dreadful snob. Her dress was entirely too ornate for a country assembly. She likely thought she looked elegant, and in a different setting she might have, but for Meryton, it was horribly overdone. She held her head high and looked about her like a queen surveying her subjects from above.
I sighed. I would not be making a friend out of that one.
The other lady was shorter than her sister, with a more open expression and less harsh appearance overall. Her hairstyle was less intricate, her gown less fussy, and her jewels less ostentatious. She looked a little pale, though that was the style in some circles. She was also pregnant, about four months if my guess was correct. I had spent enough time with Mrs. Allums that I could recognize the signs. And of course she kept bringing her hand to her abdomen as expectant women are wont to do.
I immediately wondered if that was why she was in the country. Town may boast more doctors—who knew precious little about how to birth a child—but the country had cleaner air and less disease.
My mother caught my attention and I joined my family for introductions. Mr. Bingley was immediately taken with Jane, unsurprisingly. Mary resembled our elder sister, but she had yet to lose the coltish look of youth and was all knees and elbows, while Jane’s figure was a perfect blend of girlish slimness and a suggestion of womanly curves. How she managed such a feat was beyond me, but I had yet to see a man fail to appreciate the combination.
Mr. Hurst turned out to be the shorter, portly gentleman and the taller was Mr. Bingley’s friend, a Mr. Darcy from Derbyshire. He had a pinched look about him that led me to think he had a headache. If he asked me to dance, I could get rid of it, but he did not seem inclined to speak to anyone.
Jane and Mr. Bingley scampered off to dance, and I thought I might engage Mrs. Hurst in conversation, but she was tugged away by her sister. Mr. Hurst headed for the refreshment table, and without a word, Mr. Darcy turned and walked away.
“Well, he is pleasant,” whispered my mother.
“I think he has a headache,” I replied.
She looked slightly less irked. “Perhaps. But if he could not be polite, he should not have come. We do not all have your talent for knowing when someone is ailing.”
I hummed my agreement and drifted off to speak to Miss Long. I spent the evening dancing most dances and sitting out a few here or there so that other ladies might participate. There were not enough gentlemen to partner the ladies present. Did Mr. Darcy and Mr. Hurst not know how rude they were being by not dancing? Were they not taught basic ballroom etiquette in London?
I was standing along the wall, nursing a glass of punch when I saw Mr. Bingley approach Mr. Darcy who stood in the corner nearest me.
“Come Darcy, I must have you dance!”
Oh dear. These things never went well. One look at Mr. Darcy and a person with even middling intelligence could tell he did not like to be told what to do. If he wished to dance, he would do so. He was not propping up the wall because he lacked Mr. Bingley’s permission to leave it.
“You are dancing with the only pretty girl in the room.”
