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Agreeing to come to this assembly ball, Fitzwilliam Darcy decided, had been a grievous error. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that it had been a mistake to come to Hertfordshire at all. He was in no mood for company, and Bingley’s sisters had already strained his patience during the short time they had spent together. An assembly room full of strangers was, therefore, nothing short of purgatory.

Their party had arrived at the assembly just in time to hear some local squire long-windedly announce the engagement of his daughter, a rather plain woman no longer in the first blush of youth, to a heavyset parson who appeared disgustingly pleased with himself. Bingley, friendly puppy that he was, had dragged his entire party along to offer their unwilling congratulations. Darcy’s attempt to escape from the introduction had been interrupted by the parson ‒ horror of horrors ‒ exclaiming: “Do you mean to say that this gentleman is the nephew of my noble patroness?”

Darcy had then been subjected to a full ten minutes of pompous fawning and garbled praise of his aunt, who, he gathered, had bestowed the living of Hunsford on this toadying creature. Mr Collins ‒ for that was the name of the clergyman ‒ was exceedingly grateful to Lady Catherine, and had seemed to think it necessary to impress this most forcefully on her unfortunate nephew. The onslaught of words had made Darcy wonder in dismay what the man’s sermons would be like. He did not look forward to finding out ‒ yet another reason to keep future visits to Rosings as brief as possible.

Mercifully, Collins had finally been distracted by other well-wishers, allowing Darcy to extricate himself, but the damage had already been done. As he had stalked off towards the other side of the ballroom, he had been followed by loud whispers of “ten thousand a year” and “nephew of an Earl”. So much for avoiding the match-making mamas of this miserable country town for even one evening.

And now, when he had finally found a suitably inconspicuous spot by a window, with a convenient curtain half hiding him from Miss Bingley’s and Mr Collins’s searching eyes, his ears were being assaulted by the shrill voice of a matron bemoaning her misfortunes to a gaggle of other middle-aged women.

“Oh, if only Lizzy had not been so stubborn! But it is all lost now, and when Mr Bennet dies, we shall starve in the hedgerows. Selfish, ungrateful girl!”

For all that Darcy tried to ignore the grating wails of the woman ‒ who, he presumed, must be Mrs Bennet ‒ her voice intruded so insistently on his notice that he was soon, against his will, in possession of most of the pertinent facts concerning the event that had led to the lady’s displeasure. Mr Collins, it appeared, was the cousin and heir of Mr Bennet, and had come to Hertfordshire with the intention of marrying one of the Bennet girls. However, his chosen bride, this Lizzy chit, who Darcy was beginning to suspect might be the only person with a modicum of sense in this wretched assembly room, had refused her cousin’s offer. This, in turn, had prompted Mr Collins to propose to Miss Charlotte Lucas, the girl he was now engaged to. Startlingly, the entire sequence of events appeared to have taken place within the space of a fortnight, and if Darcy had understood correctly ‒ which, surely, he could not have, for it was entirely ludicrous ‒ Collins had proposed to Miss Lucas within three days of being rejected by Miss Lizzy.

“…for she is not half as handsome as Jane, who will surely catch a rich man ‒ but Mr Collins would have done very well for Lizzy, and who is to say that she will ever have another proposal? Look at her now, sitting there without a partner! If she cannot even get a man to dance with her, how will she ever find herself a suitor half as good as Mr Collins? Why, even Maria Lucas is dancing, and she is both plain and half-witted!”

Despite himself, Darcy found his eyes following the direction of Mrs Bennet’s angry gesturing to the girl she was indicating. Miss Elizabeth was, indeed, sitting alone a short distance from her mother and the other matrons. She was keeping her eyes resolutely on the dancers, but it was painfully obvious that she could hear every word Mrs Bennet was saying.

Darcy had thought himself miserable, but here was someone who was clearly enjoying the ball even less than he was. Why, compared to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Darcy was having the time of his life! For all that he despised the crowd, the noise and the unwanted attention directed at him, at least he was not being publicly humiliated. Poor girl, to be saddled with such a mother!

Perhaps his immediate dislike of Mrs Bennet made him predisposed to disagree with her, but truly, he did not think Miss Elizabeth particularly plain. Studying her profile, he conceded that her features, perhaps, were not perfectly regular, but there was something interesting about them, something that caught the eye. Her complexion was healthy, albeit currently flushed with mortification, and from what he could judge while she was seated, her figure appeared light and pleasing. All in all, not a great beauty, but a handsome enough girl ‒ and obviously possessed of a great deal more sense than her mother.

As Darcy turned his eyes away from Miss Elizabeth ‒ no, it was certainly no hardship to look at her, but it would not do to be seen staring ‒ he caught Miss Lucas, partnered with her betrothed, going down the dance. She seemed to have her hands full directing the bumbling man through the movements, for he did not appear to have more than the vaguest notion of the steps. To make matters worse, his profuse apologies and bows whenever he moved in the wrong direction were disrupting the figures even more than his original mistakes. It was excruciating to watch. What woman in her right mind would accept such an oaf? Miss Lucas must be foolish, desperate, or, most likely, both.

Bingley, meanwhile, was dancing with the younger Lucas girl, who, indeed, was nearly as plain as her sister. Bingley’s gaze was frequently straying to the couple next to them, and Darcy could not blame him. The girl who had caught his friend’s attention was undoubtedly the most beautiful one in the room: tall with a well-formed figure, her even features framed by soft golden curls. She reminded Darcy of a painting he had once seen depicting the birth of Venus (though she was, of course, more appropriately clothed). In short, she was precisely the sort of angelic creature that Bingley would lose his head over.

Surprisingly, the girl did not seem to be aware of Bingley’s attention. Instead, her head was repeatedly turning towards the side of the room, belying the perfect serenity of the smiles she directed at her partner. Under Darcy’s intrigued eyes, she finally reached the bottom of the dance, leaned forward to say something to her partner ‒ and, with an apologetic but nonetheless lovely smile at the fellow she had been dancing with, stepped away and gracefully made her way to where Miss Elizabeth was sitting.

Caught against his will by the unfolding family drama ‒ for he was fairly certain that he had deduced the beautiful woman’s identity ‒ Darcy shifted closer, curious to hear what the two young ladies might have to say to each other.

“Jane!” cried Miss Elizabeth as soon as the other girl was within earshot, confirming Darcy’s guess. “Why did you leave the dance? Is something the matter?”

“No, no, I am perfectly well,” replied the famous Miss Jane. “I only stepped out for a moment to make sure that you are, Lizzy ‒ you are not looking happy.”

“It is nothing, dearest,” replied Miss Elizabeth, managing, in Darcy’s opinion, a very convincing air of unconcern. “Indeed, it is fortunate that gentlemen are scarce tonight, for it gives me ample opportunity to reflect on my looming spinsterhood.”

Miss Jane, it seemed, was not fooled by her sister’s light tone. Her doe-eyes widened in concern. “Lizzy, you only turned twenty last month! You know very well that you need not worry about such things yet!”

“Oh, but it is quite settled that I shall never marry. Why, I have it from both Mama and Mr Collins that one proposal is all I can expect, and having wasted that chance, I must now accept my lot.”

Darcy very much doubted that, and if possible, his opinion of Collins sunk even lower. No matter how galling it must have been to be refused, it was no excuse for behaving like a petulant child.

Miss Jane leaned closer to her sister, lowering her voice so that Darcy had to strain to catch her words. “Lizzy, you do not regret refusing him, do you?” she whispered, a worried frown creasing her milky-white forehead.

Miss Elizabeth let out a sudden peal of laughter. “No, no ‒ there is no fear of that!” she exclaimed, eyes dancing with merriment, before continuing in a more moderate tone: “I could hardly regret a man I cannot at all respect, could I? Nay, I do not think I could regret Mr Collins had he ten thousand a year and the finest estate in England!”

Darcy, who certainly had the former and, in his not very modest opinion, was also a strong contender for the latter, felt Miss Elizabeth rise further in his estimation.

“It would have been a miserable match, Jane, I know it very well, and so I cannot even pretend to envy Charlotte,” continued the lady more seriously. “I will be much happier as a maiden aunt, dearest ‒ when you marry, I will dote on your children and spoil them until you go quite distracted.”

Miss Jane smiled, shaking her head, but her troubled look had not entirely dissipated. “Oh, Lizzy, I know the two of you would not have suited ‒ I only wish that Mama were not so…” Her voice trailed off, perhaps because it was difficult to find an adequate expression to describe Mrs Bennet’s effusions.

Miss Elizabeth grimaced so expressively that Darcy had to suppress a smile. For all Miss Jane’s classical beauty, there was something about the vivacity of Miss Elizabeth’s countenance that he found immensely appealing. He had the feeling that the placid Miss Jane would never be able to quite match her sister’s lively animation.

“Yes, so do I,” sighed Miss Elizabeth, glancing in her mother’s direction, “but I shall have to bear with it as well as I can. At least I can console myself with the knowledge that, no matter how badly Mama chooses to embarrass me, the alternative would have been far worse.” As if in a show of conviction, she determinedly drew her petite frame up and directed a bright smile at her sister. “Now, go back to the dance and enjoy the admiration of your partner. I shall be quite comfortably occupied, contemplating my foolishness in rejecting the condescending patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh!”

The ridiculous way in which she drew out Lady Catherine’s name finally cleared Miss Jane’s brow, and even Darcy could no longer fight his smile. An encounter between Aunt Catherine and this charmingly impertinent girl would have been worth witnessing ‒ but not at the cost of seeing her married to that obnoxious parson. He heartily agreed with Miss Elizabeth: it would have been a disastrous union in every way.

Miss Jane returned to the dance, and Miss Elizabeth resumed her position of watching the dancers with studied unconcern. Mrs Bennet had gone blessedly silent for a moment, presumably forced to give some other matron a chance to air her grievances, and so Darcy could, in relative peace, alternate between observing the dancing and studying a curl of dark hair that hung enticingly behind Miss Elizabeth’s ear. (The latter, he found, was a considerably more agreeable occupation.)

The set ended and Bingley, predictably, made a beeline for Miss Jane, who graciously accepted his request for a dance. This had the unfortunate effect of prompting loud exclamations of joy from Mrs Bennet, and her crowing was almost as painful to listen to as her previous complaining. However, her less fortunate daughter had not been entirely forgotten, and even in the middle of her triumph, the matron found cause to berate Miss Elizabeth. “Depend upon it, she will be forced to sit out this next set, too!”

Darcy saw the girl wince ever so slightly at this unkind barb, but her recovery was so admirably quick that he doubted whether anyone else had noticed it. Still, his ire at Mrs Bennet only increased. Would that woman ever cease making noise? How could she not see that she was exposing not only her daughter, but also herself and her entire family, to censure and ridicule?

Lost in silent indignation on Miss Elizabeth’s behalf, he hardly noticed that Bingley was heading towards him, until he heard his friend exclaim: “Come, Darcy, I must have you dance! I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”

Darcy turned to see Bingley approaching him, the sweetly smiling Miss Jane on his arm. His first instinct was to refuse ‒ but then inspiration struck. Perhaps there was a way to silence Mrs Bennet!

“I dare say you are right, Bingley,” Darcy said, raising his voice to ensure that he was heard clearly above the din. “There is an uncommonly pretty girl sitting over there ‒ I have been admiring her for some time. I believe she is the sister of your partner. Do you think I could trouble your lady for an introduction?”

He had the immense satisfaction of hearing Mrs Bennet suddenly fall silent mid-sentence and the smug pleasure of seeing Bingley’s undisguised astonishment. However, both of these sensations faded into the background when Miss Elizabeth turned to look at him and he discovered how well the expression of surprised delight, diffused over her face, became her.

It was fortunate that Bingley took a moment to recover from his bewilderment before jumping into the office of arranging the necessary introductions, for Darcy needed all the time he could get to regain his wits. Somehow, he managed to request a dance without tripping over his tongue, and to lead his partner to their place in the set without tripping over his feet. If his initial attempts at conversation were somewhat stilted, Miss Elizabeth was kind enough to overlook it and help him along.

By the end of the set, Darcy had ascertained that Miss Elizabeth was an excellent dancer and had remarkably fine eyes. By the end of the evening, he had determined that she was the most interesting conversationalist he had ever encountered in a ballroom. By the end of the next month, he counted her among the handsomest women of his acquaintance and was seriously reconsidering the importance of fortune and connexions in marrying. By the end of the year, he was engaged to his dearest, loveliest Elizabeth and looking forward to a double wedding with Bingley and the eldest Miss Bennet, whose courtship had progressed almost as quickly as his own.

Darcy would never become particularly fond of Mrs Bennet. Though he eventually grew somewhat inured to her vulgarity and silliness, he could never entirely forgive her for failing to see and appreciate Elizabeth’s many excellent qualities, and for not loving her as well as he felt she deserved. However, he found his mother-in-law’s excesses somewhat easier to tolerate when he reminded himself that she was the one who had unwittingly brought Elizabeth to his notice that fateful evening. For despite the embarrassment it had caused, Mrs Bennet’s loud gossiping had, in fact, been the means of uniting them.