Between The Night And The Morrow (Austen fanfic) chapter 4

Lizzy had not had the least intention of dancing with him. Indeed she did not. And yet she found herself accepting, she found herself stepping out onto the dance floor with him.

And all the while she was sure that her friend Charlotte, with whom she’d been talking about the strangers just moments earlier, was laughing at her behind her fan, doubtless amazingly diverted. Lizzy had just been telling her how the tall dark stranger looked far too proud and better pleased with himself than with his company. And now she was dancing with him. What had come over her?

Nothing good. She felt as though she were drunk, or as if she had been dusted with some of that magical powder that the old legends her mother prized said the good neighbors could throw upon the eyes of the unwary and make them see something quite different.

In fact, she was very sure she was dreaming or otherwise suffering from a confusion of the senses, because the man’s dancing was the most exquisite pleasure she’d ever experienced. As they joined the dance and twirled together through the figures of the sets, she found that his movements exactly anticipate hers, melted into hers, his mind seeming to know hers.

It went so well, in fact, that she realized they’d almost completed the whole set and they’d not said a word to each other. Worse, he was looking at her with an odd expression, as if he were hungry and she were the only source of his sustenance. And she, in turn, was looking into his eyes and realizing that sparkles shone within their grey depths.

How strange that was. How unusual. It was as molten metal had formed his eyes, and only some parts were polished, shining like flecks of silver caught in stone. How could he have eyes like that? Such eyes weren’t human!

She thought of him riding through the moonlight on a horse she could not convince herself was a normal, mortal horse, and she shivered.

The eyes turned to her, with sudden concern and the features that still looked far too proud showed a little unbending, something like an almost smile. “Are you cold, Miss Bennet? Is something amiss?”

And in this strange place her mind had gone, Lizzy had no proper reply for him, and could think of no accustomed words. She drew breath quickly and looked away from the eyes that almost had an hypnotic hold on her. “No, no,” she said. “Oh, it is nothing, and it means nothing, surely.” And realizing that her words too meant nothing, of at least nothing sane, she shook her head. “It just occurred to me,” she said. “That I have been remiss. One should have some talk when dancing. A very little would suffice.”

“Indeed?” he said, and sounded curious. “Is that the local custom? That one must talk while dancing?”

She flashed at him, a sting of anger, which she tried to tamp down. What did he mean the local custom? What did he mean by treating her as if she were a mere provincial? Oh, that she might be. She was, surely. After all, her father had refused to go to London with them, even for the sake of giving Jane a proper season, much less to give Lizzy one. And Jane, with her beauty, would certainly have taken the town by storm, and there was no level of nobility to which she could not aspire. As for Lizzy, well! As her mama was wont to say, Lizzy was well enough, too.

But it was not to be. Her father had no interest in the society that had censored him for marrying a woman so far beneath himself, with connections in trade. It was possible – Lizzy thought – that he would have forgotten the sting of their spite had his marriage turned out to be blissfully happy. But mama… well, mama was mama, and no one could pretend that papa still reveled in his unconventional choice. And therefore they were at Longborne to stay. And therefore the girls might be provincial enough.

However, it neither became Mr. Darcy, with his mannered air, his polished appearance to remind her that she was beneath himself, nor was it any part of good breeding to act as though you were above your company. A waspish sting was in her voice as she asked, “I believe, sir, that it is custom, as you put it, everywhere.”

She expected offense, at least in reaction to her offense. Instead, she met with more curiosity – truly if he was such a mocker, ready to–

“But of what does one talk?” he asked.

Lizzy was startled by the question, by the genuine interest in the eyes. What did he wish for? Something in his eyes spoke genuine interest, but he could not have a genuine interest in his witless questions, could he? What on Earth could he mean by it?

And then she thought he was flirting with her. Which was just the sort of amusement that she had always heard wealthy London gentlemen engaged in with women from the country, who had no fortune and no connections. She looked away from him, “You could comment on the size of the room. I could say something about the number of couples.”

He frowned, his forehead creasing. “Why?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why should one have such a conversation, when one is not imparting any new knowledge to the other?”

“Because…. because…” she said, floundering and wondering if there was anything wrong with the gentleman’s head. “Because it is what one does. One cannot dance silently.”

He tilted his head a little. The oddest scent came from him, she realized, even as she also realized that the gentleman had the most unearthly regular profile she’d ever seen, and most exquisitely shaped lips she’d ever noticed on a male face. “Well, then,” he said, “Let’s speak of you.”

At that moment the figures of the dance separated them, and it was a while before they joined them again. Which was just as well, because Lizzy, her face burning, had time to calm down and to chide herself for – she was sure – staring at him, and for wondering what the gentleman was about. She was sure her mother would say that Lizzy had charmed him, and that now she only needed to secure him.

Lizzy could – all too easily – picture her mother fanning herself and swooning at the prospect of a son in law of such wealth. But Lizzy knew better. Jane charmed men. Lizzy was not known for it.

When the dance joined them again, she could say, with perfect composure. “Sir, I do not know what you mean.”

“What is your name?” he asked. “Pray, your full name.”

“Sir!”

“Surely I’m not asking anything improper?”

She didn’t suppose so, but it was the tone in which he asked it that discomposed her so terribly. He asked as if he really cared, as if this were far more than social chatter. Well, then, Lizzy would put him by truly giving him her full name. The name that made most people shy away from further acquaintance with her because it bespoke a family too eccentric to be easily endured. “Very well,” she said. “My name is Elizabeth Titania Bennet. And yours, sir?”

This was lightly said, but it had the effect it always had, of making the man draw in breath as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus. It took him a moment to recover it. “Tita– Titania?”

“Indeed, sir,” she said, her eyes flashing challenge. “Do you object?”

“How can I object to your being named after a queen of ethereal beauty?” he asked. And she wished she could call him a liar, for she could see how discomfited he was.

“Ah,” she said, instead and wished her voice didn’t crackle with irony. “I see you read Shakespeare!”

“Shake– Oh, the bard. I’m not very well acquainted with him. Our circles rarely cross. But I know Marlowe passably well. He often comes to the grand courts.”

And now it was her turn to look – she was sure – confused. And perhaps that was his entire intent.

“Not that,” he added hastily, as if he thought he’d alarmed her. “Mister Marlowe is a part of my close circle. But we were speaking of you. How came you by such a beautiful name?”

She had to clear her throat – bewildered as she was by their conversation – before she could answer, and when she answered her voice was less than steady. “It was the name of an ancestress of my mother’s. And since then the name has been in our family. My grandmother was given it as a given name, but she was the last one. My parents thought it might be best to give it to me as a middle name.”

“A… a wise choice,” he said. “Oh, another set is starting. Would you dance with me again?”

She wanted to refuse. She should have refused. But the lateness of the hour, or something, made it impossible for her to answer in the negative.

---

“Oh, Mr. Bennet. Our girls were so admired,” Mrs. Bennet said, as she came into the house, tired and chattering. “There was nothing to it. At least Lizzy and Jane, for Mr. Bingley danced twice with Jane and–”

“Twice, did he?” Mr. Bennet said, with a doubtful, smiling look. “I see. Should I expect a visit from the gentleman?”

“Oh, no, papa,” Jane said, and blushed prettily. “At least… at least not … I’m sure he was just being civil.”

Mrs. Bennet cackled, an habit that her loving spouse had often and often told her was unsuitable, but of which she couldn’t seem to break herself. “Ah!” she said. “If you think that’s marvelous, you should know that Mr. Darcy danced with our Lizzy three times.”

“Three times?” Mr. Bennet’s eyebrows shot up, because surely that was making her the talk of Merryton. “Three times, Lizzy?”

Lizzy shrugged. “There were fewer men than women,” she said, tersely. “He meant nothing by it.”

“Oh, did he not?” Mrs. Bennet said. “And after the dances, he tried to convince her to go with him to the terrace.”

“He just said he wished to talk, Mama, do not–”

Mr. Bennet’s mouth pursed. “Should I expect a visit from this Mr. Darcy Lizzy?”

“I don’t think so,” Lizzy said. Or at least not in that way. You see, he is engaged, and his fiancé is a very fine lady.”

“Engaged is he? And his fiancé was present? This sounds like very strange behavior, Lizzy. I don’t say it lightly, but your Mr. Darcy sounds like a loose fish.”

Since Lizzy was inclined to agree, she didn’t protest. She just wished she knew what had compelled her to dance with him three times. Now she’d be a nine days wonder in the town, till something else eclipsed it.

But eventually something else would eclipse it. And she determined, in her heart, not to see Mr. Darcy again and certainly never to dance with him again.