IV

Posted on: 2008-09-05

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.

V

Posted on: 2009-11-11

Through the flawless palace of fairykind Prince Darcy came striding, his spurs striking the glimmering floors in rhythm with his angry footfalls, his mouth set in a tight line, his eyes flashing the fire of displeasure.

If he were asked, he could not even say what had first disturbed him. The way Miss Elizabeth Titania Bennet so adroitly set the spells of enchantment upon him, or the way she'd let her middle name slide out so smoothly, so uncaring. Worse, he couldn't tell if the fact that his anger was not directed at her had more to do with the fact that she had bespelled him, or the fact that he'd been lied to by his king and grandfather.

He and Bingley, aye, and Carola, also, had ridden their fairy steeds from the mortal world and through the magical forests of the night, on the way back to the hill, and he was vaguely aware that Bingley had tried to talk to him, that Carola might have tried to gentle him. He had some confused memory of her hand on his arm, trying to call him from his black mood, but he had not talked. And he'd not stopped. He'd spurred his horse on, and now he drove himself on, ignoring the courtiers that bowed and the ladies that curtseyed, and even Georgiana who said, "Fitzwilliam!" – his childhood name.

And now that he thought about it, it struck the ear as a very unlikely name for a fairy prince, a Lord of the elves. And now that he thought about it, he felt his teeth grinding upon each other, even as he heard his sister's agitated steps speed up to catch up with him.

In vain, as he'd reached the doors of the throne room, smooth, polished doors being opened for him by two tall elves with the dark hair of the southern peoples, the marble countenance of those brought up in the king's service. The King! Prince Darcy's grandfather, who had much to explain!

He sat in the throne, in his full majesty, Titania beside him, the lady for whom Miss Bennet was named, and Darcy snorted at it, and approached far too close to the throne before he remembered to halt and bow. And even then he would never have done it if the guards at the foot of the throne stairs hadn't moved, in a sudden slide, as though to block his attack. He wondered what his face must show – and what his magic flare – if they'd react thus to a prince of the blood.

"Darcy!" the king said, a tone of surprise in his voice, but he did not ask what happened, nor demand that Darcy give a report, as he doubtless would normally do. Instead, he stared at Darcy, his mouth a little open, his eyebrows rising. And Titania, his lady, leaned into him and clutched his muscular arm with her delicate hand which appeared to be gloved in spider web woven entirely of silver. But she said naught.

"Your majesty," Darcy said, after what felt like a very long time, in which he strived to find his voice. And then, because he felt as though he needed to remind himself of these honors, as much as he needed to remind the one he addressed, "Sovereign of the high court of the elves, Commander of the magical isles, King of the storm and the lightening, Emperor of the Air," he took a deep breath. He saw his grandfather start to half rise from the throne with alarm and wondered how oddly his voice must ring. "Whyfore did you lie to me?"

The king opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. His wife's hand squeezed his arm, visibly. "I?" he said. "Lie?"

Darcy inclined his head, not only in respect, but because he'd prefer to look at his highly polished boots, and the silver spurs shining on them, than at his grandfather's face, right then. What he read there, he was afraid, would lead him to commit some folly. "You, your majesty, lied to me, your own kinsman, you liegeman, as you sent me out to brave the mortal world."

The king said nothing. Perhaps it was better that he did not speak, Darcy thought, and looking up, he found that the king was looking at him, his expression indecipherable. "You lied to me, your majesty, when you said that the Bennet girls were descended from your majesty."

"But–" the king said, and looked genuinely puzzled. "But... they are!"

"Oh, aye, and that they might be, but you know, as well as you know the uncounted years of your unnumbered life, that there are ways to lie which have nothing to do with words. You led me to believe... you led me to assume... that these girls were the result of an... an encounter with a mortal. Nothing more."

The king again didn't answer. Darcy fancied that he looked paler. "When in fact, your majesty..." he cleared his throat. "Both your majesties know that this cannot be true. That these girls are, in fact, descended from both of you. That my grandmother is these girls' ancestor as surely as you are... grandfather."

The magic the king tried to throw at Darcy was so clumsily aimed that Darcy had time to see it coming and to block it. He realized it was supposed to compel him to keep his mouth shut, at the same time that his grandfather must have realized it had missed. He brought his silvery eyebrows down over his eyes. He glared at the assembled company, and then down at Darcy, "This is not the place, son," he said, using a word and a tone he rarely if ever employed to his grandson. "If you feel yourself injured, if you wish to discuss this, you must come with me. Into my private chambers."

Darcy closed his hands tight with rage. "I wish we'd speak before the court."

The king's eyebrows went up, in disbelief. "Is this your challenge then, grandson? Do you intend to rule this kingdom tonight?" He spoke with incredulity, and his wife's hand squeezed his arm tighter, and she whispered something in his ear.

It was the look on their faces, which should have been anger, but was not, that brought Darcy to his senses, in a sudden, cold awakening, as though he'd been doused in freezing rain. He knew that sometimes, in the smaller hills under his grandfather's command elf lords fought their heirs – or their rivals – for the domain. He'd never heard of its happening in the halls of the high king. But then there was a lot he'd never heard of happening. And he realized, in a crash of sobriety that didn't set his anger in flight but made him rise above it as though it belonged to someone quite different, that if it came to that – if he challenged his grandfather – he would lose. And then what would be left for him, but that mortal world, and those flawed creatures out there? And all while the traitor rounded, seeking to destroy all of fairyland. No.

No time for family quarrels. He forced his hands to open and inclined his head. "Your majesty commands," he said.

He saw Titania's hand unclench from Oberon's arm, as both king and queen rose, and the court fluttered out of the way, and the chamberers moved, fast, with torches and lanterns to light the way along the glimmering hallway, and throw open the door to Oberon's private chambers.

Lizzy traded a look with Jane. Jane had been telling her how much she'd loved Mr. Bingley, how he'd confessed to her that he was the man riding through the fields at night. That Jane didn't seem to see anything wrong in riding about the fields in the moonlight in antiquated dress – that Jane could not seem to care that there was something very peculiar about these people – made Lizzy amazed.

And now she fully expected to see Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy riding through the fields on the other side of the house. But she didn't want Lydia to suspect it, so she spoke, instead, in a light hearted tone, "What will I never believe, Lydia? Did the pig get out and ravage the rhubarb?"

"No, no," Lydia said. A well-grown girl of fifteen, in her nightgown, her dark braids half-loosened, she turned around smiling and half dancing. "It is a detachment of red coats!"

Lizzy and Jane exchanged a look, and Lizzy said. "Impossible. There are none–"

But Lydia pointed at her open window, at which their sisters Kitty and Mary were leaning, looking down... At the fields, through which a detachment of red coats were riding. Not that it made any sense, Lizzy thought, because they were not hussars, and should they not be walking, and not riding upon such beautiful, glimmering horses?

But that they were soldiers could not be denied, and that their coats were red, it was impossible to deny also.

However, leaning from the window, it was easy to see this was no normal detachment, such as was often quartered in English towns. For one, they weren't in the habit of issuing silver bridles for their horses, she thought – particularly not silver bridles festooned with countless little bells which made a merry sound in the summer air. And for another, even if a company of human soldiers might proceed singing, Lizzy doubted that their song would be so beguiling, such a perfect harmony with voices that seemed to be like light woven into the blue night.

Even their movement seemed to spark. And their leader, a tall man, with glimmering blond hair, and features that were more perfect than Mr. Bingley's or Mr. Darcy, looked majestic and poised. Like the statue of a great leader come to life.

"Oh, look," Kitty said. "They are riding straight at our house."

Too late, Lizzy realized they were all clustered at the window in their nightgowns, looking down at a battalion, like common hussies. "Step back, step back," she told her sisters, in a confusion of embarrassment. "Step back. Oh, Lord, they've seen us, they've seen us."

The cavalcade had halted behind its leader, who had stopped almost beneath the window, and who removed his hat, which looked more like a coronet than a hat, and bowed, then smiled upward. "The fairest of them all," he said.

He kissed something, then flung it. Lizzy's hand shot out to hold it, before she knew what she was about. It wasn't till after her hand had caught a green stem, till her thumb had got lanced by a treacherous torn, that she realized what she was holding was a glimmering rose, gold as the sunshine of a perfect afternoon.