A Council of Darcys - Chapter 2

A Pride and Prejudice Retelling

Now that I’m working on A Council of Darcys, I’ll be moving a bit slower on A House of Daughters, though I’m still actively working on it. Somehow, I always end up juggling multiple ideas at once!

Also, a quick reminder: Letter to Georgiana is available for preorder on Amazon and will be released on June 5th. Be sure to check it out, and if you’re curious, there’s a sneak peek of the first chapter available here.

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Chapter 2: Upon Closer Observation

The drawing room at Lucas Lodge hummed with country chatter—overlapping voices, sudden laughter, the rhythm of a familiar crowd.

Meanwhile, Darcy stood near the window, maintaining his customary distance from the general merriment, yet his attention had begun to drift toward a particular corner of the room with increasing frequency.

The oak table gleamed under its steady lamplight as the council discussed the object of his attention, no longer summoned by crisis, but by an unease they had not yet agreed to name.

“She is not beautiful,” the Earl’s Grandson began curtly, as if to reaffirm a settled verdict. “Not in the conventional sense. Her features are irregular, her complexion merely passable—”

“And yet,” said the Gentleman Farmer, his brow furrowed in thought, “we continue to notice her.”

The Scholar, glancing down at his neatly kept notes, spoke with quiet precision. “We have dined in company with the Bennets four times since the Meryton assembly. Each time, she has spoken with poise and attentiveness. Her manners are lively, but not immodest. Her conversation is often directed toward others, not toward display.”

“I find cause for puzzlement,” said the Gentleman Farmer, frowning thoughtfully. “She is... I do not know. Her opinions are not disguised in flattery, nor delivered for effect. There is no performance in her conversation.”

“She sees,” the Brother added. “Not just hears. When Miss Elizabeth speaks to her sisters or to the younger girls in the neighbourhood, she gives them her full attention. She listens without condescension, speaks without impatience. That sort of care speaks to character.”

The Earl’s Grandson scoffed. “That kind of behaviour is expected of any woman with aspirations toward gentility. It proves nothing. Politeness is easily mimicked when it serves one’s social ambitions.”

“It is a foundation,” the Christian replied calmly. “From it, virtue often grows.”

The Scholar looked up at last, folding his hands over his notes. “At first, we interpreted Miss Elizabeth’s manner as too free, even impertinent. We mistook her lightness of tone for frivolity. But that was a misreading. What we once viewed as mockery now reveals itself as wit, carefully applied. Her humour has discernment. And more often than not, it is earned.”

All eyes turned to the Romantic, who had remained unusually quiet since their arrival. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, careful. “We did not think her pretty at first,” he said. “And yet we keep looking. We expected her manner to be unrefined, yet we recall her every word. That is not indifference.”

“Let us be clear,” said the Master, steepling his fingers. “We are not captivated. We are... curious. There is a difference. She is often in the company of Bingley and his interests lie with her sister, our awareness of her is natural. It is prudent to understand the character of those who may become connected to us, however indirectly.”

The Brother gave a slow nod. “Yes. It is only right to understand the people who now move within our sphere. It would be careless not to.”

“What need have we to watch over, let alone acquaint ourselves with, a country girl of inferior breeding?” the Earl’s Grandson demanded. “Her family is an embarrassment, her connections negligible, and her future of no relevance to us.”

The Gentleman Farmer met his gaze without flinching. “It is sensible. She is often present where we are. Ignoring her entirely would be foolish.”

The silence that followed was not uneasy, but contemplative—each man seated at the table weighing his own thoughts, unwilling to speak them aloud. No conclusions were drawn, yet none could quite dismiss what had been said.

The Master let the stillness linger before he folded his hands and spoke again, his tone composed and measured.

“Then we will take the measure of her. Quietly. Without presumption. Not because we are drawn to her, but because she is part of the company we now keep. To understand her is not indulgence, it is simply wise.”

But as the Council returned to their observation of the evening, more than one among them privately acknowledged the truth: Elizabeth Bennet was no longer easily dismissed.

As if summoned by the very decision they had just reached, Miss Elizabeth’s voice rose in teasing conversation with Colonel Forster. Her tone was playful and light as she encouraged him to consider hosting a ball at Meryton.

The sound drew Darcy’s attention more completely, and he found himself stepping closer, feigning interest in a painting on the wall, but truly to better hear her words.

At the oak table, the Council turned toward her again. The Romantic’s mouth curved in the faintest smile. The Earl’s Grandson stiffened with renewed disapproval.

Colonel Forster was soon called away, drawn into conversation with another guest. Miss Elizabeth, left beside Miss Lucas, turned slightly in Darcy’s direction.

“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?”

“That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.”

“But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.”

The Council table trembled with silent commotion. Within their shared consciousness, the Earl’s Grandson rose in indignation.

“Satirical eye! She dares—”

But he was cut short by the soft sound of restrained amusement. The Gentleman Farmer leaned back, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“There is courage in that,” he said. “And not without cause. We have been watching her.”

The Scholar, ever composed, adjusted his spectacles with deliberate slowness, though a faint curve of satisfaction tugged at his mouth. “It is not an idle accusation,” he murmured.

And then Miss Elizabeth, goaded by Miss Lucas, turned directly toward Darcy with that dangerous sparkle in her dark eyes.

“Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?”

The Council froze. She had addressed him directly—boldly, without the usual social courtesies. For a moment, even the Master seemed caught off guard.

“How do we answer?” the Scholar asked quietly, already sifting through phrasing that would neither invite nor reject further familiarity.

“She presumes too much,” said the Earl’s Grandson, his tone clipped. “There is no need to indulge her further.”

“But we must not meet it with offense,” the Christian replied evenly. “Her tone is light, not malicious. To answer with severity would be unjust.”

The Brother glanced at her face, then spoke quietly. “She meant no harm. A civil answer will suffice.”

The Gentleman Farmer leaned forward. “Just answer her straight. No fuss, no flattery.”

“She expects us to meet her as an equal in wit,” said the Romantic, quietly. “Let us do so.”

The Master raised a hand, silencing the debate. “Then we answer with measured and unprovoked balance. Let her see nothing but steady civility.”

And so, with outward ease and inward coordination, Darcy replied:

“With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes a lady energetic.”

“You are severe on us,” Elizabeth replied, her smile widening.

Before any of the Council could respond to her jest, Miss Lucas interjected brightly.

“It will be her turn soon to be teased,” she said. “I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”

At the mention of music, something shifted within, the growing expectation, their scrutiny renewed.

“She is to play,” noted the Scholar, already attentive. “Let us see if her accomplishments match her conversation.”

“I would not expect brilliance,” the Earl’s Grandson muttered. “Country parlours do not breed refinement.”

The Gentleman Farmer ignored him. “I should like to see her at ease among her own. There is often more honesty in music than in speech.”

“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!” Elizabeth laughed, addressing Miss Lucas. “Always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.”

The Romantic tilted his head slightly. “She disarms us by laughing at herself. It is not false modesty, it is comfort in being ordinary.”

The Christian considered this, nodding once. “There is humility in that.”

On Miss Lucas’s persevering, Elizabeth gave in with theatrical resignation.

“Very well, if it must be so, it must.” And with a glance in Darcy’s direction, she added, “There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar with: ‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge’; and I shall keep mine to swell my song.”

The Scholar looked up, genuinely caught. “She turns a proverb meant to restrain expression into a declaration of it. That is no accident. Her mind is precise, and her humour deliberate.”

The Gentleman Farmer let out a warm chuckle. “And unashamed. She means every word.”

The Romantic, who had watched the others with attention, smiled. He said nothing, but within the hush that followed, he recognized what none of them would yet admit: their guarded interest was becoming something else.

Miss Elizabeth’s performance was pleasing, though by no means exceptional. Her voice was clear, if untrained, and her playing competent. Yet there was a sincerity to it, an unstudied grace that held the room in a quiet kind of attention.

“She does not pretend at brilliance,” the Scholar observed, nodding once. “But she performs with intention, and without affectation. There is honesty in it.”

“She is not trying to impress,” said the Gentleman Farmer. “That is precisely why it works.”

“Modesty,” the Christian added, “is a form of dignity.”

Before she could be persuaded to sing again, however, she was eagerly replaced at the instrument by her sister. Miss Mary Bennet, with the slightly flushed intensity of one who has waited too long for a spotlight, seated herself at the piano with evident purpose.

The Romantic remained silent, though the others noticed his continued watchfulness—particularly as Miss Elizabeth listened patiently to Miss Mary’s overlong performance, her expression kind despite what must have been some embarrassment.

“She is not bothered,” said the Brother. “She gave way without resentment.”

“She does not require to be the centre of attention,” said the Master, watching her. “That, too, is telling.”

Toward the end, Miss Mary shifted to more popular airs at the request of her younger sisters. A small group began to dance at one end of the room, laughing and lively.

Darcy stood nearby, outwardly impassive. But within, the Council stirred.

“So this is what they call an evening,” the Earl’s Grandson said mildly, almost to himself. “A handful of crude airs and half-formed steps. Let them enjoy it.”

The Scholar sighed, removing his spectacles and polishing them absently. “It is not an activity made for us. Dancing rewards spontaneity, openness. We do not move easily among such things.”

“Some in this room mistake delight for liberty. The youngest Miss Bennets, most of all. I fear no one has taught them where joy ends and impropriety begins.”

“They are young,” said the Brother, watching the dancers without judgment. “And we forget too easily that Georgiana’s folly was graver than this. A little laughter is not ruin.”

The Gentleman Farmer leaned forward. “This is no different than the dancing in Lambton or Kympton. If it is good enough for our neighbours, it should not be beneath our notice here.”

“At home, we attend such gatherings because it is expected of us,” the Earl’s Grandson snapped. “But here? We owe these people nothing.”

“We speak as if we were never foolish,” said the Romantic. “As if joy was something we outgrew, rather than something we buried.”

His words hung in the air.

The Master, who had listened without interruption, folded his hands. “We are not entertained. That is true. But nor are we untouched. There is something in this room that unsettles our sense of place. And that is why we must be careful.”

The Council lapsed into silence, the music swelling dimly behind them. Darcy’s brow tightened as he stood apart, his posture composed but rigid. He did not notice when Sir William Lucas approached, until the gentleman’s voice, cheerful and uninvited, broke the quiet:

“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished society.”

The Earl’s Grandson exhaled through his nose. “Polished society,” he muttered. “He means country assemblies and muddy boots.”

The Scholar did not look up. “He flatters to be answered. There is no inquiry here, only self-regard in borrowed phrases.”

“We should not reward his flattery,” said the Earl’s Grandson, his voice low with disdain. “It is meant to place himself beside us.”

“He mistakes proximity for parity,” the Scholar added, almost with pity. “Let us disabuse him.”

The Master gave no signal, only the faintest tilt of the head. And so Darcy answered, his tone smooth, indifferent:

“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance.”

Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.”

The Scholar gave a small sigh. “He persists.”

“He is not interested in conversation,” said the Earl’s Grandson. “He seeks association.”

The Master nodded once. “Answer minimally. Offer him nothing he may build upon.”

“You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”

“Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James’s?”

“Never, sir.”

The Romantic sighed, a touch of weariness in his voice. “Must we always answer with ice? There is no danger in kindness.”

The Christian, undisturbed, replied, “We are not unkind. We leave him room to retreat.”

“Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”

“Enough,” said the Master. “Disengage.”

“It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.”

“You have a house in town, I conclude?”

Darcy bowed.

The Scholar, ever exacting, could not suppress a flicker of irritation. “Is this man incapable of silence?”

The Earl’s Grandson scoffed. “He mistakes our civility for consent. Must he comment on every breath we take?”

Even the Christian, whose temper was slow to stir, gave a weary sigh.

“I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself—for I am fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.”

The Master, observing Sir William’s lingering pause, withheld response. “Perhaps, if we offer him nothing, he will take the hint. Silence, at least, is unambiguous.”

Sir William’s face lit up with sudden inspiration upon seeing Miss Elizabeth moving toward them.

“My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.”

He reached for her hand.

Within, the Council lurched.

The Romantic surged to his feet. “Yes—yes, take her hand. It is offered. Do not insult her by refusing.”

The Gentleman Farmer nodded firmly. “She is worthy company, and she stands before us with grace. Accept her.”

But the Scholar stiffened. “We are not prepared.”

The Earl’s Grandson recoiled. “This is not a partner for us. This is a complication in muslin. We should not even be standing here.”

The Master rose slowly, trying to steady the current. “We are not unwilling. Let her speak.”

Darcy stood, stunned but still. His hand hovered—ready, but unmoved.

But Miss Elizabeth drew back at once, her face colouring slightly.

“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.”

The Council paused, momentarily stunned.

But the Gentleman Farmer rose quietly. “Let it be offered with civility. Not urgency. Not vanity. Just respect.”

And so, with steady voice and no presumption, Darcy said, “Miss Elizabeth, may I request the honour of your hand for this set?”

But she only smiled—gracious—and declined.

Sir William, unhelpfully undeterred, turned to press the matter further. “You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.”

“Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” Elizabeth said, smiling in a way that was both gracious and dismissive.

“He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance—for who would object to such a partner?”

The Council flinched, but not in unison.

“We offer, and she refuses?” said the Earl’s Grandson, incredulous.

“She does not mock,” the Scholar murmured. “Her tone is light, playful.”

“She owes us nothing,” said the Romantic. “And yet she gives her refusal with such grace...”

“She turned us down,” said the Gentleman Farmer. “And I think more of her for it.”

And as Miss Elizabeth looked at him with teasing defiance, then turned aside, the Master—silent until now—offered his judgment with calm finality:

“She poses no threat. Let us give her no more thought.”

But Darcy and the Council were still looking as she moved away.

None of them noticed Miss Bingley until she was already beside them, her voice bright with implication.

“I can guess the subject of your reverie.”

The Council turned as one—startled and disoriented.

“I should imagine not,” Darcy said automatically, but the words were unguarded.

“She means to flatter,” the Scholar murmured. “Deflect her.”

“She believes herself clever,” said the Earl’s Grandson. “She will list every fault in this room and expect our applause.”

“She speaks of nothing and means less,” said the Romantic. “And yet she demands our response.”

Miss Bingley continued, undeterred. “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner—in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise—the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”

A pause.

“She expects agreement,” said the Master. “Give her nothing.”

But no one answered.

A silence passed through the Council, strange and suspended. Something unspoken tugged at the edge of thought—something they had not agreed to, but which had rooted itself nonetheless.

“She is wrong,” said the Romantic, almost dazed. “We were uneasy, and now we are not. That is the truth.”

“We are not thinking of society,” the Gentleman Farmer added. “We are thinking of her.”

A thought rose to the surface—unbidden, unpolished.

And then, before the Master could call order—

“We have been meditating,” the Romantic whispered.

“On the pleasure,” said the Gentleman Farmer.

“Of a pair of fine eyes,” said the Brother, quietly.

And Darcy spoke, aloud:

“I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”

The Council froze.

“What have we done?” the Scholar breathed.

“She will ask,” said the Earl’s Grandson, panicked. “She will ask—”

And she did. Miss Bingley fixed her gaze on him, sharp with sudden interest. “And who, may I ask, has the credit of inspiring such reflections?”

The Master leaned forward as if to speak, but hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face as one hand rose to give command—then stopped short.

And the Romantic stood.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

The Council froze.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray, when am I to wish you joy?”

No one answered.

Inside, the Council sat in stunned disarray.

The Master remained motionless, his thoughts unreadable. The Scholar’s ink blotched across the margins of his notes. The Earl’s Grandson had turned his chair away. The Christian bowed his head. The Romantic, who had spoken the truth aloud, now said nothing at all.

“She is speaking again,” the Brother said, his voice the only one still steady. “But we are not listening.”

Miss Bingley went on, her tone arch. “Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed—”

But her voice receded, unheeded.

Darcy stood there, present only in form.

Within, the Council did not speak.

They were still trying to understand what had just been said, and what it meant that none of them had stopped it.

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I hope you enjoyed Chapter 2! I’m a bit uncertain about the dialogue with Sir William. I considered trimming it, but I feel the reveal at the end lands stronger if all the preceding dialogues stay. Let me know what you think in the comments!

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