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Miss Fiona Darcy was not someone to bow to others. She would not be told what to do. She had the luck of a thousand lifetimes on her side, as her father always told her. Fiona Darcy’s father had died—this was not as lucky—but he had left her and Georgiana with his wealth: Georgiana with a handsome sum to support her in adulthood, Fiona with control over her father’s entire estate. It was a strange arrangement—one that certainly drew her pointed looks in the immediate aftermath of her father’s passing, accompanying whispers of how a ‘Miss Darcy’ would now run the affairs at Pemberley. For months, she was followed by hushed ridicule towards the late Mr. Darcy for allowing his estate to fall into the hands of a stranger—the future husband of Miss Darcy.
Fiona chose not to worry about such mockery. She always told those around her that she would marry if she found someone worth her time, and she had yet to speak to a man interested in more than just her fortune. They approached with hungry eyes, asking far too many questions about her home and far too little about herself. Fiona had never cared too much for romance, but the state of the marriage pool at the moment only dashed her hopes even further.
Speak of the devil . She was interrupted from her self-imposed isolation by the approach of Mr. Bingley and another man. Her first ball in Hertfordshire, and Mr. Bingley already insisted on introducing her to the society here, believing that she would enjoy balls more if she were to only put herself out there . The man had a plain face, blond hair, and a leering smile—if asked to pick him out of the wider crowd, Fiona felt she may not be able to. His head just barely arrived at her nose—and she looked down at him with a neutral expression. It would be very much his responsibility to speak to her first, as she did not make it a habit to wrestle a conversation out of another person.
“Miss Darcy, allow me to introduce Mr. Evans. He lives near Netherfield,” Mr. Bingley said before dismissing himself, looking over the man’s shoulder with a pleading look at Fiona— do not dismiss him before you have even spoken to him . The man looked at her expectantly, but Fiona had already resolved to not lead this conversation. She refused to capitulate to Mr. Bingley’s attempts at matchmaking.
Eventually, Mr. Evans relented, “How are you finding the ball?” It was a question Fiona often found it difficult to answer. It was a ball—full of social interactions she wished she were not a part of, dances she tried to avoid, and food she did not particularly like. But she had learned that such commentary was frequently unwanted.
“It is quite sufficient,” she replied, avoiding his eye and instead turning her gaze to the other attendants. She made the briefest of eye contact with a woman standing on the other side of the room—one of those awkward moments of connection that jolted Fiona’s heart and led both to quickly avert their gazes. She looked back at Mr. Evans, whose tense expression led her to believe that her answer had not satisfied him.
He tried again. “Mr. Bingley tells me you have come all the way from Derbyshire. Have you found in your visit that Hertfordshire differs very much from where you live?”
“I find that some aspects differ while others are very much the same.” Fiona inspected an imaginary loose thread on the side of her gown, catching the eye of Mr. Bingley and sending him an indignant glare. He pretended not to see her.
“Well, that seems a very reasonable analysis,” Mr. Evans replied, strain in his voice. He glanced to the side and nodded. “Ah, I just recalled that I must speak with Mr. Taylor. Please pardon my abrupt leave.”
“I grant you your pardon.” Fiona watched Mr. Evans walk away, joining another group of men at the other end of the room. His face lit up after merely a few seconds of conversation with the others.
Fiona took her brief reprieve of solitude as an opportunity to lean against the wall and observe the rest of the guests. There were a great many of them, and the din from their overlapping conversations made it nearly impossible to concentrate once she noticed it was there. Every so often Fiona heard a boisterous laugh bubble up from the crowd. People danced to the music that played—upbeat strings that pierced Fiona’s ears. She grabbed her watch and was dismayed that there were several hours left until it would be appropriate to leave.
It appeared so simple for others , she thought for the umpteenth time. They knew what to say to others and how to say it, conversing freely without upsetting others around them. They were not chastised as a young girl for always giving the impression of disinterest, of curtness, of an “unladylike” attitude—despite never knowing what they meant or how to fix it. It seemed that the very way that words fell out of her mouth was incorrect, no matter how much she tried to fix it, to convey her interest properly, to fake a version of enthusiasm that they might understand.
Eventually, she stopped trying at all. Why bother creating a false version of herself to please others? It tired her as nothing else did. She would much rather accept that she would likely never belong with the rest of society, drive them away with her dryness and reserve before they could even try to curry her favor. She had a close circle of friends. Fiona had never needed a herd of people around her to be happy.
She certainly did not need Mr. Evans, as he and the crowd around him threw her bitter glances. She could already hear the whispers that would now accompany her every appearance in Hertfordshire: how she stood alone for nearly the entire ball, how she had cruelly refused the advances of Mr. Evans, how she seemed to think herself better than the rest, how—despite all the wealth and beauty she currently possessed—she was destined to be nothing more than a hideous, disagreeable old spinster once her face began to wrinkle with age.
She had heard it all before, and Fiona had no desire to hear it all again. She did not need the approval of anyone at this ball, nor all of Hertfordshire. She would gain nothing from accompanying Mr. Bingley to Netherfield. Fiona missed Georgiana, who never objected to Fiona’s silence or her placid nature. She missed the silence of her home—the sounds of talking had only grown louder as people struggled to hear themselves over the music. Fiona’s head began to fill with nothing but the dissonant sound of voices, and she scanned the room to locate the nearest exit out of the ballroom. She made her way to it, brushing against many in the crowd in an attempt to reach the door and earning a few disgruntled glares in the process. No matter.
When she rounded the doorway, she sat in one of the chairs that littered the room, tilting her head back to prevent the tears that threatened to leave her eyes. She tried to think of anything else in the world—appreciating the room’s relative darkness, the doorpane-shaped trail of light that bled into the space. She opened and closed the lid of her pocket watch, feeling the way the latch clicked into place beneath her fingers, hearing the click over the muffled drone of festivities in the next room over. She felt a single tear fall regardless and quickly wiped it away with her other hand, but no more came. The static electricity that crammed her mind began to fade.
After several minutes, Fiona jerked her head to the sound of the door swinging open and the noises of conversation spilling into the room. At the very least, it was only Mr. Bingley who emerged from the doorway, long shadows falling from his backlit face as his expression lit up in recognition.
“I have been searching for you.” He closed the door softly behind him—the voices faded again. “I heard that you did not much enjoy the company of Mr. Evans.” He sat beside her in a nearby chair.
So she was already his topic of scandalous conversation. “Bingley, you must understand that my attendance at these events is contingent merely on social obligation. I have no motivation to find a husband at the moment. Or perhaps ever.” Mr. Bingley looked at her with a pitied expression, but she spoke more of legal obligation than anything else. If she married, her estate would go to her husband, and she would no longer have any power of her own. She held hope that Georgiana would one day have a son with which to ensure the passage of her family’s land.
“I understand. It just plagues me to observe you standing alone for the duration of an entire ball. What use is attending if one does not enjoy themselves and dance?”
“And who shall I dance with? You appear to be incredibly preoccupied with other partners, and you know I cannot stand to dance with a stranger.”
Mr. Bingley sighed. “I cannot understand your stubbornness. At the very least, would you speak to a few of the ladies here?” He gave Fiona a look as if he meant to communicate something underneath his words. If he did, Fiona did not pick up on his meaning. “There are quite a few lovely girls here tonight you may find a friend in.”
“I doubt that will be the case.”
“Please humor me for a moment.” Mr. Bingley stood up and held out his hand. She hesitated for a moment, but took it, tucking her pocket watch back into her waistband. She could not stay in this room forever. The only thing worse than her already antisocial behavior would be her unexplained exit before they had even eaten supper.
As she and Mr. Bingley entered the ballroom once again, Fiona was relieved to notice that the dancing had settled for a moment—the musicians were no longer playing, and the conversation lulled as the guests took a moment to gather their breaths from the exertion. Fiona swiped her gaze across the room, ensuring no one was observing her return.
“Allow me to examine the room for a moment,” Mr. Bingley started, “Ah! Miss Lucas is just on the other side of the crowd. We danced briefly, and she made quite stimulating conversation. I believe you would find her company enjoyable.”
Fiona turned her head half-heartedly and spotted the woman that she had briefly seen Mr. Bingley dancing with earlier. “She’s handsome,” Fiona remarked flatly.
“You said you would humor me,” Mr. Bingley huffed.
“Yes, yes. I shall.” They were silent for a moment, before Fiona continued, “How about the girl you danced with twice tonight? She must be excellent company for you to choose her above the others.”
A bright red blush spread across Mr. Bingley’s pale face. “Miss Bennet? Yes, she made quite lovely company.” Mr. Bingley’s eyes darted from Fiona to something behind her, nervous to change the subject. “Her sister is sitting just behind you—from what Miss Bennet informed me, she appears to be quite agreeable as well. Allow me to secure an introduction for you.”
Fiona turned around, seeing a woman sitting just a few feet from her. It struck her that this woman was the very same that she had met eyes with while speaking with Mr. Evans. She did not look at Fiona now. Instead, she appeared to be observing the people around her in quiet contemplation.
Fiona could not help but be struck by her beauty: her side profile seemingly carved out of marble by a great Renaissance sculptor. Her skin was slightly tanned, with features that perfectly complemented each other. Her hair—brown, but seemingly lit gold in the candlelight—framed her face in loose curls, with long bangs that ran alongside her dark, nearly black eyes, currently curved upwards in the neutral smile she wore.
Fiona was then struck by the fact that she sat alone while others began pairing up for the next dance. And yet, she did not appear humiliated, feigning to adjust her skirt to avoid eye contact or hiding her face behind a handheld fan. Rather, she did not shy away from her situation, watching the matches with a poised expression. Fiona felt drawn to her in that moment, a camaraderie in being content in one’s aloneness.
She could barely contemplate accepting Mr. Bingley’s proposal for an introduction before Fiona saw Miss Lucas approaching the Bennet sister, eyes wide in excitement as she began to recount some story to her friend. Fiona felt a pang of something familiar yet unidentifiable in her chest. Perhaps it was the breaking of the illusion Fiona had created of the Bennet sister. Perhaps it was resentment at the way her loneliness had been lifted so immediately, while Fiona had held onto hers for a lifetime. Perhaps it was something else—a jealousy that Fiona dared not admit to herself. Perhaps it was all three, cementing together into a mass of what even Fiona would consider entirely unnecessary irritation.
Fiona thought she heard her name spoken by Miss Lucas and saw the Bennet sister’s head turn to look at her. They made eye contact briefly once more. Just as before, Fiona whipped around as if the connection had burned her. She twisted her mouth in displeasure, “She is tolerable, but not lively enough to tempt my friendship.”
“You do not know her at all well enough to be making such assumptions!” Mr. Bingley retorted.
“You’d do best to return to your own dance partner, Bingley, and do not waste more time on me.”
“Very well.” Mr. Bingley joined the rest of society once more.
The rest of the ball passed rather uneventfully: Fiona made little conversation with the residents of Hertfordshire, instead electing to hover near Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. She crossed paths with the second Bennet sister several more times, noting the mirth in her expression and suppressed grin as she whispered to her friends while passing Fiona. It unnerved Fiona, but she dismissed it with the comfort that she would not be at Hertfordshire for long.
Fiona Darcy did not receive any unwanted requests to dance that evening, besides one plea from Mr. Bingley which she begrudgingly accepted. She had to admit, dancing could be enjoyable as one neared delirium in the early hours of the morning, a time when nearly every guest began tripping over their own feet to such an extent that it became impossible to tell the difference between a skilled dancer and a poor one. Fiona listened dutifully as Mr. Bingley recanted his experiences of the evening, seeing the way his eyes shined as he talked about the eldest Bennet sister.
When the last dance ended and the guests began to disperse, Fiona remained silent in the carriage as Mr. Bingley and his sister traded pleasantries about the ball. She thought about the way Mr. Evans and his companions had looked at her with mockery in their expressions. She thought about how she had spent most of her life in such a position—looked at but not approached. Observed but not touched—as if her frigid demeanor would truly burn those who dared to get close.
It was the way Fiona preferred. If they did not get close, then they could not control her. They could not take from her: could not take her estate, nor her influence, nor her power from her. They could not take away the security Georgiana required to live a happy life.
Fiona began to doze off as the sunrise shined dusty pink into the windows of the carriage, hoping foolishly that she might wake up to the soft sound of Georgiana’s piano playing over the bustle of the Bingley family.
It was a ridiculous hope, indeed.