Time came for the next party at the Weathersbys, and Eliza knew herself to be excited. Although she enjoyed these evenings, they became ever more interesting with two young men to speak with. She was keenly curious about both Mr. Wentworth and Mr. Woodfield. For young men, they seemed very talkative and amiable. This was a good thing - being a woman of sense, Eliza found talking to her own sex somewhat exhausting. The reason for this was due to her lack of emotionality and outward display of her deeper feelings, something rare for a young lady of one and twenty. It was a pleasure to have people to talk to, however much she loved her regular friends.
The ball this evening was particularly lovely. The fire was a fine addition to a cold evening. As the snow was falling, the guests arrived in all their grandeur. Eliza arrived, deciding to be a guest this evening, as opposed to an addition to the host. She found she was able to be more comfortable. She talked and chatted with many of her friends as the night wore on. She knew, though, that the real enjoyment came nearing the end, when only the closest friends remained and there was time to retire to more intimate quarters. She thought it would be one such night.
Time came, and though she hoped to talk to her new friends, she thought they had left. She contented herself to sitting, admiring the paintings that she had always seen and yet had rarely seen. Looking forward to a nice chat with the Weathersbys, she partook of some more wine and simply loved the last of the public evening.
"Miss Northwood." A voice Eliza did not recognize said her name. She looked to her left and Mr. Wentworth was approaching.
"Hello, sir, how does this evening find you?" Eliza immediately became rather nervous, having thought the men to be absent or that they had already departed. His warm manners were very different from the other young men she knew.
"Very well, ma'am, thank you. Do you mind if I join you?"
"Not at all, not at all." Eliza was so curious she had a hard time thinking clearly.
"Thank you. Now, I have not seen you dance, but I have seen you talk. Am I to assume that you do not dance?" He smiled and Eliza had to wonder if this was an invitation or an actual conversation about her lack of dancing.
"Oh, sir, I do dance, but I am rarely asked. There are few young men in the neighborhood for such a priviledge, and I am not as young as some of these other fine ladies. I assume that their preference is for them. It bothers me not. I enjoy watching the festivities as well as partaking in them."
"Hmm, well then, I wonder if you would do me the honor of a dance then, or prefer you to continue in observation?" He smiled again, fully expecting a reply to affirm a dance.
"I...yes, certainly. I mean to say, rather, I would like very much to dance." Eliza put down the wine glass, from which she had taken barely a sip. Mr. Wentworth took her hand, and they danced the last two songs. She knew better than to talk too much, as these young men enjoyed very much to talk of themselves. Mr. Wentworth was no exception to this rule, but he did inquire after her interests and was most attentive. After the dance, both were in an excellent mood and continued to talk for a few more moments before Mr. Wentworth had to depart.
Eliza was cheerful, and began to wonder if such an interaction signified anything. She dared not mention anything to anyone of what she felt or suspicion, but she new that she needed to talk to Mrs. Worthington. A thought occurred to her to write to her particular friend, a Miss Memsie Bradfield. She thought, perhaps, Memsie might have some better insight into this matter.
The night continued to the point where the remaining guests retired to a drawing room to visit more. The difficulty, however, was the Eliza was no longer to sit at ease, and rather wished to get home to begin her letter to Memsie. After departing the Weathersbys', she stayed up into the lightening hours of the morning, writing to Memsie at length the goings on of the past few weeks.
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