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It had been raining for the past four days—a steady, relentless drizzle that turned the lanes of Hertfordshire into small rivers of mud and cast a grey pall over the house at Longbourn, adding a certain tristesse to the place.

In contrast, the Bennet household was awash with laughter, rustling fabrics, and excited voices as the sisters prepared for the long-awaited Meryton assembly.

Lydia and Kitty darted about the room, holding bonnets and ribbons, each determined to outdo the other with the most eye-catching ensemble.

Mary frowned over a selection of modest sashes, torn between virtue and a secret desire to be noticed.

During the flurry, Elizabeth stood apart, her thoughts far from the frills and chatter.

She lingered at the window, eyes tracing the fading sunlight across the hedgerows, a gentle smile curving her lips as she watched a flock of birds wheel over the fields.

The golden glow seemed to set the world outside ablaze, offering her a moment’s quiet while chaos reigned behind her.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Bennet bustled around Jane with single-minded devotion, fussing over every lock of her eldest daughter’s hair. “There, my dear, just so. You must be the prettiest girl in the room tonight. I am sure of it! Oh, if only Mr. Bingley will notice you…”

Jane blushed, patient beneath her mother’s careful hands, while Elizabeth allowed herself a small, private chuckle. The assembly promised spectacle and surprise—at least for those paying attention to it.

As Elizabeth gazed out the window, her thoughts drifted to her father.

Mr. Bennet, dressed in his finest evening attire for the assembly, had retreated to his study, requesting not to be disturbed until all was ready for departure—a sure sign, Elizabeth suspected, that some older worry still pressed upon him.

She recalled the letter that had arrived for him two days earlier and the pensiveness that had settled over him since.

If it was another financial matter, Elizabeth half expected that she might soon receive a note from Mr. Blunt, her father’s solicitor, with whom she had recently spoken and who promised to alert her to any urgent affairs promptly.

Her fears were not long left to idle speculation.

The letter arrived on the very morning of the Meryton ball, carried by a servant with mud-spattered boots who had ridden with some urgency from London.

Elizabeth Bennet received it in the hallway of Longbourn, the familiar handwriting of her father’s solicitor sending a flutter of apprehension through her chest even before she broke the seal.

She retreated to the small alcove beneath the stairs, away from her mother’s prying eyes and her younger sisters’ endless chatter about ribbons and dance slippers. Once she read the letter, her delicate fingers tightened around the fine paper until it crinkled beneath her touch.

“One thousand pounds,” she whispered, the sum alone enough to still her breath.

The solicitor’s words were carefully chosen but unmistakable in their gravity.

Mr. Bennet’s gambling debts, accumulated over several months of ill-advised card games in London, had come due.

Legal proceedings would commence without immediate payment, which would inevitably lead to the family’s ruin.

Worse still, the stain of public dishonor and the loss of their good name would linger long after any material comfort was gone.

Their modest estate, entailed so that it could not pass to the female line, would provide no safeguard.

With careful deliberation, Elizabeth folded the letter, her thoughts already turning to the possibilities and consequences that lay ahead.

Her father had kept this burden from them all, retreating further into his library as the situation worsened.

Now, she alone knew the truth, and the responsibility of action fell to her shoulders.

“Lizzy! Where have you hidden yourself? We must dress for the ball!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice carried through the house with its usual nervous energy. “Mr. Bingley will be there too. We cannot be late and disappoint our new neighbor!”

Elizabeth tucked the letter into her pocket and emerged from her hiding place. Her expression was composed into a mask of calm anticipation appropriate for a young lady preparing for an evening of dancing. She needed to postpone the conversation with her father until after the ball.

“I am here, Mama, and already dressed for the ball,” she called, her tone revealing nothing of her inner tumult.

***

The Meryton ballroom glowed with the light of a hundred candles, their flames reflected in gilt-framed mirrors and the jewels adorning the necks of Meryton’s finest. Musicians tuned their instruments in the corner while servants circulated with trays of negus and ratafia.

The air hummed with conversation and anticipation, the familiar excitement of a country ball where every dance might lead to an advantageous match or, at the very least, provide fodder for a week’s worth of gossip.

As ever, Mr. Bennet’s presence at the Meryton ball was marked by a peculiar blend of wry amusement and studied detachment.

He moved through the assembly with a glass of punch in hand, exchanging sardonic quips with the mayor and the town’s venerable judge, trading a few well-chosen words with Dr. White, and even deigning to smile at the local rector’s latest homily on virtue and temperance.

The company of these gentlemen afforded him ample diversion from the relentless chatter of the younger set, whose exuberance and petty intrigues he found both tiresome and predictable.

Now and then, he would pause to observe his youngest daughters as they flitted from group to group, their high spirits undampened by the prospect of a long carriage ride home or even the scolding that might await them.

Yet, amidst the convivial noise and candlelit bustle, there was a note of unease in Mr. Bennet’s manner—he seemed to be avoiding Elizabeth’s searching gaze, never lingering in any spot where he might be drawn into conversation with her.

It was as if, by instinct or guilt, he sensed that she had discovered more than she ought about the shadows encroaching upon their family’s security.

Whenever their eyes threatened to meet, Mr. Bennet quickly diverted his attention, engaging the mayor in a debate over parish business or offering a witticism to the judge, anything to prevent an encounter that might force an admission or—worse—a reckoning.

And so, beneath the surface of his habitual indolence, there was a restless energy to his movements, a reluctance to be still lest his daughter’s unspoken questions find him unprepared.

Mr. Bennet approached the new Netherfield tenant with the affable gravity of a man fulfilling a social obligation he had already met once before.

Mr. Bingley greeted him with warm enthusiasm, clearly recalling the earlier visit to his new estate.

“Mr. Bennet, I am delighted to see you again,” he said, then gestured to the gentleman beside him.

“Allow me to present my friend, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley.”

Mr. Darcy bowed with careful formality; his manner polite yet distant.

There was an air of self-possession about him—bordering on pride, though not without dignity.

Mr. Bennet, with his usual dry wit veiled in good manners, made no remark on it, but observed the young man keenly.

While Mr. Bingley exuded open amiability, Mr. Darcy offered little beyond what courtesy required—but he received the introduction with grace, and his eyes, though reserved, missed nothing.

The presence of the two gentlemen caused a visible ripple through the assembled company.

Mr. Bingley, with his open countenance and ready smile, was soon engaged in conversation with Sir William Lucas and several eager matrons who had brought their daughters into view.

Mr. Darcy, meanwhile, stood a little apart, observing the room with an air of restrained disinterest that some took for disdain.

For a long while, Mr. Darcy remained at the edge of the dance floor, his arms crossed behind his back, his gaze unreadable.

When invited by Sir William to join the set, he declined with a polite but distant shake of the head.

To the ladies watching—particularly Mrs. Bennet and Lady Lucas—it confirmed everything they already suspected: he was too grand to dance with local girls.

What they did not perceive was that Darcy had spent the entire evening feeling out of place, conscious that his words might be misjudged, and reluctant to engage in shallow conversation merely for appearance's sake.

Among strangers, maintaining distance and speaking little is often a wise strategy—especially if one is not as effortlessly exuberant as their new neighbor, Mr. Bingley.

***

Elizabeth Bennet stood beside Jane, watching her sister’s gentle beauty draw admiring glances.

In her pale blue gown with pearl accents, Jane embodied the serene loveliness that had made her the acknowledged beauty of the neighborhood.

Elizabeth’s own darker coloring and simpler green muslin dress provided a pleasing contrast, though her thoughts remained far from such trivial matters.

Jane inclined her head toward her sister, speaking softly as a charming blush spread across her cheeks. “Do you think that is Mr. Bingley?” Jane asked, her voice low with interest.

Elizabeth followed her sister’s gaze to the entrance. Her lips twitched in amusement. “We shall soon see if he is as amiable as father’s report said.”

The man suspected to be Mr. Charles Bingley stood surveying the room, his amiable face lighting up when he spotted Jane.

Behind him, taller and more imposing in his perfectly tailored evening clothes, stood another gentleman whose haughty expression suggested he found the provincial gathering beneath his notice.