Page 14

Once seated, the drawing room settled into a pleasing hum of conversation. Mr. Bingley, visibly pleased to be among company, directed his remarks evenly across the room, though his glances toward Jane grew increasingly frequent.

“I must thank you again, Mr. Bennet, for your hospitality,” he began. “It is good to return to Hertfordshire—with more certainty this time. Yesterday I traveled to London and back again to settle a few matters personally.”

“You did not lose time, sir,” Mr. Bennet observed with a note of approval. “A purposeful errand, I take it?”

“Very much so,” said Bingley. “I wished to speak with my family about my intentions. I have resolved to remain at Netherfield for good. There is work to be done on the house, and it is high time I made my home as a gentleman should.”

There was a slight pause as this announcement was absorbed. Jane looked down with a blush. Lydia whispered something unintelligible to Kitty and stifled a giggle.

“I do not believe I have heard you speak of your family before,” Mrs. Bennet offered with practiced interest. “Do they live in town?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bingley replied. “My brother-in-law, Mr. Stephen Hurst, and my sister Mrs. Louisa Hurst reside in London. As does our youngest sister, Miss Caroline Bingley. I informed them that I have leased Netherfield Park and about my decision to establish myself here. Naturally, they were eager to visit promptly.”

“That is very good news. You are most welcome here,” Mrs. Bennet assured him warmly. “And I am certain your sisters would find the countryside quite restorative.”

Bingley smiled. “I hope so. In the meantime, I am eager to become better acquainted with my neighbors—and, if the workmen do not betray me, I mean to host a ball at Netherfield in two weeks’ time. I would be honored, Mr. Bennet, if you and your entire household would attend.”

This announcement caused a visible stir. Jane’s blush deepened; the younger girls sparkled with anticipation. Even Mr. Bennet smiled, thin and dry.

“You may consider us yours for the evening, Mr. Bingley,” Mr. Bennet said. “Alas, there will be no peace in my house until the day arrives.”

Mr. Darcy caught the subtlety of the remark and allowed himself the faintest smile.

Elizabeth, seated with poise, noticed the flicker—just the faintest lift at the corner of Mr. Darcy’s mouth—before he composed himself once more. She thought to herself, ‘So the proud gentleman does have a sense of humor—he simply hesitates to show it.’

Mr. Bingley laughed with open delight, and then, with a casualness that could not entirely mask his intent, added, “My sister, Mrs. Louisa Hurst, will act as hostess for the evening. Caroline is always eager to lend her opinion—but Mrs. Hurst will preside. For now, I must rely on their assistance for such occasions.”

There was a brief pause.

Mr. Bingley continued, his tone lighter but unmistakably deliberate. “Of course, once I am married, that duty will no longer fall to them.”

Mr. Bennet, who had just taken a sip of claret, gave a short, amused cough. “A most practical arrangement. Every man must hope for such relief eventually.”

Jane’s hand trembled slightly as she reached for her glass of water. Her eyes remained fixed on her plate, but a delicate flush bloomed on her cheek.

Elizabeth, seated beside her, felt the shift in the air. She glanced at Bingley—whose face, though pleasant as ever, wore the unmistakable look of a man well pleased with himself.

At that moment, Mrs. Hill reappeared at the doorway and gave a small curtsy. “Ma’am, dinner is ready to be served.”

The company made their way into the dining room, where the table had been set with care surpassing the usual Longbourn standard.

The silver had been polished to its brightest gleam, and a tasteful arrangement of autumn roses and ivy graced the center, flanked by candles whose flames flickered gently in the evening light.

The scent of roasted partridge and herb sauce hung warmly in the air.

Mr. Bennet took his place at the head of the table, with Mr. Bingley at his right and Mr. Darcy to his left.

Jane, with gentle composure, was seated beside Mr. Bingley; Elizabeth took the place beside her sister.

Mrs. Bennet, whose attentions fluttered between pride and careful calculation, was placed beside Mr. Darcy, while Kitty and Lydia occupied the lower end of the table near their mother.

The arrangement was not unintentional.

The chairs had been considered that morning with an attention to symmetry, propriety—and, in Mrs. Bennet’s case, opportunity.

The footman, engaged for the evening from Meryton, moved quietly among them, pouring wine with solemn dignity. A fine soup was served, and once the plates were filled, conversation resumed in a pattern of polite inquiries and small pleasantries.

“We had the chimney swept just this week,” Mrs. Bennet offered brightly, leaning slightly toward Mr. Darcy. “Our cook insists it improves the draft in the kitchen—and I daresay the plum pudding will benefit.”

Mr. Darcy inclined his head. “Proper maintenance is always to be commended. Mrs. Bennet.”

“Quite so,” she replied, encouraged. “And our town’s butcher—Mr. Toller—is ever so reliable. I do believe he keeps the best geese in the county. I must recommend him, should you ever host your own table in the neighborhood, Mr. Bingley.”

Mr. Bingley smiled, and Mr. Darcy gave a wordless nod. His gaze shifted once to Elizabeth, who had not spoken, but whose attention was not wholly concealed.

Mr. Bingley turned to Jane with genuine delight. “Your cook has done marvels, Miss Bennet. I shall not know how to return the favor unless I steal her for Netherfield.”

Jane smiled. “You are very kind, sir. But she would not thank you for the extra distance. I am sure you will find an excellent one of your own.”

“I mean to try,” he said. “Though I suspect no cook will be quite so clever without knowing your preferences, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth glanced sideways at her sister and caught the gentle rise of color in Jane’s cheeks. Her own smile was small but pleased.

Then, after a short while, Mr. Darcy turned slightly toward her and asked with quiet formality,

“Miss Elizabeth, I believe you find our company this evening rather quieter than at the Meryton assembly.”

Elizabeth responded with a polite smile, her voice light but distant. “Perhaps it is the fault of the candles, sir. Ballroom lights lend courage not only to one’s feet, but to one’s tongue as well.”

Mr. Darcy inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, though his eyes lingered on her a moment longer.

He had not expected such a turn of phrase—so neatly expressed, so lightly veiled.

It was, he thought, precisely what set her apart from the women he was used to: a wit that did not chase admiration, and a manner that could charm even in withdrawal.

Yet the tone unsettled him. There had been grace in her reply, certainly, and intelligence too, but little warmth.

Not coldness—no, not that—but something else.

Restraint. A quiet distance he could not explain, and which instinct told him had nothing to do with him.

For a man unaccustomed to doubt in such matters, the realization was unwelcome.

The conversation around them shifted, the clink of cutlery and hum of voices rising and falling like a tide. Darcy, still thoughtful, waited for the next course to be served before speaking again.

A little later, as the second course was laid before them, he addressed Elizabeth once more.

“I hope, Miss Elizabeth, that the prospect of the Netherfield ball gives you some pleasure.”

She nodded courteously. “Certainly, Mr. Darcy. A well-arranged dance is always a delight—especially to those with untroubled hearts and minds free of weightier concerns.”

To an outside observer, the exchange might have appeared civil and even promising.

Mr. Darcy, for his part, seemed to make a genuine effort—his tone was courteous, his gaze steady, his questions chosen with care.

Elizabeth noted this, and acknowledged inwardly that he had grown more attentive since their first meeting.

And yet, she could not meet his civility with equal warmth. It was not resentment that cooled her, but distraction. His attention, though perhaps sincere, offered no comfort to the worry seated heavily upon her heart.

Even supposing Mr. Darcy harbored some growing interest in her—an idea she still doubted—such a connection held no relevance to the immediate concerns of her family.

A gentleman from Derbyshire, reserved and proud as he was, would require time: time to grow familiar, to understand, to develop that foundation of shared values and affection that might someday become something lasting.

But time was precisely what the Bennets lacked.

To draw nearer to such a man would take weeks, perhaps months. What she had before her now was no more than three weeks—scarcely enough for a courtship, let alone for a transformation of hearts. In that light, Mr. Darcy could not be a solution.

Mr. Whitmore, by contrast, already knew her.

His interest was steady, if unromantic. And her father’s situation allowed little room for romantic notions.

As terrifying as the prospect was, Elizabeth understood she must weigh the usefulness of Mr. Whitmore’s offer—for her family’s sake, her father’s future, and their very respectability.

Even so, she would maintain the appearance of an amiable, well-mannered young lady. Their guests bore no blame for the storm rising within the Bennet household.

From the other end of the table came a peal of laughter—Lydia’s—and a remark about officers that Mrs. Bennet swiftly hushed with a warning look.

The meal progressed in stages: roasted birds, buttered greens, a fine veal dish.

Conversation meandered between safe topics—roads, hunting prospects, the lengthening evenings—but beneath it all, Elizabeth felt something shift.

The table felt fuller; the air less stale.

And though Mr. Darcy said little, his silences no longer pressed so heavily.

***

After the final course had been cleared away and the last sounds of departure faded into the night, the Bennet household eased into a different kind of stillness.

The echoes of polite laughter and clinking glasses gave way to slippered footsteps and hushed voices, the drawing room now free of its practiced formality but charged with the unspoken significance of all that had passed.

The family returned to their familiar places, the subtle grace of the evening giving way to more candid comforts.

Mrs. Bennet, flushed with triumph, was scarcely able to contain her satisfaction, while her daughters settled in with varied degrees of composure and reflection.

The warmth of the hearth now outshone the candlelight, its steady glow casting long shadows across expressions that hinted at much unspoken.

It was the hour for interpretation and inference—of gestures weighed, glances remembered, and futures quietly imagined.

Mrs. Bennet was positively radiant, the fullness of her satisfaction showing in every movement as she reentered the drawing room with the air of a general returning from a triumph.

Her cheeks were flushed, and her ribbons slightly askew—a casualty of the evening’s triumph.

Her eyes sparkled with barely contained glee.

She paused before her chair with a kind of theatrical deliberation, as if granting herself a moment to savor the victory, then sank into the cushions with a sigh that seemed to carry both contentment and significance.

“Well!” she declared, lowering herself into her chair with a satisfied sigh. “I believe that was the most successful evening we have had in a very long while.”

The declaration needed no context. It was the sort of exclamation that expected agreement before any reply could be formed—a summing up not just of the evening's events but of the long-cultivated hopes she had dared to nurture since the arrival of Netherfield’s newest tenant.

The dinner, the conversation, the attention shown to Jane—all had confirmed, in her mind, what she had long predicted and prayed for.

And now, with the gentlemen gone and the family once more alone, she was prepared to relive every moment aloud—preferably with attentive witnesses, and better still, admiring ones.

The younger girls nodded eagerly. Jane, quietly composed, folded her hands in her lap, while Elizabeth took her seat by the fire with a thoughtful expression.

Mr. Bennet lingered a moment longer than the rest, his expression unreadable save for the faintest glimmer of irony at the corners of his mouth.

“If you will excuse me,” he said, addressing no one in particular yet somehow all at once, “I find myself suddenly overcome with the urgent need to attend to a few letters.”

His tone bore the measured weariness of a man well acquainted with what would follow—speculation, exclamations, and the triumphant analysis of every glance exchanged during the evening.

Offering a shallow bow, he turned on his heel and made his escape with practiced ease, retreating to the sanctuary of his study with a quietness born less of haste than of long habit.

Mrs. Bennet, long accustomed to such evasions, paid him no mind.

She turned instead to her daughters with purpose in her eye.

“Did you observe, all of you, how Mr. Bingley could hardly keep his eyes from our Jane? And what a fine speech he made about staying at Netherfield! Mark my words, he came back from London entirely decided.”

Lydia gave a squeal and clapped her hands. “And there will be a ball!”

“Yes, yes, my dears,” her mother said, waving that part aside. “But it is his manner to Jane that matters. The ball is only a beginning, girls—only a promising beginning.”

Elizabeth said nothing, her gaze lingering on the low-burning fire. Her thoughts, however, had drifted elsewhere—quiet, inward, and far removed from her mother’s triumph.