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The following evening, the Bennets arrived at Netherfield Park for dinner.

The rain had passed, leaving behind a crisp gleam on the gravel as the carriage came to a gentle halt before the columned entrance.

The setting sun cast a mellow gold across the facade, and the grounds, though tinged with autumn’s retreat, still held a kind of quiet dignity.

Of the five sisters, only Jane, Elizabeth, and Mary had accompanied their parents—Lydia and Kitty, much to their chagrin and protests, had been left at home, whether by a stroke of maternal prudence or, more likely, by Mr. Bennet’s quiet resolve, or, to tell the truth, both.

A liveried footman stepped forward as the carriage came to a halt, opening the door with practiced ease.

He assisted the ladies down one by one, offering a steadying hand and murmured courtesies as their slippers met the gravel.

Mr. Bennet followed, descending with ease but acknowledging the footman’s help with a brief nod.

Just beyond the steps, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy awaited their arrival. Both were dressed with understated elegance, their posture marked by the composed attentiveness of gentlemen prepared to receive valued guests. Bingley stepped forward at once, his smile quick, warm, and unfeigned.

“Oh, Mr. Bennet, welcome,” he said warmly, stepping forward with his arms slightly extended—not in an embrace, but in a gesture of open hospitality. “You honor Netherfield with your company. I trust your journey was not troublesome?”

Mr. Bennet inclined his head with wry courtesy. “The distance was short, but the welcome makes it shorter still. We are most obliged.”

Steadying herself with more care than usual and offering a carefully measured smile, Mrs. Bennet found it proper to deliver a suitable compliment. “It is a great pleasure to visit Netherfield at last.”

“The pleasure is entirely ours, madam,” Mr. Bingley replied, bowing politely.

Jane curtsied with gentle composure, followed by Elizabeth, whose gaze was poised and attentive. Mary came last, her expression solemn but not without grace, and she offered her curtsy with a quiet sense of duty.

Mr. Darcy greeted Mr. Bennet with reserved but proper civility, offering a bow of just the right depth. He then acknowledged each lady with courteous formality, his expression unreadable but not unkind. He spoke no idle phrases, yet his attentiveness—subtle though it was—did not go unnoticed.

Though she appeared unmoved, Elizabeth observed—somewhat to her surprise—that the young gentleman seemed to have relinquished the role of decorative statue he had adopted so firmly at the Meryton assembly. It was, undeniably, a marked improvement.

As the group ascended the steps together, Mr. Bingley made a light comment about the freshness of the air and the glory of the sunset, which, he declared, had arranged itself most obligingly in honor of their visit.

Inside, the entrance hall welcomed them with quiet grandeur. A second footman stepped forward to receive cloaks with practiced efficiency, while the air carried the subtle fragrance of beeswax and pine, mingled with the faintest trace of fresh flowers from somewhere deeper within the house.

They had scarcely crossed the threshold when Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened in admiration. “What a charming entrance,” she murmured, the sincerity of her praise overcoming any effort at restraint. “And such warmth—I declare, one could almost believe it spring again.”

Her husband cast a dry but approving glance around the hall. “You’ve done the house proud, Mr. Bingley. It has a most inviting air. I hope I remarked on that when I first visited.”

A few steps behind them, Jane took a quiet moment to observe the surroundings, her soft smile full of genuine appreciation. “It is a beautiful house, Mr. Bingley. Everything speaks of taste and comfort.”

“You are too kind,” Bingley replied, visibly pleased, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than was strictly required.

Mary advanced with the air of one intent on offering something apt. “The symmetry of the grounds is most pleasing. Your gardener must be a man of precision.”

From a little aside, Mr. Darcy inclined his head, his voice even. “Your observation does him credit, Miss Mary. He was, in fact, recommended by the steward at Pemberley.”

The compliment seemed to satisfy her; Mary gave a faint nod, as if an academic point had been acknowledged.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth remained near her father, offering a courteous smile when addressed, but otherwise silent. Her eyes swept the carved paneling and gleaming sconces without quite seeing them.

Resisting the impulse to gush, Mrs. Bennet added with admirable restraint, “We are very happy to be here, Mr. Bingley. Very happy indeed.”

The drawing room doors stood open, revealing the assembled party within.

Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst rose with measured grace, their movements perfectly coordinated, as though rehearsed.

Both offered curtsies of correct depth and restrained formality, revealing little of their thoughts.

Caroline’s smile, polite though tightly drawn, did not quite reach her eyes.

Mrs. Hurst inclined her head slightly, and Mr. Hurst, seated by the fire, muttered something indistinct as he rose with the slow air of a man doing his duty.

After the Bennets entered into the drawing room, Mr. Bingley addressed them with an air of cheerful formality.

“Allow me to present my family, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet,” he said with a bright smile. “My sister, Miss Caroline Bingley; my sister Louise and her husband, Mr. Hurst.”

He then gestured toward the newly arrived guests. “And may I present Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, and their daughters—Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and Miss Mary Bennet.”

The introductions were received with practiced curtsies and murmured acknowledgments.

Caroline’s smile was composed, though noticeably cool; Louisa’s was more distant still.

Mr. Hurst, rising briefly from his chair, offered a nod that passed for civility before retreating once more to his contemplation of the fire.

Mrs. Hurst nodded with distant civility.

“We trust the warmth here will offer some relief from the evening chill.” She made a tentative effort to rehearse the part of hostess for the upcoming ball, but the old decisiveness and confidence were no longer in her.

Marriage to Mr. Hurst had brought her more resignation than contentment—more still than she had ever imagined she could endure.

Once seated in the drawing room, conversation resumed with the gentle rhythm of practiced civility. Mrs. Bennet cast an approving glance around her. “You have made the most of this room, Mr. Bingley. It feels both gracious and inviting—quite the ideal setting for guests.”

Bingley looked genuinely pleased. “That is very kind of you, madam. I have had a great deal of help—though I believe my sisters should be credited with most of the inspiration.”

“I daresay,” Mr. Bennet added, inclining his head toward the ladies with dry amiability. “There is nothing like a well-trained eye to bring harmony into a space.”

Caroline murmured, “One does what one can, of course.”

“I believe this room improves with company,” Mrs. Hurst said, smoothing a fold of her sleeve. “It takes a proper gathering to test whether a house is truly hospitable.”

The observation earned a nod from Jane and a quick, obliging smile from Bingley, who added with cheerful ease, “I am glad to hear it, Louise. I have always believed rooms behave better when they know they are being admired.”

The laughter that followed was courteous, though the moment invited more amusement than conviction.

Poised and perfectly composed, Miss Bingley drifted into the conversation with effortless grace, her bracelet catching the light as she folded her hands with studied ease.

“There is something to be said for the air in the countryside,” she observed languidly.

“One feels a clarity here—undeniably bracing, if somewhat unrefined. Of course,”—she added with a delicate tilt of her head—“the distances between neighbors are positively vast. One rather begins to forget the comforts of society between calls.”

The counterpoint came not from Elizabeth, but from Jane, whose voice was gentle but firm. “I have found that quiet can be a blessing, Miss Bingley. The space to think, to read, to feel the turn of the seasons.”

With the unhurried tone of a man who had drawn such conclusions without intending to teach them, Mr. Bennet remarked, “Long distances, in some cases, are more a blessing than a burden.” He offered it without emphasis, as though merely sharing a thought rather than directing it—and yet, the sentiment landed with quiet precision.

Caroline did not quite frown, but her smile thinned.

A near-smile passed Darcy’s mouth—too faint to be named, but not missed by Elizabeth.

Mr. Hurst, who had thus far been loyal to his glass, declared with fond weariness, “The chief advantage of the country is that dinner arrives when it ought to. In London, one waits on everyone but the food.” He sighed again, this time not unpleasantly.

Mary, stiff-backed and thoughtful, contributed with gravity, “Timeliness is no small matter. In many ways, it is the root of domestic peace.”

With a tone that struck the balance between ease and precision, Caroline turned to Mr. Darcy, who appeared wholly untroubled by the turn of conversation. “Mr. Darcy, I wonder—does country life suit your literary habits? One hears it is the only reasonable diversion away from society.”

Darcy did not so much as blink. “It has its uses.” The reply was mild—neither evasive nor inviting—delivered with the calm of a man disinclined to take the bait.