Page 22
Story: A Lady’s Gambit
Elizabeth, who had listened without interruption, now spoke with measured clarity.
“I think literary habits depend more on inclination than on surroundings. A thoughtful reader can find meaning anywhere, in any setting. The same might be said of a writer. The interior shapes the thought—what lies outside is merely scaffolding, useful but not essential.”
Caroline’s smile twitched, then steadied.
Darcy’s gaze shifted toward Elizabeth, but whatever thought passed through his mind, he kept it to himself.
A pause, deliberate and soft. “The country inspires many things,” Elizabeth said, “silence, for one.”
And that silence, for a moment, settled comfortably over the room.
Darcy turned his gaze from the painting above the hearth to Elizabeth’s profile. “And does that silence lend itself to reflection, Miss Elizabeth?”
She looked at him then, her voice as composed as ever. “Among other things, sir.”
The quiet that followed was not strained, but full. Darcy did not look away.
It was Bingley—bright, generous, and unflagging—who broke the pause. “You shall be pleased to know the musicians for the ball are confirmed. And have been assured the drawing room has excellent acoustics.”
The word “acoustics” seemed to stir Mary more than the talk of dancing; she straightened slightly, her eyes brightening with cautious interest.
Across the room, Caroline turned her attention to Jane with a smile that bore all the right dimensions and none of the warmth. “I imagine Miss Bennet will be quite admired.”
Jane offered a modest reply, her voice gentle and her cheeks touched with color — but her grace made no effort to turn attention back toward herself.
Elizabeth made no reply. The compliment addressed to Jane passed her like a breeze at the hem, unnoticed. Her gaze wandered toward the darkening window, her thoughts still elsewhere.
Mr. Darcy watched Elizabeth again—not for her silence now, but for the way she seemed to listen inwardly, as though the fire behind her eyes had no need of words to keep it burning.
Unaware of his attention, Elizabeth, seated with composed stillness, listened without comment.
Her gaze drifted now and then to her father—not in expectation of a revelation, for she knew too well he would never risk troubling a social evening with talk of debts—but with a faint hope he might show some quiet resolve, some hint of a plan he had not yet shared.
He seemed, for the moment, perfectly at ease.
***
Dinner was announced with quiet formality, and the guests made their way to the dining room. The long table had been dressed with excellent-quality linen, its center graced by an elegant arrangement of autumn foliage and candlesticks that flickered just brightly enough to gild the silverware.
Mr. Bingley offered his arm to Mrs. Bennet and led the company to the dining room with cheerful ease, while Mr. Darcy followed close behind, observing in quiet reserve.
Once everyone was seated, Mr. Bingley gave a brief nod to Mr. Bennet, who willingly offered a short grace.
The first course—white soup with toasted almonds—was then served.
Conversation resumed over the soft clink of porcelain and silver.
“I was not aware Netherfield served such temptations,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone dry but unmistakably appreciative. “Had I known, I might have come much sooner.”
“Alas, I cannot remedy the past,” Mr. Bingley replied with cheerful good humor, “but the idea of inviting you more often is an excellent one.” As he spoke, his gaze flicked—almost involuntarily—toward Jane.
“Then see that you do,” came Mr. Hurst’s voice from further down the table, spoken between mouthfuls. “But only if the cook remains unchanged.”
Had Mrs. Hurst’s look possessed the power to wound, it might have done considerable damage.
Willing to dispel any tension, Bingley, the attentive host, turned with open interest toward Jane. “Miss Bennet, may I ask—do you play the pianoforte?”
“I do,” Jane answered warmly, her voice modest but unhesitant. “Though I cannot claim any particular distinction.”
“Ah, but that can be remedied,” Bingley said, beaming. “Netherfield has yet to acquire a pianoforte, and I have been looking for a good excuse. This may well be it.”
Caroline’s fork paused mid-air.
Jane smiled. “That is kind of you, sir—but truly, I play only for private pleasure.”
“And does Miss Mary play as well?” asked Mr. Hurst, glancing toward her place.
“Mary sings beautifully,” Jane replied with quiet pride, casting a gentle look toward her sister. “Her voice has always been her instrument of choice.”
All heads turned with fresh interest. Mary cleared her throat. “I would be pleased to offer a piece after the meal, if agreeable.”
“More than agreeable,” said Darcy, with a faint nod.
Mrs. Bennet sat a little straighter, clearly gratified by the direction of the conversation.
Louisa Hurst complimented the soup with a nod of satisfaction, while Caroline—perhaps unwilling to remain silent—remarked on the delicate embroidery of the table linens, though her gaze remained fixed, as ever, on Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Bennet, who had thus far contented himself with quiet observation, joined in with idle good humor. “The workmanship is very fine, indeed. But I confess, it is the conversation that recommends the evening most. One hears the finest debates over roast fowl and claret.”
Bingley laughed. “Then we must ensure both are abundant.”
The second course arrived—partridge with chestnut stuffing and stewed pears—its aromas welcomed with evident approval.
Elizabeth responded when spoken to but remained otherwise thoughtful. Her glance drifted now and then to her father, who seemed, for the moment, at ease. His lightness of manner, she suspected, was as deliberate as her own.
Darcy took note. He watched her as one might study a portrait: aware that something deeper lay beneath the expression. Until that evening, he had not known how much tension could reside behind so composed a smile.
Conversation shifted again. Jane asked Mr. Bingley whether the workmen had completed repairs in the north wing.
“Not quite, Miss Bennet,” he replied. “Though I daresay we are approaching civilized living. The windows no longer rattle—which, in a house this size, counts as a triumph.”
Observing that the conversation drifted toward matters domestic, Mrs. Bennet seized the opening with bright efficiency.
“Mr. Bingley,” she said, leaning slightly forward, “if you are still in want of a trustworthy tradesman for curtains and tapestries, I cannot recommend anyone more dependable than Mr. Tilbrook of St. Albans. His shop is on Fish Pool Street—just past the apothecary. Quite respectable, and his velvet hangings are always cut true.”
Bingley, always gracious, inclined his head. “That is most useful to know, madam. We have only begun to consider window dressings. Fish Pool Street, you say?”
“Indeed. He dressed Lady Frampton’s dining room last Easter, and she was entirely satisfied.”
Miss Bingley, who had until then maintained a posture of languid interest, flicked an invisible speck from her sleeve and murmured, “St. Albans is… quaint.”
Louisa Hurst, raising her glass with cool precision, added, “The trouble with tradesmen outside of Town is that they so often forget they are not artists.”
Unfazed, Mrs. Bennet beamed. “He does carry French trimmings, if that is your concern. But he charges honestly—no, not Mr. Tilbrook.”
Bingley, sensing the veiled barbs, laughed with renewed brightness. “He sounds exactly the sort of fellow one hopes to find—fair in trade, sound in skill, and recommended by those with taste.”
Elizabeth, seated beside Jane, leaned slightly and murmured, “He might yet furnish the entire county—if left unchecked.”
Her sister Jane stifled a smile behind her napkin, and across the table, Mr. Darcy looked up from his glass with the faintest trace of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth.
Catching the moment, Elizabeth glanced toward her mother and gave a slow blink—one that might have passed for approval or a quiet plea not to offer upholstery counsel at every supper.
The third course was being cleared when Caroline, undeterred, leaned once more toward Mr. Darcy. “Excuse me, do you prefer plum pudding or mince pie, Mr. Darcy?”
He did not look up. “Neither.”
The answer was polite, but final. Elizabeth noticed. Charlotte might have smiled, had Mr. Darcy not quite extinguished the impulse.
With the last plates cleared and glasses refreshed, the meal had drawn to a close—but the evening still held promise. Whatever concerns lingered behind smiles, the company remained, for the moment, in good harmony.
As the servants withdrew with quiet efficiency, Mr. Bingley—buoyant as ever—turned to the gathering with renewed cheer.
“I trust I speak for everyone present,” Mr. Bingley said with a genial glance around the room, “when I say that we should be most honored, if Miss Mary Bennet would still favor us with the song she so graciously mentioned earlier—or more, if we are fortunate.”
A ripple of polite interest passed through the room.
Mary, seated with composed stillness and her hands lightly folded in her lap, gave a small but unhesitating nod. “I shall do my best to be agreeable, Mr. Bingley.”
The room quieted at once—not with the bustle of forced attention, but with a real, gathering expectation.
A space was made near the hearth where the light from the candles warmed the air to a golden hush.
With no pianoforte at Netherfield yet, Mary stepped forward alone, the soft rustle of her gown the only sound as she took her place.
Table of Contents
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