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She began with “The Banks of Allan Water”—a haunting ballad, telling a sorrowful tale of love lost. Mary delivered it with touching solemnity; her voice was clear and unwavering, flowing across the melody like the river evoked in the song itself.

There was restraint in her tone, but also something deeper—a sorrow not merely performed, but quietly understood.

The guests sat in reverent silence. Sir William’s brows rose in clear surprise; Jane looked genuinely moved.

Mr. Bennet, though his face remained unreadable, watched with a narrowed, attentive gaze.

Elizabeth—who had expected diligence, but not artistry—found herself holding her breath at the final note.

A heartbeat passed, and then gentle applause broke the quiet, led by Mr. Bingley’s generous clapping and a ready “Excellent!” from Sir William.

Caught up in honest enthusiasm, Mr. Hurst let out a booming “Bravo!”, so sudden that his wife gave a startled jump in her seat.

Without waiting to be prompted, Mary cleared her throat gently, as if to recalibrate her voice, and began her second piece: “Robin Adair.” It was a song well known to the assembled company—emotionally expressive, requiring both range and lyrical pathos.

Her pitch settled into an even richer timbre, and the familiar melody unfolded with unexpected tenderness.

Though her posture remained upright and composed, there was no mistaking the genuine feeling that shaded each phrase.

This was no mere exercise in propriety, but a heartfelt performance.

Mrs. Hurst shifted in her seat and murmured, “She has excellent breath control.”

Her sister, caught midway to her teacup, managed a slight nod—not quite in admiration, but certainly in acknowledgment.

Mr. Darcy’s eyes remained on Mary, his expression unreadable but fixed in quiet attention. Mr. Hurst, whose appreciation for music rarely ventured beyond the rim of his wineglass, sat unusually still, blinking slowly, as though puzzled by his own attentiveness.

A new round of applause met the final note. Mrs. Bennet blinked back tears, overcome by the moment.

Mr. Bingley glanced from Mary to Jane, astonished to discover how much talent—and how much quiet mastery—resided in the Bennets’ middle daughter.

Pleasantly surprised by the warmth of her audience, Mary Bennet inclined her head, her hands folded neatly before her, and offered a modest curtsy.

A faint flush touched Mary’s cheeks—not from exertion, but from the rare intimacy of praise.

She did not smile broadly, but a softened light stirred in her eyes, as though something within her had quietly blossomed.

The final piece was “The Soldier’s Adieu”—a ballad of parting and steadfast affection.

A fine choice, popular among families during wartime, it called for gravity and poise.

Mary’s delivery changed here: deeper, steadier, like a farewell spoken with quiet courage.

No tremor touched her tone, but the ache of the lyrics lingered in the spaces between the words.

A hush fell over the company—deeper than before.

When she finished, silence held for a single, weighty breath—then Mr. Hurst startled everyone by clapping with sudden fervor and exclaiming, “Bravo! Bravo, Miss Mary Bennet!”

His renewed enthusiasm, unexpected from so reticent a gentleman, drew smiles all around. Sir William clapped heartily, Jane beamed with pride, Mr. Darcy inclined his head with a quiet, respectful nod, and even Caroline Bingley gave two restrained taps of her gloved fingertips against her palm.

Mrs. Bennet, glowing with maternal pride and unable to restrain herself, declared, “I assure you, she has hardly had a lesson in her life. All native talent, I promise you! Such gifts cannot be taught.”

Bingley, still visibly delighted, added, “Then all the more a treasure, Mrs. Bennet. Netherfield is truly honored tonight.”

Elizabeth caught her sister’s eye, and for a fleeting moment, the smallest of smiles passed between them—muted, but genuine.

Humbled by the warm reception, Mary gave a modest curtsy, her gaze lowered, and returned to her seat with composed dignity.

She said nothing, but those nearest—Jane, Elizabeth, even Mr. Bennet—could see the shimmer of emotion beneath her poise.

For once, Mary felt not merely dutiful, but truly seen.

And the feeling, unfamiliar and tender, settled deep within her.

Then Mr. Darcy spoke—his voice even, but laced with unmistakable sincerity. “Only a deaf ear could have remained unmoved, Miss Mary. My sincere compliments.”

Elizabeth turned her head toward him, startled—not by the words, but by the quiet warmth behind them. She had not expected such direct praise from Mr. Darcy, and certainly not for Mary. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer, uncertain whether she was reassessing him—or herself.

After the applause for Mary’s final note faded, the guests slowly began to stir. The mood was unusually tranquil; even Mr. Hurst remained still for several moments longer before rising with the air of a man returning from a deeper sleep than expected.

“I shall never again doubt Miss Mary Bennet’s vocal talents,” he declared, reaching for his glass.

“I believe that is the nicest compliment we might expect,” Mr. Bennet quipped, earning a few quiet chuckles.

With a glance toward the window and the soft dimming of evening beyond, Mr. Bingley rose and clapped his hands once.

“If I might tempt the curious—there have been some recent improvements to the house. Gentlemen, a brief look at the library, perhaps? It is nearly complete, and I confess I should like to boast of it while the scent of varnish still lingers. Best to leave the ladies to their impressions—and their confidences.”

Mallory the footman appeared at the doorway carrying a tall silver candelabrum, the three flames casting their glow across the walls as they flickered in the draught. With the ease of one long practiced in silent service, he inclined his head and began to lead the way.

Mr. Bennet rose with unhurried grace, brushing a speck of lint from his sleeve. “I confess I am quite curious to see how the library has fared. It has been nearly seven years since I last stepped foot inside. One hopes the books have not aged as poorly as their former reader.”

Bingley gave a warm chuckle. “You shall be the judge, sir. I trust the scent of varnish will not offend a bibliophile’s nose.”

Darcy fell into step beside Mr. Hurst, who ambled forward with the air of a man summoned against his better instincts.

“The library, is it?” Hurst muttered, eyeing the hallway with vague suspicion. “I do not believe I’ve asked where it was since arriving. Shows, perhaps, a lamentable lack of curiosity on my part—but I’ve always preferred my volumes distilled.”

Bingley, turning back, said with cheerful irreverence, “Then we shall consider this your introduction to the printed word, Mr. Hurst.”

Mallory opened the double doors with a quiet gesture, and the gentlemen filed inside, the candlelight catching the spines of books that lined the walls in orderly rows. The scent of fresh polish mingled with leather and age, a mixture sure to charm or repel, depending on one’s interests.

The library at Netherfield, though not vast, was handsomely appointed.

Shelves of polished walnut lined the walls from floor to ceiling, interrupted only by tall windows dressed in subdued green damask.

A narrow balcony ran along the upper level, accessible by a modest spiral staircase of wrought iron and mahogany, lending the room a quiet sense of elevation—both literal and scholarly.

Books in fine condition filled the shelves in ordered ranks, their spines bound mostly in calfskin and marbled boards, with titles stamped in gilt and fading script.

Some volumes were obviously chosen for display—histories and atlases in large formats—while others, more modest in size and binding, suggested actual use: sermons, travel journals, farming treatises, and a few volumes of poetry that hinted at former inhabitants’ tastes.

A fire had already been lit, and the hearth glowed steadily, casting long shadows into the corners of the room—a quiet sign that Mallory had been well instructed about what was to come.

A globe stood beside the writing desk near the window, and a large table with green felt offered both workspace and reading surface.

In one corner, a chess set waited in mid-play, its ivory pieces gleaming in the candlelight.

The chairs were not showy but well-crafted—stuffed with horsehair and covered in soft leather, shaped for comfort more than fashion. A faint scent of beeswax, old paper, and the ghost of pipe tobacco lingered in the air: not intrusive, but distinctly masculine.

It was a room designed less for grandeur than for retreat—quiet, thoughtful, and slightly worn at the edges in a way that made it feel honest. For a gentleman with an interest in books, it would be not only respectable, but welcoming.

“Well, well,” Mr. Bennet murmured, surveying the shelves with visible approval. “It appears that in my absence, this room has finally begun to live up to its potential. A most respectable transformation—almost enough to tempt a man into rereading Cicero.”

Mr. Bingley stretched with contentment, casting a quick glance at his guest. “Then I am glad indeed, sir. Your opinion carries weight—particularly in matters of books and good company.” He turned toward the others with a smile.

“Now, gentlemen—what say you to a hand of cards? The evening is too fine to be left unfinished.”

A murmur of assent passed between them.

“If agreeable to all,” Darcy said with composed ease, “why not? Something light to close the night—though I fear Miss Mary has set a rather high standard for entertainment.”