Page 26

Opposite him, Mr. Bennet regarded his own cards—then blinked, surprised. His brows rose, not in triumph, but in faint disbelief. He hesitated for the span of a breath.

“Well, well,” Darcy murmured, a thread of amusement in his voice. “Let us show our hands, if only to marvel at fate.”

They laid their cards upon the table with quiet ceremony.

Mr. Darcy revealed an Ace, a Nine, and an Eight—respectable, but insufficient.

Mr. Bennet’s hand drew all eyes: three Kings—unequivocal in strength, and crowned with the certainty of victory.

A pause followed, not of shock but of shared awareness. Mr. Bennet flushed slightly, fingers tapping once against the green baize. Bingley gave a soft exhale—measured, almost inaudible. Mallory, discreet and dignified, offered the faintest of nods before stepping back.

Darcy’s mouth curved in a faint smile, graceful and unperturbed.

“This is becoming improbable,” Mr. Bennet said slowly, tallying the counters. “I should leave before the moon turns green.”

“You have been blessed by pure luck, Mr. Bennet,” Darcy replied with enough gravity to appear sincere.

“Or perhaps the others are too well-mannered to beat me.”

“Neither,” Bingley said, smiling. “You are simply favored tonight.”

“I feel a need to cry out in sheer disbelief,” Mr. Bennet muttered. “There is no way I can accept this win.”

“Not at the table,” Bingley said with a grin. “My housekeeper would never forgive a tearstained cloth.”

A strained smile touched Mr. Bennet’s face.

“But it was played in earnest,” Darcy said again. There was no edge in his voice, only something gentle, understanding—perhaps even admiring. Not a hint of regret, no shadow of reluctance. His eyes, calm and steady, smiled more than his mouth.

Mr. Bennet watched him closely. He was, after all, not a man easily misled. Yet everything in Darcy’s posture—dignity, restraint, respect—suggested this was no trick but genuine intent.

Mallory brought ink and quill on a silver plate to Mr. Darcy. The gentleman took up the draft and dipped the pen with practiced ease. Then, pausing just above the page, he looked up.

“Forgive me, sir—your full name?”

Mr. Bennet, still watching him with surprise and reluctance, replied with a dry flicker of humor, “Thomas Francis Bennet, if you intend to make it legally binding, sir.”

Darcy gave a slight nod and wrote without hesitation, the nib gliding across the paper in clean, economical strokes.

When he was done, he signed with a steady hand, the final flourish crisp but unshowy.

He lifted the sheet, inspected it briefly, then folded it once with care and offered it across the table.

“Mr. Bennet,” he said, his tone perfectly composed. “As agreed.”

“Well,” Mr. Bennet said at last, slowly folding the bank draft into his coat, “it so happens that this sum may resolve a matter of some delicacy. But I cannot let it pass as mere winnings. It shall be repaid—soon. After all, it is a debt of honor.”

“That is out of the question, sir,” Darcy said, bowing his head with quiet formality.

“If I accept this,” Mr. Bennet said, “it is only as a temporary matter, my good sir. You may expect full repayment—though not, I hope, with interest.”

“None asked,” Darcy said.

“None wanted,” Bingley added then he shifted just enough to hide the small, relieved smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

A pause. Then Mr. Bennet smiled gratefully.

The gentlemen rose not long after. The fire hissed softly in the grate, and no further mention was made of the paper now resting in Mr. Bennet’s breast pocket.

Darcy said nothing. Bingley wore the same smile he always wore. And Mr. Bennet—still turning the weight of the bank draft in his mind—only shook his head once as they passed the stair.

“It must be madness,” he muttered. “But if so, it is a gracious sort.”

***

The door at last opened with the discreet whisper of polished hinges, and Mr. Bingley appeared, his smile warm, his manner as buoyant as ever.

“Ladies,” he said, offering a slight bow, “you must pardon our delay. The gentlemen should not have kept you waiting—we hope you will forgive us.”

Mrs. Hurst cast a glance at her husband, who followed behind looking content and mildly disheveled. “I trust you did not lose anything too dear?”

Somehow surprised, Mr. Hurst gave a long, luxurious stretch. “Nothing at all, madam. On the contrary, I gained an excellent nap. Quite restorative.”

Bingley chuckled, and polite smiles circled the room, though no further explanation was offered.

Mr. Bennet entered next, nodding to his daughters with his usual dry serenity, his expression unreadable, and seemingly in no hurry to elaborate. Mr. Darcy came last, composed as ever, pausing near the threshold with the air of one observing more than arriving.

Caroline, undeterred, turned toward him with calculated lightness. “Surely the evening did not devolve entirely into the exchange of reading recommendations, sir?”

Darcy inclined his head. “I assure you, Miss Bingley, I have avoided such extremes.”

Across the room, Jane’s eyes met Bingley’s, and his responding look was both warm and faintly relieved. Elizabeth, watchful as ever, noted a touch of weariness at her father’s temples—but nothing that troubled her. If anything, he seemed lighter than before.

“I hope you gentlemen have not overexerted yourselves,” said Mrs. Bennet with strained cheer. “It is not every evening one is so thoroughly entertained.”

“We had only just said the same of your company,” Bingley replied with his usual gallantry.

“Then let us rejoin it,” said Mr. Darcy, glancing toward the center of the room. “If the ladies are not weary.”

Elizabeth rose, posture graceful but self-possessed. “Not in the least, Mr. Darcy. We have enjoyed excellent conversation—though perhaps less gainful than yours.”

Darcy’s lips tilted into what might, with generosity, be called a smile. “That is difficult to believe.”

No one asked who had won. No one volunteered to say. And so the evening continued, the card table left behind and every trace of tension smoothed beneath the surface of restored civility.

***

The hour had grown late, and at last, the Bennet party made their farewells.

Cloaks were gathered, gloves drawn on, and parting pleasantries exchanged with all the expected civility.

A footman was summoned to assist the ladies to the carriage, but Mr. Bingley walked beside them to the door, his gaze resting on Jane with unmistakable warmth.

Mr. Darcy followed with measured formality, offering a parting bow to Elizabeth—precisely courteous, yet weighted with something more.

She returned it in kind, but the glance they shared lingered in her thoughts even as the carriage pulled away.

The Bennet carriage rolled gently through the cool night air, the lamps of Netherfield shrinking behind them into pinpricks of gold.

For a while, no one spoke.

Then, quite without warning, Mr. Bennet cleared his throat and began to hum a few bars of “The Lincolnshire Poacher”—with such cheer and surprising tunefulness that Mary and Jane turned to look at each other.

By the second verse, he was singing softly to himself, utterly unbothered by the astonishment around him.

“Full well I served my master for nigh on seven years…”

Mrs. Bennet blinked and opened her mouth to inquire, but thought better of it.

Jane smiled faintly, though clearly puzzled.

Only Elizabeth watched him with narrowed, wondering eyes. Then her lips curled into something half a smile, half a sigh. She said nothing. But she knew.

He had sung himself into peace—and whatever had caused it, he would not tell. Not yet.

And for now, that was enough.

***

The Bennet carriage arrived at Longbourn to the sound of the front door opening briskly. Kitty and Lydia appeared in the hallway at once, breathless with anticipation and wide-eyed with curiosity.

“Well?” Lydia demanded, bursting forward. “Well? Did you all forget the way home—or was it so delightful you thought never to return?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but added, “Come now, do tell us everything. Was it splendid, or only tolerable?”

“Did anyone speak of the ball?” Kitty added, her eyes darting toward Jane.

Mrs. Bennet passed her cloak to the waiting maid and gestured for her daughters to do the same. “Come into the dining room, girls. We are not savages, to chatter in the hallway

They filed in, warming themselves briefly by the low fire that had been kept in the grate. A few candles flickered across the table, their light catching the weariness on Jane’s face and the faraway look in Elizabeth’s.

“Well, I must say,” Mrs. Bennet began, lowering herself into a chair with exaggerated care, “it was a very reasonable dinner. The food was good, the wine generous, and Mr. Bingley— such a kind, considerate host. Really, the evening passed quite agreeably.”

Kitty leaned over the table. “And what of the sisters? Did they speak to Jane?”

“Oh, they spoke,” said Elizabeth drily, “though more from habit than from welcome.”

Mrs. Bennet sniffed. “Snobbery from beginning to end. Miss Bingley could scarcely lift her lip without wounding someone’s dignity, and the married one—Mrs. Hurst—is no better.

Arrogant, shallow creatures, the both of them.

Were it not for the gentlemen, I should say there would be little reason to return. ”

Lydia’s face fell. “Does that mean we are not going to the ball?”

“It would be very dull without us,” Kitty added, dismayed.

Mary, who had taken a seat near the fire, smoothed the folds of her gown and said quietly, “I think we should go. Mr. Bingley seemed particularly pleased with Jane this evening.”

Mrs. Bennet rolled her eyes. “You only hope to sing again, Mary.”

“There is no harm in that,” Mary said, her voice level. “Music pleases, and tonight it was well received.”