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Gentle laughter followed. Conversation rose in pleasant layers—Jane complimenting the soup, Bingley echoing her delight.

Darcy made no remark at first, but offered a polite nod to both Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Gardiner—acknowledging not only their welcome, but the quiet coordination that had brought such harmony to the table.

The fish course followed: trout en papillote , caught that morning from the nearby stream. A murmur of appreciation circled the table.

Jane sighed, “Aunt, this is perfect.”

“It is Mrs. Hill’s doing,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “We borrowed her talents for the evening.”

“Mrs. Hill makes excellent syllabub,” Lydia burst out—then blushed and went silent.

Elizabeth caught her sister’s eye and gave the faintest smile of encouragement.

Next came a ragout of lamb, followed by glazed carrots, early peas, and a game pie that clearly met Mr. Phillips’s expectations.

The conversation, like the wine, had mellowed into a richer flow. Bingley leaned forward slightly.

“Miss Bennet, this course is a triumph—your table reflects such care and grace. One feels quite restored by it.”

Jane smiled gently, lowering her eyes in modest protest. “You are very kind, Mr. Bingley. The credit belongs chiefly to my aunt, who arranged the evening so thoughtfully. But I am very glad you find it agreeable.”

“Then we are of one mind,” said Bingley warmly. “There is something exceedingly hopeful in all these green things. I should be most pleased to consult you about the gardens at Netherfield—if I may?”

A flutter of agreement passed between them, quiet and promising.

Mrs. Gardiner, observing the exchange with quiet satisfaction, concluded there was no need for her interventions—this particular attachment, it seemed, required no assistance to flourish.

Further down the table, Mrs. Bennet seized her moment.

“I cannot help but wonder—do you keep a fine garden yourself, Mr. Darcy?” she asked with the determined amiability of one who meant to touch on grandeur whether invited or not.

“I imagine Pemberley must be quite something. A house of such consequence surely has groves and walks and all manner of improvements!”

There was the briefest pause. Elizabeth’s fork lingered mid-air.

Darcy inclined his head with measured courtesy. “We are indeed fortunate in our situation, madam. The natural beauty of the grounds is considerable, and we have endeavored to preserve it. A small staff of gardeners see to most of the care; I merely offer direction now and then.”

Before Mrs. Bennet could press further, Mr. Bennet interjected lightly, “It is always a comfort to hear that the splendor of great estates does not bloom without the honest labor of others. Gardens, I believe, flourish best when their master is a good and kind man. In that respect, I am fortunate indeed—in my wife and daughters. Were my own disposition to govern the soil, I fear we should see little but thistles and nettles, I dare say.”

The room gave a polite laugh, the current of conversation turning just enough to spare further embarrassment. Elizabeth allowed her fork to descend at last.

“Then I daresay our garden will flourish, Papa,” said Jane gently. “You know, Mr. Darcy—my mother is fond of bold landscaping. Alas, at Longbourn, we must aim for something a little more restrained.”

Darcy’s mouth twitched, the beginning of a smile appearing. “That is a fair observation, Miss Bennet. My father had little patience for excess—he preferred harmony to grandeur.”

Mrs. Gardiner, ever the gentle steward of civility, steered the subject without missing a beat.

“I cannot but agree with Mr. Bennet. I have always thought the finest estates reflect their owners—not in splendor alone, but in balance and good sense. Though I have not had the pleasure of seeing Pemberley, sir, I imagine it speaks well for both.”

Darcy looked at her with something very like warmth.

“You are most obliging, Mrs. Gardiner. I can only hope it continues to offer a sense of welcome—and order.”

His gaze, though quickly withdrawn, strayed momentarily toward Elizabeth.

“Order,” said Mr. Bennet, idly revolving his wineglass by the stem, “is indeed the first comfort of any home. Though books may yet rival it, in mine.”

A murmur of polite amusement passed around the table, and the good humor resumed its gentle current.

Across the table, Mrs. Gardiner caught Elizabeth’s eye. Nothing was said aloud, but the look they exchanged carried all the satisfaction required.

At that moment, the fine claret was decanted—Mr. Bennet’s quiet pride. Encouraged by the attention, he introduced its provenance with a touch of mock ceremony.

“You may accuse me of spoiling our guests, my dear, but this bottle has been patient long enough.”

The first glass was passed to Mr. Darcy, the next to Mr. Bingley, and another prepared for Mr. Phillips.

Darcy took a measured sip. His eyes widened by a fraction, then narrowed in discreet approval.

“You spoil us with great discernment, sir,” he said.

The compliment made its way around the table, loosening the air with unexpected warmth. Mr. Bingley laughed more freely; even Mr. Phillips seemed momentarily at ease.

The three younger girls—Kitty, Lydia, and Mary—were, for once, remarkably subdued.

Though their hands fidgeted under the tablecloth or their glances occasionally darted toward one another with conspiratorial gleams, they made no interruption.

Whether from fear of Mrs. Gardiner’s prior counsel or the sheer unfamiliarity of being in such carefully assembled company, they held their tongues with the tense discipline of soldiers standing inspection.

Shortly after, the dessert arrived—a flourish of lemon tarts, preserved cherries, syllabub. Mrs. Phillips’s famed cakes followed, and admiration was not spared.

As the final plates were cleared, the company prepared to return to the parlor. The dining room, for all its formality, had played its part. The atmosphere had shifted: not from cold to warm, but from polite civility to something close to intimacy.

And though Mrs. Gardiner said nothing, the slight smile at the corner of her mouth showed she knew it.

The next act, she was certain, would be even more revealing.

***

The drawing room welcomed them all glowing with a low, inviting fire.

Footstools and cushions had been drawn closer to the hearth, and the ladies found themselves arranged in a half-circle that invited quiet confidences.

Cordials and a light citrus shrub had been laid on the sideboard—a quieter indulgence than coffee, which Mrs. Gardiner—being of Town—insisted would have improved conversation.

Though tradition dictated that the gentlemen linger over port, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy joined the ladies with notable promptness—whether from courtesy or curiosity, none could say.

Mr. Bennet and Mr. Phillips followed them shortly after.

Elizabeth noted Mr. Darcy’s entrance with guarded interest. His manner was composed, but his eyes searched the room and settled, however briefly, on her. She did not look away at once.

Mrs. Gardiner, who had waited for this precise arrangement of company and quiet, set down her cup with an air of casual purpose.

“I had an unexpected letter this week,” she began lightly, though her tone carried more than idle meaning. “It was from Mrs. Cecilia Farrington—some of you may recall her under her maiden name, Miss Boland. We met last season in Town.”

Mr. Phillips gave a nod of recollection. “A widow, is she not? Her husband served as a Captain, if I remember rightly.”

“Quite so,” Mrs. Gardiner agreed. “Captain Charles Colden Farrington—he died very young, in 1796. Their son, Charles Henry, is to spend a few weeks in Hertfordshire next month, and Mrs. Farrington mentioned—somewhat playfully, I thought—that he remembered Elizabeth from our brief stay in London.”

Elizabeth blinked, her expression polite but guarded. “I fear I do not remember him distinctly.”

The silence that followed was light and breathless. The fire crackled once. Elizabeth, taken utterly by surprise, stiffened—but kept her countenance serene.

Mr. Bennet blinked and adjusted his spectacles. Jane, seated beside her sister, glanced with faint astonishment between her aunt and Elizabeth.

Mr. Darcy, who had been reaching for his cup, paused. The cup remained untouched.

Elizabeth cleared her throat softly. "It was a very brief meeting," she said. "I do not recall making any particular impression."

Mrs. Gardiner gave her a gentle smile. “Apparently, the young man thought otherwise.” She smiled. “He was only sixteen, and very quiet at the time. But evidently not too shy to recall a young lady who spoke kindly to him at dinner.”

At that, Mr. Phillips straightened with interest. “Ah, yes—the Farrington young man. Grandson of General Farrington. His name has been mentioned in certain circles of late.”

Darcy’s gaze shifted slightly.

“There is even some talk,” Mrs. Gardiner continued, “that the general’s elevation to a baronetcy is imminent. It has been long expected. Should it occur, young Charles Henry would be next in line.”

“Does he?” Mrs. Bennet asked with unrestrained enthusiasm.

Mr. Bennet, who had remained silent until now, offered a dry smile. “Our Lizzy appears to inspire uncommon recollection. I daresay I must be flattered on the family’s behalf.”

Mrs. Gardiner cast a glance at Mr. Bingley, who was so thoroughly absorbed in Jane that he seemed unaware of anything else transpiring. Then, with a fleeting look toward Mr. Darcy, she played yet another card from her sleeve.

“What matters most, I am told, is that the family is forward-thinking. They seek a steady, affectionate match for the young man—without that excessive emphasis on rank or dowry so common among the high-born. They wish only for a bride who is both lovely and clever, and who will value their son for what he is. His family members are not overly concerned with rigid expectations.”