Page 58

Elizabeth’s boots were lightly damp from the fields, though she had kept to the path as well as she could.

The night’s frost had begun to melt beneath the faint warmth of morning, and she walked briskly, cheeks pinked and breath visible.

Her thoughts were not of the mud nor the chill, but of a certain gentleman whose presence at Longbourn might, by all likelihood, occur today—or tomorrow.

She had learned only yesterday that Mr. Darcy’s business in Town would detain him a day or two longer, leaving his arrival uncertain.

Still, Elizabeth permitted herself a measure of hope.

Would it be today? Might she lift her eyes from her breakfast and find him there—tall and grave in the doorway, the morning light catching in his dark curls?

She had dreamt as much the night before. Though she knew well the folly of trusting to dreams, the disappointment of waking had not quite dispersed with the morning frost. That dream lingered with her still, making the air feel charged with possibility.

At the side entrance, she let herself in, the lingering chill meeting the warmth of the house with a quiet relief.

She removed her bonnet and gloves with habitual care, smoothing her hair as she passed through the corridor.

Longbourn was accustomed to her early rambles; no one would be alarmed by her solitary return.

The breakfast parlour was already in full command.

Mr. Bennet sat behind his paper, Jane beside him, pouring tea with quiet grace.

Mary was occupied with a scone and a volume of Cowper.

Most unusual of all, Mrs. Bennet had taken her seat at the table—a sight rare enough to give Elizabeth pause at the threshold.

Her mother’s presence so early could mean but one thing .

“Ah,” said Mr. Bennet, without lowering his paper, “our wanderer returns. Let no one say we are not a family of curious appetites—some take their refreshment from toast, others from frostbitten hedgerows.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly and entered, curtsying before seating herself. “Forgive me, sir. I find the morning air more invigorating than burnt porridge.”

“Then you have not tasted today’s porridge,” he replied drily. “It may yet surprise you.”

But before Elizabeth could lift her cup, the butler entered. “Mr. Bingley,” he announced.

Mrs. Bennet rose so swiftly her chair gave a faint scrape upon the floor, her face wreathed in smiles and triumph barely disguised. “Mr. Bingley! We are so delighted to see you this morning—please, come in, come in. We are all quite at your service.”

Mr. Bingley entered with his usual warmth and a modest bow. “Good morning, Mrs. Bennet. I thank you for the invitation. I hope I find Miss Bennet well.”

Elizabeth’s eyes flicked to Jane, whose serene expression did not falter, though the motion of her hands over the teapot slowed just perceptibly. Her cheeks, however, bloomed with a soft colour that needed no commentary.

Mr. Bennet folded his paper with exaggerated precision. “Mr. Bingley,” he said, “your punctuality in breakfasting with the Bennet household is exceeded only by your taste in company. Do sit. I am sure my wife has made quite certain that the toast is celebratory.”

He gestured to the chair between Jane and Mrs. Bennet—where, naturally, Mrs. Bennet had insisted he should be placed. Bingley accepted it at once, his smile growing brighter as his gaze lingered, quite without apology now, on Jane.

Elizabeth, watching them both with a heart full of fondness and caution, turned back to her tea.

“Jane,” said Mrs. Bennet, as if the girl were not already at his elbow, “be sure to offer Mr. Bingley the warm bread. And perhaps another egg, if Cook has not destroyed them.”

Elizabeth took a sip of tea and prepared herself to endure the next quarter hour with what dignity she could muster.

Just as the tea had been poured and the eggs passed with only minimal maternal interference, the door burst open with such force that Mary flinched .

"Oh!" cried Lydia, bounding into the room as though summoned by trumpets. "Is that Mr. Bingley at our table? How fine! I daresay it shall be nothing but wedding breakfasts from now on."

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. Jane’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. Mrs. Bennet gave a high, delighted titter and said, “Lydia, do not tease so!”—though her tone suggested she hoped for no such restraint.

Bingley, to his credit, only laughed, colouring slightly as he reached for the jam.

“We must have a ball!” Lydia continued, undeterred. “It must be the first thing settled, for what is the use of a wedding if we cannot dance at it?”

Elizabeth glanced at her father, who had resumed his paper with a grim sort of resignation.

Mr. Bingley, still smiling, said, “I should be most delighted, Miss Lydia, to host one—but I must beg a little patience. My sisters are not yet returned from Town, and I cannot begin such an event without their counsel. In a month’s time, perhaps.”

“Oh, they are nothing to do with it,” Lydia declared. “We shall make a plan and then they may join it later!”

“That,” said Mr. Bennet, rising from his chair, “is my cue to depart. When my youngest daughter begins issuing social decrees over the breakfast table, I must assume the end of civil society is at hand.”

And with that, he exited, humming to himself.

Mrs. Bennet turned to the room in a flurry of ribbons and agitation. "Jane, Mr. Bingley—you must both come with me to Meryton this morning! Your aunt must hear the news directly—she will be beside herself! The whole town will be talking by noon. Everyone must see us together."

Jane, seated beside Mr. Bingley, looked slightly alarmed. "Mama, perhaps another day—"

Mr. Bingley smiled apologetically. "Indeed, I must beg your pardon, ma’am, but I cannot join you this morning. I have but half an hour—my steward is expecting me."

Mrs. Bennet paused, visibly deflated for a moment, then rallied with fresh purpose.

"Well then! Jane, you must remain. It would be quite wrong to leave Mr. Bingley unattended when the morning has offered such excellent company.

Lizzy, fetch your bonnet at once. Mary, you shall come too—whether you scowl or not.

Kitty, do not dawdle. And Lydia—of course, you shall come as well.

Aunt Philips must hear everything, and we must look our very best. "

Elizabeth, still seated with her tea, looked up mildly. "Mama, I have letters to write this morning. I fear I cannot spare the time."

Mrs. Bennet waved a hand. "Then stay, Lizzy, if you must. But the rest shall accompany me."

"I’ll go!" Lydia cried, springing to her feet. "Aunt Philips will want to know every detail. I shall tell her about the ball, and Mr. Bingley’s visit, and—well, she’ll be wild with curiosity!"

Mary, still buttering her toast, spoke first, her tone even. "I believe Kitty and I had set aside this morning to catalogue the music books. They are in dreadful disorder."

Kitty nodded quickly. "Yes. I promised I would help."

Lydia scoffed. "Since when do you care about that?"

Kitty did not answer, but the flush on her cheeks deepened. Mary gave her a quiet, approving nod. The moment passed without argument, but not without significance.

Elizabeth met her gaze across the table and felt a spark of unexpected gratitude.

And so the party divided, as it must—Lydia bounding off in anticipation of gossip and glory, Mrs. Bennet not far behind in a flurry of bonnets and self-congratulation, and the rest left in the quiet after her storm. The breakfast room, so lately full of bustle and design, had at last fallen still.

Mary and Kitty departed for the music room with solemn purpose—Mary upright with quiet resolve, and Kitty trailing after her, subdued but not reluctant.

Elizabeth watched them go, noting the quiet understanding that had begun to form between the two.

They had spoken more often of late, and Kitty—who once might have mocked Mary’s solemnity—now seemed to draw calm from it.

Though their voices were low and indistinct, the shape of their companionship was plain to see.

Still thoughtful, Elizabeth lingered behind to collect the abandoned napkins and pour out the last of the lukewarm tea.

When the parlour had emptied entirely and the clatter and chatter of the morning were but a memory, she made her way to the sitting room, where the fire had been stirred and a peaceful sort of hush had begun to settle.

Jane took up her usual seat by the hearth, her hands resting in her lap with the composure that never deserted her.

Mr. Bingley sat beside her, his manner easy and attentive, though there was in his voice a kind of reverence now—as if he could scarcely believe his happiness had returned to him at last. Their conversation, though quiet, was unmistakably tender; Jane’s words were never extravagant, but her eyes, bright with feeling, needed no embellishment .

Elizabeth, unwilling to intrude upon such intimacy, chose a chair at some distance and reached for her needlework.

Her fingers, however, were not so quick as her thoughts, which turned inward even as the needle moved.

She had hoped for such a morning for Jane—had worked toward it, in fact, by every subtle means within her power.

And now that it had come, it brought with it not only satisfaction, but a touch of wistfulness too.