Page 49

Longbourn – Breakfast Room

T he breakfast room at Longbourn was quieter than it had been in days.

Mr Collins was gone.

The change was so palpable that Elizabeth almost expected Hill to remark on the improved air. Even Mrs Bennet, though still visibly agitated, carried herself with more dignity now that she was no longer obliged to smile and nod through Mr Collins’ endless speeches.

Kitty and Lydia, on the other hand, had lost no time reclaiming the conversation.

“I heard it from Miss Carter herself,” Lydia was saying, her voice carrying brightly across the table. “She said everyone at Meryton knows about it! That Mr Darcy is secretly engaged to Lizzy - but that his family is furious, and he must hide it until the wedding!”

Kitty nodded eagerly. “And Mrs Long says he was seen giving you a secret token, Lizzy - perhaps a ring?”

Elizabeth set down her teacup with careful precision. “How fascinating,” she said coolly. “I was not aware.”

Mary, not to be left out, added primly, “Idle gossip is the devil’s whisper.”

Lydia only laughed. “Oh, but it is such entertaining gossip!”

Across the table, Mr Bennet glanced over the top of his newspaper with a glint of dry amusement. “I had not realised, Lizzy, that your adventures had grown so extensive.”

Elizabeth shook her head, refusing to rise to Lydia’s bait. “I assure you, Papa, my life remains exceedingly dull.”

Jane, seated beside her, gave a small, supportive smile - though her brow was faintly furrowed.

Mrs Bennet, who had been distracted buttering a roll, now looked up sharply. “But Lizzy - are you sure there is no engagement? Mr Collins was so certain that Mr Darcy was promised to his cousin - that Miss de Bourgh girl! What if it is true, and he is merely trifling with you?”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “I am certain, Mama, that there is no engagement.”

Mrs Bennet frowned, unconvinced. “Well, I do not know what to think. It would be just like men to change their minds without telling a soul.”

She sniffed and took another bite of roll, still clearly worried.

Mr Bennet folded his paper with a rustle. “Speaking of engagements - Jane, has there been any further word from Netherfield?”

Jane coloured slightly. “Miss Bingley’s note said her brother would return early next week, Papa.”

“Hmm.” Mr Bennet tapped the paper lightly against the table. “Then perhaps, my dear,” he said, addressing Mrs Bennet, “you might consider inviting the Netherfield party to dine - once Mr Bingley returns.”

Mrs Bennet’s eyes lit up at once. “An excellent notion! We must secure them before they are distracted by Town matters again.”

She rose from her chair, her mind clearly racing ahead. “I must speak to Hill at once - we must plan the dinner, arrange the courses, order what is needed. Everything must be perfect.”

Without waiting for agreement, she swept from the room, her skirts rustling with purpose.

Elizabeth exchanged a look with Jane across the table - half amusement, half resignation.

Their mother might claim the invitation was merely a neighbourly courtesy.

But in truth, it would be a campaign.

The next morning dawned with mist curling low over the fields - and with it, a new flurry of activity at Longbourn.

The household at Longbourn was already in a flurry by mid-morning.

Gowns were aired and inspected, ribbons compared, shoes tried on and polished until they gleamed. Lydia and Kitty chased about with laughter and shrieks, heedless of Mary’s stern warnings about the sinfulness of excessive gaiety.

Mrs Bennet presided over it all like a general marshalling troops, her cap askew and her cheeks flushed.

“Lizzy!” she called, bustling across the room. “Come here this instant. We must see how you walk. We cannot have you hobbling about at the ball like some village cripple!”

Elizabeth, perched on the window seat with a length of embroidery abandoned in her lap, sighed inwardly but obeyed.

She rose carefully, favouring her ankle slightly - but it bore her weight well enough. A few steps across the carpet, and though she was not as quick as usual, she did not limp .

Mrs Bennet clucked her tongue, unsatisfied.

“I declare you are as slow as cold treacle!” she cried. “Mr Darcy will think you a limp goose!”

At this, Lydia burst into helpless giggles, and Kitty quickly followed suit.

Elizabeth bit back a retort. “I shall manage, Mama.”

Jane crossed the room with a quiet, steadying presence. “You are doing very well, Lizzy. Better every day.”

Elizabeth gave her sister a grateful glance.

“And thank goodness,” said Lydia gaily, “that horrid Mr Collins is not here to claim the first two dances! Imagine being pinned to him all evening!”

Kitty shrieked with laughter. “We should have had to feign sprained ankles, all of us!”

Mary looked scandalised. “It is highly improper to jest about one’s partners at a public assembly.”

Lydia tossed her head. “If my partner were Mr Collins, I should make jokes and thank Providence for the wit to do so!”

Elizabeth could not help laughing - though there was a tightness beneath her amusement that she could not quite shake.

“Besides,” Lydia added, bouncing on her toes, “I mean to dance every set with Mr Wickham! He promised me two, and I shall hold him to it!”

Kitty clapped her hands. “And Captain Carter! And Mr Denny! Oh, it will be a famous ball!”

Mrs Bennet, who had been inspecting a lace flounce with a critical eye, looked up sharply at the mention of Mr Wickham.

Her brows drew together for a moment - but then she shook herself and said briskly, “Never mind about officers, girls. We must have everything perfect. Hill! Hill, where are the extra pins? And that bolt of muslin for fresh sashes? ”

Hill appeared, long-suffering, from the hall.

Elizabeth sat again, suppressing a wince as she eased her foot off the floor.

Jane knelt beside her, gently taking her hand. “Are you in pain?”

“No,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Only stiff. And a little… uncertain.”

Jane smiled - that calm, luminous smile that always seemed to banish fear. “You will dance if you can. And if not - you will still be the loveliest lady in the room.”

Elizabeth squeezed her hand in silent thanks.

Across the room, Mrs Bennet was already directing Hill toward the linen chest, rattling off instructions for new caps, fresh gloves, and the precise arrangement of the sideboard for the Netherfield dinner.

Elizabeth watched her mother, watched Lydia’s laughter, Kitty’s whirling excitement - and felt a strange mixture of tenderness and unease.

Everything was moving forward - preparations, hopes, expectations - and she herself was caught somewhere between.

She had given Mr Darcy her promise for a dance.

If she could not fulfil it - if she stumbled, or faltered - what would he think?

But if she could -

Her heart twisted, aching and uncertain.

Outside, the mist had lifted slightly, and a pale sun shone coldly over the fields.

Elizabeth sat back against the window seat, clutching her embroidery loosely in her hands.

Whatever the ball might bring, she would face it with her eyes open.

One step at a time.

That same afternoon, Jane rode out alone to Netherfield, bearing the civilities that courtesy demanded.

Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst received her with all outward politeness, but there was a tightness beneath their smiles that even Jane’s gentle manner could not entirely dispel.

When she returned to Longbourn, she said little of her visit - only that they had been “very proper” and had “spoken much of Town.”

But Elizabeth saw the faint crease between her sister’s brows and, despite her best efforts, could not quite still her unease.

Meanwhile, Mr Darcy was no less occupied. Quiet inquiries were made; discreet meetings were arranged.

On Sunday morning, the family attended church.

The bells tolled solemnly over the misted fields as the Bennet family made their way to the small country church.

Elizabeth moved carefully, her ankle still faintly tender in the cold air, though she had long ceased to mention it.

The churchyard stones gleamed wetly underfoot, the last few stubborn leaves rattling in the bare trees overhead.

Inside, the nave smelled of damp wool and old hymnals. Candles guttered gently against the grey light filtering through the windows. They took their usual pew near the front.

Elizabeth had just lowered her head to compose herself when the Netherfield party arrived. Boots against stone. The murmur of polite greetings. A rustle of silk and polished leather. Elizabeth glanced up once, briefly, and her heart gave a small, traitorous lurch.

Mr Darcy.

He bowed with grave courtesy as he passed up the aisle, his gaze brushing hers for the briefest instant. Mr Hurst followed, solemn and heavy-footed. Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst glided stiffly behind.

There was a brief, quiet bustle of seating arrangements. Mr Bennet, with a slight clearing of his throat, shifted down to make room-and somehow, whether by accident or unspoken understanding, Mr Darcy ended up seated beside Elizabeth.

Not touching. Not even brushing sleeves. But close enough that she could feel the subtle warmth of him in the winter-chilled air .

Elizabeth kept her gaze fixed firmly ahead, her prayer book steady in her gloved hands. Yet she was acutely aware of every breath he drew, every small shift of his frame.

When they rose to sing the opening hymn, his voice joined the others-low, steady, measured.

Her own voice faltered once, catching unexpectedly, and she was absurdly grateful for the solid support of the pew.

Mr Darcy did not look at her.

But when they sat again, she thought she saw, from the corner of her eye, the faintest inclination of his head-not a bow, not a signal, merely a silent acknowledgment that he was there.

The service passed in a strange suspension. Elizabeth scarcely heard the sermon. Her thoughts ran ahead and tangled back on themselves-hope, fear, bewilderment-all wound into a knot she could not seem to loosen.

She dared not look at him. She dared not not know that he was there.

When the final blessing was given and the congregation rose to depart, Mr Darcy offered no word, no gesture-only a measured, grave bow as the Bennet family filed out into the thin December light.

Elizabeth did not turn back. But she felt his gaze follow her as she went. At least one ride into Meryton ended not at the inn, but at the militia headquarters, where Colonel Forster proved a willing and discreet listener.

Whatever tales Mr Wickham had begun to spread, Mr Darcy was not content to let them flourish unchallenged.

Over the following days, life at Longbourn settled into a tense, uneasy rhythm.

News travelled quickly that Mr Bingley had returned to Netherfield on Monday afternoon, and Mrs Bennet’s spirits revived at once. The Netherfield party accepted the invitation to dine, and preparations at Longbourn commenced with all the zeal of a military campaign.

And so, as December gathered its mists and the ball drew nearer, the threads of hope, fear, and consequence twisted tighter with every passing day.

By the morning of Wednesday, the household was in a flutter of final preparations. Mrs Bennet, in a fever of nerves and ambition, insisted on inspecting every plate and candlestick twice, and the younger girls were sternly warned against making spectacles of themselves.

Elizabeth, observing it all with a weary kind of amusement, could not quite silence the hope stirring against her better judgement.

It would not do to expect too much.

But she would see him again tonight.

And whatever lay between them - uncertainty, confusion, impossible longing - it would, for a few hours, be something real.

Darcy, meanwhile, had not forgotten the matters pressing most urgently upon him.

He would not he suffer Lady Catherine’s assumptions to go unchallenged.

He had already written to Rosings Park, blunt and unambiguous.

If the time came to announce himself publicly, he meant to do so without hesitation - and once done, neither scandal nor interference could touch them.