Page 25 of The Cat Who Loved Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

But he said nothing. His countenance resumed its usual warmth as Mrs. Bennet launched into an enthusiastic account of Meryton’s ribbon shops. He resumed his cheerful tone with ease. “And how does Miss Lydia? You must have enjoyed your outing to Meryton.”

“Oh, exceedingly!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “And Kitty, too—such fine pelisses on display! But I am forgetting myself—do sit, Mr. Bingley, and let us hear how Netherfield fares in this weather. Though I suppose a gentleman may endure a little damp without much complaint.”

He accepted the offered seat, and as the talk shifted toward local matters and neighbouring acquaintances, the name Wickham settled uneasily in his thoughts—no longer a casual introduction, but a tether to something unresolved.

The good news was that the Netherfield ball was to be held, and if he had any influence in the matter—and he did—Wickham’s name would not appear among the guests.

Mr. Bingley continued speaking cheerfully of partridges and parsonages, yet beneath the surface, one thread remained taut—drawn back to a tale Darcy had never quite finished telling.

***

After the front door had closed behind Lady Lucas and Mr. Bingley, Mr. Bennet rose slowly from his armchair and cleared his throat with more than his usual gravity.

He remained by the hearth, waiting in composed silence for Jane and his wife to return from the front hall, where they had seen their guests to the door.

Mrs. Bennet swept back into the parlour in high spirits. “Well, I declare, that was a most pleasant visit. Mr. Bingley is ever so agreeable—and so attentive to our Jane. I am sure—”

“I believe, my dears,” Mr. Bennet interrupted, “that we must attend to matters of greater urgency than lace trims and pleasant company.”

The tone of his voice silenced the room. Elizabeth, seated near the hearth, exchanged a glance with Jane, while Lydia and Kitty paused at once in their whispering. Mary, who had been quietly annotating a volume of Fordyce’s Sermons, looked up with interest.

Mr. Bennet folded his hands behind his back and regarded his assembled daughters with a severity they did not often see.

“I have, until now, permitted a certain degree of liberty,” he began.

“A misunderstood liberty, I must admit, which has not been answered with prudence. I refer, of course, to the repeated visits to Meryton and the increasing familiarity with officers of the militia—some of whom, it seems, are scarcely known to us.”

Mrs. Bennet huffed. “Oh, Mr. Bennet, surely the girls must enjoy themselves a little while they are young! How else shall they find husbands, if not—”

“Husbands?” he cut in, lifting a brow. “Are we now to auction off our daughters for crimson coats and borrowed epaulettes?”

Lydia opened her mouth, but his raised hand forestalled her.

“More to the point,” he continued, “I have learned that certain liberties have included falsehoods. I refer, Miss Lydia, to your careless boast of possessing a dowry of five thousand pounds—a fiction which, I imagine, you believed would impress the young officers.”

Lydia flushed scarlet. “It was only in jest, Papa! Kitty said—”

“I said no such thing!” Kitty interjected. “You were the one who—”

“Enough,” Mr. Bennet said—not raising his voice, but commanding the room. “I will not have squabbling where honesty ought to reign. That was a lie. There is no excuse for it. Let me be plain: this household shall observe new rules.”

He turned his gaze to all five daughters in turn, his expression firm yet not unkind.

“Until the ball at Netherfield, at month’s end, no further visits to Meryton shall occur unless I accompany you myself. That includes shopping, calling, or sauntering about for ribbons and news.”

A gasp escaped Lydia. “But Papa—!”

“You will not visit the regiment,” he said firmly. “Not unless I extend an invitation to one of their number—and such invitations shall be exceedingly rare.”

Mrs. Bennet opened her mouth to protest, but he went on, unbothered.

“There shall be no additional spending for new gowns. Mary,” he added, turning with a gentler tone, “you shall have the funds for those books you requested. But the rest of you will make do with what you have. Even the finest muslin will not mend a damaged reputation. Kitty, Lydia—this reproof is addressed to you.”

Mary inclined her head with modest satisfaction. Lydia looked as though she might weep, and Kitty gave a sulky sigh.

Elizabeth, who had listened in silence, now spoke with measured calm. “Your terms are just, sir. It is no shame to observe more careful conduct—indeed, it would be to our advantage.”

Mr. Bennet’s features softened slightly. “Thank you, Lizzy. I knew I might count on one sensible voice in this house.”

Mrs. Bennet now stood, flustered. “But what shall people say? That the Bennet girls are shut away like nuns? That we do not receive?”

“They shall say,” Mr. Bennet replied with dry amusement, “that the Bennet household has rediscovered propriety. A most fashionable novelty, if I may say so.”

He left the room without another word—but not before offering Jane a brief, approving nod. The girls sat in uneasy silence for a moment, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the rustle of Mary’s pages as she resumed her reading.

Jane waited a moment after her father’s footsteps had faded down the hall.

Then, in her calmest voice, she said, “Papa speaks only from concern, I am sure. He wishes what is best for us all. Mama, you know he would never act to distress you without cause. Surely we may all agree to be more cautious—for peace within the house, if nothing else.”

She reached across to place her hand over her mother’s, her smile as warm as ever. “No harm is done, and there is still the Netherfield ball to look forward to. Let us not quarrel when we might prepare for it with harmony.”

***

The road from Longbourn to Netherfield wound gently through the Hertfordshire countryside, and Mr. Bingley rode it in thoughtful silence.

The pleasant visit behind him had left a warmer impression than usual, and yet his mind did not linger entirely on Jane Bennet’s gentle smile.

Instead, it returned, with growing unease, to the name that Lady Lucas brought into discussion and Mrs. Bennet had so cheerfully reminded: Wickham.

There had been a letter once, from Darcy—cautious, even cryptic—but firm in tone.

“If ever you should come across this man—George Wickham—do not trust his appearance. Write to me at once.” At the time, Bingley had not understood the urgency, but now the recollection took clearer shape.

Wickham… Yes, his name had indeed been George, like Darcy’s father, and if Bingley recalled correctly, he had even been the man’s godson.

Surely no trivial concern would have stirred Darcy to such gravity.

It was not his friend’s way to pass judgments lightly.

By the time he reached Netherfield, Bingley had made two decisions.

First, that Mr. Wickham would not receive an invitation to the ball at the end of the month — —no explanation was necessary.

Second, that he must write to Darcy without delay.

But even as he finished the letter and folded it for dispatch, another thought emerged with equal clarity: he must speak to Mr. Bennet.

Not to accuse—no, that would be improper and premature—but to caution.

Whatever Darcy knew, it was enough for Bingley to act.

***

The following day, while on his way to St. Albans, Mr. Bingley requested that his driver make a brief stop at Longbourn. A servant informed him that Mr. Bennet was in his library, and within minutes he was admitted.

Mr. Bennet received him with mild surprise and amusement. “A second visit in as many days?” Mr. Bennet said, rising from his chair. “You spoil us, sir. Tell me—are you here to reclaim a forgotten cane, or to request the hand of a daughter?”

Bingley smiled faintly but did not return the jest. “Neither, I hope, though I do beg your pardon for the interruption. It is a brief matter, but… one I could not delay.”

Mr. Bennet gestured for him to sit. “You have my ear.”

As he took the offered chair, Bingley appeared more subdued than usual. He hesitated only a moment before beginning.

“It concerns one of the officers present at your Friday dinner—Mr. Wickham. When first I met him, I had no cause to think ill of him. But the more I reflect, the more uneasy I become.”

“Ah yes,” said Mr. Bennet, eyes twinkling. “The one our cat Sophocles favoured with a personal serving of soup—to remind him not to parade his soup-eriority over poor Mr. Denny.”

Mr. Bingley blinked, then gave a startled laugh.

Mr. Bennet’s expression did not waver. “Quite soup-tle, I thought. The cat’s sense of justice is as keen as his timing. Forgive me, Mr. Bingley. Go on, please.”

“On Friday,” Bingley continued, “I noticed him watching the young ladies—particularly your daughters—with a… boldness I could not quite excuse. There was something almost wolfish in the way his gaze lingered.” He paused, clearly uncomfortable .

Mr. Bennet’s expression sharpened, though he said nothing.

“I told myself I was mistaken. But last night, when Lady Lucas presented the Miss King episode, the memory returned—and so did something else. A letter Mr. Darcy once wrote to me.”

At this, Mr. Bennet’s brows lifted.

“Darcy spoke of a man named George Wickham. I now recall the name exactly—George, like his father’s.

He advised caution, should I ever make that gentleman’s acquaintance.

He did not say why, but I have known Darcy too long to dismiss his warnings lightly.

He is not a man who traffics in idle dislikes. ”

“No,” Mr. Bennet said slowly. “Mr. Darcy is not, I daresay.”