Page 32 of The Mercy of Chance

T he Netherfield drive stretched before them, the last of the golden leaves scattering beneath the carriage wheels as they approached the imposing manor house.

Darcy glanced toward his sister, noting the rigid set of her shoulders and the way her gloved hands twisted anxiously in her lap.

“If the ball is too uncomfortable, Georgiana,”

he reminded her gently.

“You may retire whenever you wish.”

“I shall manage the first half, I think,”

Georgiana replied, her voice soft but steady.

“I shall have plenty of partners dancing only with you, Richard, and Mr Bingley, as Mrs Annesley suggested.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam, seated opposite them, offered an encouraging smile.

“Your brother frets unnecessarily, Georgiana.

You may even find yourself enjoying the experience.”

Darcy frowned.

“It is not Georgiana’s conduct that concerns me.”

“Ah,”

Colonel Fitzwilliam replied knowingly.

“You fear the infamous Miss Bingley and her sister will descend upon her like vultures to fresh carrion.”

“Richard!”

Georgiana admonished, although a smile tugged at her lips.

“I merely describe what I have witnessed,”

Colonal Fitzwilliam defended with a theatrical shudder.

“The way they circle Darcy at social gatherings borders on predatory.

I can only imagine their approach to his only sister.”

“They are not vultures,”

Darcy corrected stiffly, although privately he conceded the metaphor had merit.

“They are at most...”

“Mushrooms?”

Georgiana suggested, with an unexpected flash of wit.

“Springing up suddenly wherever society provides fertile ground?”

Darcy’s surprise at his sister’s comment quickly gave way to amusement.

Perhaps this venture would prove beneficial after all.

After the Ramsgate incident, glimpses of Georgiana’s natural spirit were finally becoming more frequent.

“I had not thought to compare Miss Bingley to a fungus,”

he said dryly, “but the resemblance is not without merit.”

The carriage drew to a halt before Netherfield’s entrance, where Bingley himself stood waiting, his countenance betraying both relief and delight.

“Darcy! Miss Darcy! Colonel Fitzwilliam!”

he exclaimed as a footman opened the carriage door.

“You are most welcome.

Most welcome indeed!”

The earnestness of his greeting confirmed Darcy’s suspicion that Bingley had feared they might not come after all.

His friend’s transparent joy was in stark contrast to the calculated smiles that appeared on the faces of the two women who had materialised behind him.

Mr Hurst did not trouble himself with social niceties.

“Mr Darcy,”

Caroline Bingley purred, stepping forward with practised grace.

“How delightful that you could join us after all.” Her gaze slid to Georgiana, and her smile widened incrementally.

“And Miss Darcy! What a pleasure to see you again.

You must tell me all about your most recent accomplishments.”

“Indeed,”

echoed Louisa Hurst, moving to flank Georgiana’s other side as she descended from the carriage.

“We have prepared the blue chamber for you—the one with the finest view of the gardens.

I selected it myself.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam, the last to alight, received a considerably cooler welcome—a cursory nod from both sisters before their attention swivelled back to the Darcys like compass needles finding north.

“You are too kind,”

Georgiana murmured, her voice barely audible as the sisters closed in.

Darcy stepped forward, prepared to intervene, but to his surprise, Georgiana straightened her posture and continued with unexpected firmness.

“However, I must first attend to my studies.

My companion has made arrangements for me to continue my work whilst I am from home.

Perhaps we might tour the gardens later, if time permits?”

The poised response momentarily silenced both Bingley sisters.

Darcy felt a surge of pride as Georgiana turned deliberately toward Bingley.

“Mr Bingley, my brother informs me that the ball room is quite charming.

I look forward to seeing it tonight, although I shall attend only the first half of the ball.

I hope that meets with your approval?”

“Of course, Miss Darcy! Whatever suits your comfort,”

Bingley replied with genuine warmth.

“I am honoured that you will attend at all.”

Miss Bingley’s expression flickered between surprise and calculation as she reassessed the situation.

Her quarry was behaving with unexpected independence.

“Miss Darcy, you must allow me to introduce you to the few acceptable local families before you retire this evening,”

she offered, determined to maintain some control over the situation.

“As your hostess, I should guide you through the social complexities of the neighbourhood.”

“Thank you, Miss Bingley.”

Georgiana replied with perfect composure, “But as I shall dance only with my brother, my cousin, and Mr Bingley, I believe excessive introductions might prove overwhelming.”

Miss Bingley’s mouth opened as if to speak, then closed without comment.

Darcy suppressed a smile at his sister’s elegant evasion.

“Shall we proceed inside?”

Bingley suggested, apparently oblivious to the subtle manoeuvring taking place.

“Refreshments await in the drawing room, and I am eager to hear news from Town.”

As they moved toward the entrance, Colonel Fitzwilliam fell into step beside Darcy.

“It seems your concern was unnecessary,”

he murmured.

“Our Georgiana has developed quite an effective strategy for managing encroaching mushrooms.”

“Indeed,”

Darcy agreed, watching his sister walk ahead with quiet dignity.

“Although I shall remain vigilant, nonetheless.”

“Of course you shall,”

Fitzwilliam replied with a knowing smile.

“It is your nature.

But tonight, perhaps we might spare some attention for the local young ladies.

I look forward to discovering which Miss Bennet has particularly fine eyes.”

Darcy felt an unwelcome warmth rise to his face.

Elizabeth stood behind Jane’s chair, weaving ribbons through her eldest sister’s golden hair with practised fingers.

In the mirror’s reflection, she caught sight of her mother hovering in the doorway, hands clasped together as she watched her daughters’ preparations with bright eyes that held a shadow of something Elizabeth had grown to recognise - the ghost of grander days, when the former Miss Fanny Gardiner had been the belle of Meryton assemblies.

“Mamma, pray give us your opinion,”

Elizabeth called, noting how her mother’s face brightened at being consulted.

“Should we not add the pearl pins to Jane’s hair? They were Grandmother Gardiner’s, were they not?”

“Oh! Yes, indeed.”

Mrs Bennet moved forward with renewed purpose, selecting the delicate pins from her jewellery box.

Her fingers trembled as she placed them.

“How well I remember wearing these to my first ball.

Your Uncle Gardiner brought them from London…”

The reminiscence was interrupted by Lydia’s burst of excitement from the adjoining room.

“Lizzy! Jane! You must come see - Kitty has done up my hair exactly like Lady Charlotte’s was in last month’s fashion plate!”

Elizabeth exchanged a knowing look with Jane.

They had spent precious funds on that magazine, knowing how it would delight their youngest sister.

Lydia’s first ball had become a family project, her obvious joy infectious despite their reduced circumstances.

With their limited social circle, there had been no need for ball gowns, and the funds for such were better allocated to the winter seed.

Her old white muslin had been skillfully remade with fresh trim, and their grandfather had not demurred at the expense of new dancing slippers for the occasion.

“There,”

Elizabeth said, securing the last pin in Jane’s hair.

“You look exactly as a future mistress of Netherfield ought.”

Lizzy,”

Jane protested, although her cheeks coloured.

Elizabeth’s fingers lingered on her sister’s shoulders as she studied their reflection.

Jane’s beauty would always draw admiration, but Elizabeth took particular pride in knowing that beneath the perfect exterior lay a mind adept with ledgers and calculations, matched only by her uncommon kindness.

Her eyes met her mother’s in the mirror.

Mrs Bennet was adjusting the fall of Jane’s curls with the expertise born of countless assembly preparations, but her expression held a familiar wistfulness.

“Mamma,”

Elizabeth said gently, “would you help me with my hair? I cannot achieve any decent effect for this tangle without far more hands.”

The suggestion brought an immediate sparkle to Mrs Bennet’s eyes.

“Of course, my dear.

Although you must allow me to add a few flowers—there were some late roses from the last blooms this morning, and they would suit your complexion admirably.”

As her mother’s familiar hands began working through her dark hair, Elizabeth closed her eyes, listening to Lydia’s excited chatter from the next room and Mary’s quiet humming as she pressed ribbons nearby.

Whatever the evening might bring, this moment of shared anticipation felt precious indeed.

The well-oiled wheels of the aged Longbourn carriage turned smoothly along the drive to Netherfield, a testament to careful maintenance rather than prosperity.

Elizabeth watched through the window as the grand house emerged from the winter darkness, its windows blazing with the light of hundreds of candles.

Candles enough to light their home for a year.

She shook herself from her worries.

Her grandfather’s parting words echoed in her thoughts: “Show them what the ladies of Longbourn are made of my dears.”

Inside the carriage, Lydia could scarcely contain herself, practically bouncing upon the worn squabs.

“Look at all the carriages! And such fine horses!”

“Pray remember your dignity,”

Mrs Bennet murmured, although her own eyes shone with suppressed excitement.

“We may not arrive in the finest equipage, but we shall conduct ourselves with perfect propriety.”

Lydia effortfully contained her glee.

“Yes, Mamma,”

she said.

Her eyes continued to dart about, but she sat still and proper, her hands beneath her skirt to contain her excitement.

Elizabeth squeezed Jane’s hand, noting her sister’s careful composure.

Jane had begun to tire of Mr Bingley’s particular attention during his calls.

He had solicited her first dances for the ball, but Jane refused to raise her hopes.

The remainder of the Netherfield party’s cool reception of their family had been pointed enough - one brief morning call from the sisters to deliver the invitation, their manner suggesting it was a duty rather than a pleasure.

As they drew up before the entrance, Elizabeth’s thoughts turned treacherously to Mr Darcy.

Would he have returned from London? The possibility caused an unwelcome flutter in her chest.

His interest had at times seemed genuine, his questions perceptive, yet the vast gulf between their situations could not be ignored.

A man of his consequence, with such extensive responsibilities…

“Come, Lizzy,”

Jane whispered, breaking into her reverie.

“We must not keep the line waiting.”

Elizabeth gathered her skirts, accepting the footman’s assistance from the carriage.

The bright lights and music spilling from Netherfield’s windows promised an evening of elegance far removed from their daily concerns.

The room was warm and held a slight smoky tang of so many candles burning indoors.

She lifted her chin, determined to focus on ensuring Lydia’s first ball was memorable and determining whether there was anything to Jane’s tenuous connection with Mr Bingley.

If her eyes sometimes strayed to the doorway, searching for a tall figure among the arriving guests, she would not acknowledge the reason.

The Netherfield entrance hall glowed with candlelight reflecting off gilt-framed mirrors and polished marble floors.

Elizabeth felt Lydia clutch her arm as they joined the line of guests proceeding toward the ballroom.

“Lizzy!”

Lydia whispered, although her excitement carried further than intended.

“The ceiling paintings! They are like the ones in the book about Italian villas that Grandfather showed us!”

Several heads turned at this architectural observation.

Miss Bingley’s eyebrows rose sharply, whilst Mrs Hurst pressed her lips together in apparent dismay at such unseemly enthusiasm.

“They are indeed, Lyddie.

Whose work do they call to mind?”

Lydia paused, examining the paintings intently.

“Perhaps Giordano? The colours are so vibrant.”

“A sharp observation.

Perhaps in England the artist chose tempera, not fresco, to ensure the work in the wetter climate.”

Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s hand.

“Shall we greet our hostess?” The sisters proceeded to the gathering of Netherfield residents and Lydia made her carefully rehearsed curtsey, reciting the words of greeting she had memorised.

Mr Bingley, however, broke away from his position near the ballroom entrance to greet them, his eyes finding Jane immediately.

“Miss Bennet! You must tell me if we have arranged the rooms to advantage.

Given your exquisite taste, your opinion would be most valuable.”

Elizabeth watched Jane’s careful response, noting how her sister’s composure barely wavered despite Mr Bingley’s obvious admiration.

The ballroom beyond beckoned, its chandeliers casting rainbow reflections from the recently polished floor.

Musicians were tuning their instruments in the gallery above, whilst early arrivals circulated beneath swags of winter greenery.

“Charles,”

Miss Bingley’s voice cut through the pleasant atmosphere with piercing intensity.

She touched her brother’s arm, speaking in a volume pitched to carry.

“You must not monopolise Miss Bennet’s attention so immediately.

People will form… expectations.” Her gaze swept over Jane’s simple muslin gown with merciless assessment.

Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm with indignation, but before she could speak, Mrs Hurst added, “Indeed, Caroline.”

She adjusted her elaborate turban with one bejewelled hand, her lips curved in what might have been a smile had it contained any warmth.

“We cannot expect everyone to understand the correct conduct of such an evening.” Her gaze travelled deliberately from Jane’s modest pearl pins to Lydia’s remade gown, each pause in her inspection calculated to wound.

She exchanged a significant look with her sister, their matching expressions of superior disdain perfectly crafted to be visible enough to hurt, yet subtle enough to deny if challenged.

Elizabeth watched Jane’s shoulders stiffen with barely a shift, although her sister’s collected air never wavered.

Their mother had taught them well - a lady’s dignity lay in her composure under insult.

Still, Elizabeth observed the slight woodenness in Jane’s hands as she smoothed her skirts, and the way her sister’s eyes lowered momentarily before rising again with determined grace.

Mr Bingley, looking distinctly uncomfortable, opened his mouth as if to speak, but Jane forestalled him with a gentle smile.

“The ballroom is magnificently arranged, sir.

Might I compliment whoever thought to include winter jasmine in the greenery? The scent is particularly lovely.”

Elizabeth silently blessed her sister’s elegant deflection, although her own fingernails pressed into her palm with suppressed anger.

She had never felt their reduced circumstances more keenly than in this moment, standing beneath the glittering chandeliers whilst the Bingley sisters employed their superior situation to wound.

Her eyes swept the room once more, searching without permission for a figure she had come to know well during estate discussions.

The crush of arriving guests made it difficult to see clearly, but Mr Darcy’s commanding presence was nowhere to be detected.

The thought brought an unexpected pang.

She knew too well the barriers of rank and fortune that stood between them.

He would no doubt be too busy with his own affairs in London to return to Meryton for a mere ball.

“The musicians are taking their places,”

she said instead, touching Lydia’s arm to redirect her sister’s wide-eyed attention from the elaborate decorations.

“Shall we find our way to the far side of the room? I believe I see Charlotte Lucas attempting to catch our eye.”

Elizabeth walked gratefully to Charlotte’s familiar presence, drawing comfort from their shared understanding of neighbourhood matters.

She had begun relating her observations of the unpleasant remarks of the hostess when a deep voice interrupted their discussion.