Page 11 of The Same Noble Line (Darcy and Elizabeth Happily Ever Afters)

D arcy sat at the long dining table in the Bennet household as each course arrived and the table fairly groaned under the weight of so many seasonal delights. Miss Elizabeth’s complexion glowed in the soft light of the candles, and the conversation flowed with the ease of long acquaintance. He forced his attention away from her. It was not an easy thing.

The Lucases were in high spirits, the Bennet sisters vibrant and lively, and his own party well-mannered and eager to be pleased. Even Fitzwilliam, who could not always be trusted to curb his tongue in mixed company, seemed determined to captivate everyone this evening.

His attention drifted, his gaze inevitably settling on Elizabeth again. She was seated further down the table, laughing softly at something her youngest sister Lydia had said. The sound, though distant, reached his ears like an intimate murmur. Her expression was open and lively, her dark eyes alight with the pleasure of good company.

Darcy forced himself to look away, taking a deliberate sip of his wine. It was folly to think of her.

The meal progressed through its courses, each dish more sumptuous than the last. Those gathered praised Mrs. Bennet’s efforts effusively, and Darcy had to admit that the kitchen had excelled. Even Mr. Collins, who had taken it upon himself to comment on nearly every aspect of the evening, was momentarily silenced by the pudding.

When the final remove was cleared away, Mr. Bennet rose from his chair. The table quieted as all eyes turned to the master of the house. He lifted his glass with a calm, almost amused air.

“I would like to propose a toast,” he began genially. “It is not every day that we have such joyful news to share, and it is my great pleasure to congratulate my cousin Mr. Collins and Miss Lucas on their upcoming marriage.”

Mrs. Bennet sniffed. Lady Lucas preened, and Sir William declared, “Capital, capital!” Mr. Collins, red-faced and self-satisfied, stood to offer a deep bow, his hand over his heart as though to signify his eternal gratitude.

Miss Lucas sat quietly, a smile firmly fixed upon her face.

“Such an honour, sir,” Mr. Collins said, addressing Mr. Bennet with his usual obsequiousness. “To receive such kind recognition from one’s esteemed relations is a blessing indeed. In fact, it rather puts me in mind of . . .”

Miss Lydia stifled a very unladylike snort, while Miss Kitty and Miss Maria whispered to one another as Mr. Collins droned on.

Darcy glanced at Fitzwilliam, who met his incredulous gaze with a faint smirk.

They sat through the pastor’s lengthy thanks, but after Mr. Collins finally sat and the Lucases were beginning to resume their conversations, Mr. Bennet raised a hand. “If I might have your attention once more,” he said, his voice still temperate, though Darcy was beginning to understand that this particular tone seemed to presage some sort of news the man would find entertaining. The room fell silent again, though Lady Lucas’s smile faded away.

“Longbourn,” Mr. Bennet continued, “is fortunate indeed to celebrate more than one engagement this evening. I am pleased to announce that my eldest daughter, Miss Jane Bennet, has accepted the hand of Mr. Bingley. Please raise your glass and join me in a toast to their happiness.”

Mr. Bennet had purposefully waited to reveal the engagement so that Mrs. Bennet would expend her first paroxysm of delight on the others who were gathered. Living with Mrs. Bennet had made the man a strategist. In other circumstances, the older man and Fitzwilliam would likely get on quite well.

The reaction was immediate. Mrs. Bennet let out a cry of delight, clapping her hands together, while Kitty and Lydia squealed with excitement. “Oh, Jane!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “Oh, Mr. Bingley! How very happy you have made us all! And what a fine joke, Mr. Bennet, not to tell me before!”

“Good news is best shared, Mrs. Bennet,” he replied drolly.

Lady Lucas did not appear as though she enjoyed sharing such news. In fact, she looked as though she had bitten into something bitter. She smiled, but it was forced, and her eyes darted briefly to her husband, who seemed oblivious.

“A double celebration!” Sir William declared happily. “How splendid!”

Darcy turned his attention to Bingley, whose face had flushed with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. “You have my sincerest congratulations, sir,” Mr. Collins said, rising once more, his voice heavy with self-importance. “Though I must confess that I am not at all surprised. Mrs. Bennet herself confided in me during my first visit to Longbourn that she fully expected that my cousin Jane would be very soon engaged. In fact, I had anticipated hearing this joyful news much earlier, and I thank you for waiting for my return to share it.”

Bingley, clearly mortified, opened his mouth to reply but was saved by Miss Bennet, who reached out and placed a hand briefly over his. The gesture was simple, but it conveyed both reassurance and quiet understanding. Bingley’s shoulders relaxed, and he smiled at her with such unguarded affection that Darcy felt even more an idiot than he had a few days ago.

He had been so certain that Miss Bennet did not feel any true affection for Bingley. She was too reserved, too cautious. To his eyes, her conduct had betrayed no hint of deeper feeling. But her open smile when they had all walked together and now this single gesture—a hand placed gently over Bingley’s, a loving look of encouragement—had revealed what words could not. Darcy was profoundly grateful that he had been so distracted by his own troubles that he had not offered Bingley any advice during his period of doubt. He would have been in error, and his interference might have caused irreparable harm.

Darcy’s gaze drifted to Miss Elizabeth. She was watching her sister with an expression of pure joy, her hands clasped together in delight. When she caught him looking, their eyes met, and he found himself smiling despite his resolve not to raise any expectations, including his own. To his surprise, she smiled back, the connection between them fleeting but strong.

He noticed Miss Lucas as well. To her credit, she appeared truly pleased for Miss Bennet, her congratulations sincere even as Lady Lucas quietly fumed. Darcy found himself respecting Miss Lucas more than he had expected. To maintain such composure and offer genuine good wishes while her own engagement toast had been clearly overshadowed was no small feat.

As the conversation resumed, Darcy turned his attention to Mr. Bennet. The man sat in his chair with an expression of quiet satisfaction as he watched the effects of his second announcement. There was an air of detachment about him, as though he was merely watching a particularly entertaining performance.

How unlike his father this man was. George Darcy had been a man of compassion, and while he would not be cheated, he had always been careful not to cause unnecessary offence. But then, his parents had shared a deep, abiding love, one that his father had always said made him a better man. That did not appear to be something that could be said of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Darcy’s gaze shifted again to Elizabeth, his thoughts returning, unbidden, to his growing feelings for her. Try as he might, he could not suppress them. They had taken root, persistent and impossible to ignore, despite the hopelessness of their situation.

He glanced further down the table and noticed Fitzwilliam. His cousin was in fine spirits, his gregariousness on full display. The younger Bennet sisters were giggling at some witticism of his, and even Lady Lucas seemed to have thawed slightly under his attentions.

Darcy shook his head. Fitzwilliam’s tactics were transparent to him, but as no one but the Darcys knew him, they were effective.

Dinner might be over, but the evening was just beginning.

When the gentlemen assembled in Mr. Bennet’s study after the meal, the atmosphere was lively and genial. Fitzwilliam wasted no time in assuming the role of host, though it was neither his home nor his family. With an air of cheerful command, he strode to the sideboard, decanter in hand.

“Gentlemen,” he began, pouring generously, “no evening such as this should pass without another proper toast—or several. A double engagement deserves nothing less!” He handed the first glass to Sir William Lucas.

“Capital idea, Colonel!” Sir William exclaimed, raising his glass before taking a hearty sip. “A fine way to cap a fine evening.”

Fitzwilliam moved on, filling glasses with enthusiasm. “Mr. Collins. A man engaged to such a fine lady surely deserves a generous pour.”

“Indeed!” Mr. Collins declared, puffing out his chest. Sir William lifted his glass again, echoing a jovial, “Hear, hear!”

Fitzwilliam poured another glass with a sly grin and held it out. “And you, Darcy.” He leaned in to say softly, “Do try to keep up.”

Darcy arched a brow but accepted his glass with a faint smirk. “I shall do my best.”

Finally, Fitzwilliam turned to Bingley, who had been watching the proceedings with his characteristic good humour. “Bingley, surely a gentleman celebrating the very first evening of his own engagement deserves the largest pour of all.”

Bingley laughed as Fitzwilliam handed him a glass filled nearly to the brim. “You flatter me, Colonel,” he said. “But I shall not refuse such generosity.”

Mr. Bennet’s shaggy brows lifted in amused consternation, and he held out his left hand to take his own drink. “Very generous indeed, with my port.”

Once everyone was properly armed with wine, Fitzwilliam leaned casually against the mantelpiece, his gaze sweeping the room. “Now then,” he began, “when new officers join my regiment, it is customary to share a glass or two. The purpose is not merely camaraderie, though that is important, but to ensure we understand one another’s origins and aims. Such knowledge builds trust, without which no battalion can succeed.”

He lifted his glass in a casual salute. “The connections between friends and families are no different. Though we are not bound by war, we are bound by duty, and understanding is the foundation of harmony. So, as we sit together in such excellent fellowship tonight, I propose we do as soldiers might and share a little of our stories. Bingley, will you begin?”

“If you insist, Fitzwilliam. My story is rather prosaic, however.”

Fitzwilliam seized the opportunity. “Oh, come now, Bingley! Surely you have a tale worth sharing. At least tell us how you came to lease Netherfield Park.”

Bingley chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Yes, I suppose the story has its share of misadventures. When my man of business first wrote to me about the lease, he described it as ‘a fine house with excellent prospects,’ but I confess I was not entirely attentive.”

Darcy sipped at his port before setting it down again, determined not to lose his own wits as a result of Fitzwilliam’s game.

“The letter had arrived just as my sisters and I were setting out for a dance, you see,” Bingley was saying.

Bingley and his dances. At least now he would not make calf’s eyes at every pretty woman in attendance. “And you decided to take the property unseen?” Darcy inquired, fully expecting his friend to answer in the affirmative.

“Not entirely,” Bingley replied amiably. “Though I was so distracted by the prospect of the ball that I might as well have. By the time I arrived to view the property a fortnight later, I thought the place rather grand but somewhat in need of repair.”

“What changed your mind?” Fitzwilliam asked, intrigued. At least, he appeared to be.

“The stables,” Bingley said. “The moment I saw them, I knew the house would do.”

Darcy shook his head, his voice laced with dry humour. “So it was not the ‘excellent prospects,’ but the stables that won you over?”

“Indeed,” Bingley replied, laughing. “It meant that I might have a great many visitors all at once, you know, if I had a mind to. Caroline remains convinced it was the worst decision I ever made, but” he added with a meaningful glance toward Darcy, “I think it has worked out rather well, myself.”

“I should say it did!” Mr. Bennet declared suddenly. “For you . My Jane is a jewel.”

Perhaps the port was doing its work on the master of Longbourn.

“She is indeed, sir,” Bingley replied, his expression gentling.

This time it was Fitzwilliam who rolled his eyes, but then he lifted his glass. “To horses and hasty decisions, then!”

“To fine stables,” Darcy said, raising his own glass, the corner of his mouth lifting.

Bingley joined the toast with a chuckle.

The laughter subsided as Fitzwilliam turned his attention to Mr. Collins. “And you, Mr. Collins? Surely securing the living at Rosings Park must be a tale of almost equal magnitude.”

The clergyman adjusted his cravat, his face alight with self-importance. “Ah, Colonel, securing the living at Hunsford was no small feat, I assure you. When your esteemed aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, sought a clergyman, I resolved to distinguish myself by composing a letter of such exquisite humility that she could not help but take notice. I expressed my gratitude for her wisdom, praised her generosity, and assured her of my profound respect for all matters under her superior judgment.”

“All before you had even met her?” Bingley inquired.

“Her excellent reputation preceded her,” Mr. Collins assured him.

“And when you did meet her, did you bow as deeply as you flattered?” Fitzwilliam asked, refilling Collins’s glass.

“Indeed I did!” Mr. Collins said, as oblivious to irony as his future father. “When I entered her presence, I bowed so deeply I nearly toppled over. I praised the furnishings, the paintings, even the fire screen! I dared not leave a single detail unremarked, lest she think me unobservant or ungrateful.”

“And this display of appreciation won her over?” Darcy asked, his tone as even as he could manage. Of course it had.

“Most assuredly!” Mr. Collins declared. “She explained that I would benefit greatly from her guidance. Thus, the living was bestowed upon me. And, of course, she felt it my duty to seek out a wife to share in my new station. Naturally, my first choice was my cousin Elizabeth.”

Bingley’s brows rose, his glass halfway to his lips. “Miss Elizabeth?” he echoed.

Darcy stiffened, Sir William frowned, and Mr. Bennet scowled.

“But Providence,” Mr. Collins continued cheerfully, “led me to Miss Lucas, whose sensible and accommodating nature is perfectly suited to my needs.”

“Providential for him,” Mr. Bennet growled under his breath but within Darcy’s hearing. “Were it not for his excellent intended, he might find himself a pastor forever.”

Darcy was about to ask what the man meant when his cousin interrupted.

“To Providence, then!” Fitzwilliam said, lifting his glass with a broad grin that scarcely wavered. “And to the good fortune of all who have secured such worthy matches.”

That had been a near thing. Mr. Collins’s effusions might have emptied the room or even begun an altercation before Fitzwilliam had requested Mr. Bennet’s story. Darcy was no help, for he could not escape the burning sensation in his stomach. Mr. Collins had wanted to marry Miss Elizabeth? She was entirely too good for such a . . . such a . . .

Mr. Bennet leaned over to say, nearly in Darcy’s ear, “I would never have allowed it.”

Fitzwilliam, ever sensitive to the moods in the room, addressed Sir William next. “What of you, sir, whose elevation to a knighthood I am certain is a tale worth hearing?”

Mr. Bennet, who was seated to Darcy’s left, leaned back in his chair with a barely perceptible groan of “Dear God.” Perhaps he had heard this story before. Darcy also leaned back in his chair, almost at the same time, in fact—but he was prepared to be entertained.

“Well,” Sir William said proudly, “as you may know, I was the mayor some years back when the king himself honoured us with a visit. I gave a speech so well-received that His Majesty invited me to St. James’s Court! A momentous occasion, I assure you. One bow before the king, and I was Sir William forevermore.”

“And the speech?” Fitzwilliam prompted. “What was the subject that so captured His Majesty’s favour?”

Sir William beamed. “Ah, the speech! I spoke of loyalty, of course—what Englishman would not? —and of the industrious spirit of our fine town. But the part that truly captured His Majesty’s attention was my ode to roast beef and ale.”

Darcy choked on his drink, and Bingley, seated on his other side, patted him roughly on the back. “Roast beef and ale?” Darcy repeated, the words coming out in a rasp.

“This I must hear,” Bingley announced with a wide smile.

He silently cursed Bingley.

Mr. Bennet, observing the exchange with a look of exasperation, set his glass down and drawled, “I am certain nothing stirred the king’s patriotic soul quite like a hearty endorsement of the nation’s dinner table. Perhaps next time, Sir William, you might consider an ode to boiled mutton—it would undoubtedly secure you a dukedom.”

Sir William, entirely missing the sarcasm in Mr. Bennet’s remark, straightened in his chair. “Ah, boiled mutton is indeed a noble dish, Bennet, but it lacks grandeur! No, no, the roast remains unrivalled in its ability to embody the strength and fortitude of our proud nation.”

Bingley’s head was turning this way and that as the gentlemen conversed, his eyes wide with disbelief. “I say, Darcy,” he whispered, “are they debating—”

“Yes,” Darcy replied stoically. “Sir William is, at any rate.” He cast a look at Fitzwilliam that he hoped his cousin would understand as a message to get on with it, but the man was enjoying himself too much to pay any heed.

Sir William cleared his throat, standing as if addressing an audience and placing a hand over his heart.

Darcy’s eyes widened as he realized that Sir William Lucas was about to regale them with the actual ode. The knight’s voice was surprisingly mellow and pleasant. It almost drew Darcy’s attention away from the absurdity of the poetry.

From humble hearth to feasting hall,

Thy hearty strength sustains us all.

Through thee, our soldiers march apace,

And thus inspire the British race.

Both horrified and fascinated, Darcy was unsure what to do. He set his wine down and lifted his hands to applaud the awkwardness away. But Sir William was not yet finished.

“Ale!” he cried.

Darcy jumped, nearly oversetting his glass with an elbow.

“You might have warned me,” he said quietly to Mr. Bennet as he set the glass to rights.

“The only joy I have in hearing this wretched poem again is in the reaction of others who have yet to be regaled,” the older man murmured back.

Meanwhile, Sir William was again reciting.

Thou amber balm of toil and strife

Thy froth restores a weary life!

Our spirits rise, our bonds hold true,A toast to thee, England’s best brew!

“Bit of a syllabic misfire in the final line,” Mr. Bennet muttered. “Always rankles.”

Darcy pressed his lips together to prevent the laugh that was attempting to escape. He felt a sudden rush of sympathy for Mr. Bennet. He was clearly a clever man, but he had lived his life amongst those who, other than Miss Elizabeth, did not understand his humour.

“And that, gentlemen,” Sir William announced with a flourish, “is a bit of the ode that inspired a king to bestow a knighthood.”

“There is more?” Darcy whispered, aghast.

“Three more verses,” replied the older man, sipping his port.

Dear God. “Did the king really knight Sir William as a result of his verse?” Darcy muttered.

Mr. Bennet nodded. “Out of gratitude. I heard him say he had not laughed so hard for an age.”

“And you, Mr. Bennet?” Fitzwilliam asked once he had recovered his equanimity, finally addressing the man from whom he truly wished to hear.

Mr. Bennet sat back in his chair, his expression faintly sardonic. “Alas, Colonel, mine is not an equally thrilling tale. My father, a younger son, inherited unexpectedly. He was ill-prepared, having no training in estate management, and muddled through as best he could.”

“And when the property came to you?” Darcy asked quietly.

“I resolved to follow his example,” Mr. Bennet said with a faint smile. “Though I will admit, the estate has provided ample income and enjoyment over the years.”

The gentlemen chuckled and raised their glasses, the atmosphere once again settling into conviviality. Fitzwilliam, however, leaned forward slightly, his gaze curious but not intrusive. “Mr. Bennet, surely a man as observant of follies as yourself must have stories of his own to share. Some escapade of your youth, perhaps?”

Mr. Bennet’s expression shifted subtly, a shrewd expression replaced by a thoughtful stillness. He took a deliberate sip of his port, his eyes glancing toward the fire as though searching for something in its flames. “Ah, Colonel,” he said quietly, “some stories are better left alone.”

Fitzwilliam tilted his head, his persistence softened by a note of respect. “Surely there is one tale that might enlighten us, sir?”

Mr. Bennet’s lips curved into a faint smile, though his gaze remained distant. “There is little to tell. I was my father’s only child, and he was made a widower by my birth. I was sickly as a boy, and so we spent a good deal of time together in this very room. He read to me a great deal and when he grew old, I read to him. We were close, and we carried on as best we could.”

The room grew quiet.

Darcy had not been ill as a child, but he shifted slightly in his chair, recognizing in Mr. Bennet’s words a reflection of his own childhood after his mother’s passing.

“He managed Longbourn,” Mr. Bennet continued, his tone steady but laced with a quiet gravity. “And when it fell to me, I did the same. One learns quickly, I think, when there is no other choice.”

Fitzwilliam, now more subdued, refilled Mr. Bennet’s glass. “It seems to me, sir, that you learned well enough. Longbourn thrives, after all.”

Mr. Bennet offered a slight nod, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps. Though I cannot claim the credit for its survival. It has always been the people—the tenants and the servants—and even the land itself that have carried it forward. The master of the house is often little more than a steward, whether he realises it or not.”

Bingley, ever eager to lift the mood, smiled. “And yet you speak as one who understands his responsibility, Mr. Bennet.”

Mr. Bennet glanced at him and nodded. “Responsibility is a peculiar thing, Mr. Bingley, and it can reveal itself in ways more significant than running an estate. But I would not say it is unwelcome. It can bring great rewards.”

Darcy felt the words like a dagger in his chest. He studied the older man, sensing in his measured words a depth he had not previously considered. There was no bitterness, only a quiet acceptance of what life had required of him. And as the firelight played across his features, Darcy saw not the satirical observer of life’s follies, but a man who had quietly performed the duty required by his circumstances.

Not entirely unlike himself.

Fitzwilliam raised his glass with a nod of respect. “To responsibility, then. And to those who bear it with grace.”

The men drank in reflective silence, the earlier levity softened but not lost. As the conversation moved on to lighter topics once more, Darcy resolved to tread carefully in his pursuit of the truth about Longbourn and Mr. Bennet’s past. It was clear now that the story of this house, and the man who managed it, were more complex than he had imagined.