Chapter 5
THE HEARTH IN THE LONGBOURN parlor had burned low, but the room remained warm, the air thick with the heat of five bodies and the odor of wool, starch, and tallow.
Shadows flickered on the ceiling as the last log collapsed in a shower of sparks.
Sarah sprawled along the hearthrug, her body long and loose, muzzle to forepaws, the black patch over her right eye turned toward the glow.
Beyond the circle of firelight, the room stretched cold and narrow, its corners obscured in a deepening blue.
The Bennet family sat as the evening had left them.
Mrs. Bennet’s cap listed over her right ear, its ribbons hanging well below her chin; she had not yet decided whether to boast of the assembly or take offense.
Lydia, splayed on the settee with her ribbon sash trailing from her waist, had abandoned her slippers at some point on the ride home and had not recovered them.
Kitty’s stockinged feet curled under her, though the left foot dangled near the dog’s tail.
Jane, close by the window, rested her hands in her lap, her kid gloves rolled together in a neat white bundle.
Bennet settled in the large chair near the side table, one leg crossed over the other, face half-lit by the fire, his eyes following the performance in the center of the room.
Elizabeth stood with her back to the mantel, her hair coming loose around her ears, skirt hem showing the faintest brush of dust from the carriage.
She entertained them with the skill of a born mimic and the ease of a daughter among people who already knew her worst. Her arms folded across her chest, she straightened her spine, tilted her chin, and pursed her mouth into a severe, tight line.
“‘I have no interest in a young woman who prefers the fields.’”
She held the pose: rigid as a measuring stick, voice clipped, each syllable sharpened to pierce from across a ballroom. She let the silence carry, long enough for Kitty to smother a giggle and Lydia to explode in a bark of laughter that set the dog thumping her tail against the rug.
“Oh, but Lizzy, you did not see his face.” Lydia sat up, her eyes bright with the memory. “He looked as though he had bitten a sour cherry and was pretending he liked it.”
“Mr. Darcy’s face does not change,” Kitty said. “He has but the one, and it never smiles.”
“Unlike Mr. Bingley, who smiles when he sneezes,” Jane said.
Elizabeth bowed her head, lips curving, but she did not relinquish the stance.
“Did you say that to the room, Lizzy?” Kitty asked.
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, the wall heard it first. I believe it is the most indiscreet wall in Hertfordshire.”
Mrs. Bennet slapped her thigh. “An outrage! To come to our assembly and insult one of us within an hour. I have never heard of such conduct, not even from a London man.” She fixed Elizabeth with a look both accusing and proud. “But you answered him with a jest, as he deserved.”
“I did not answer him, Mama. I left that to the wall. By sunrise, it will have repeated the insult in every house in Meryton.”
Kitty giggled again, this time almost losing her balance and toppling from the settee.
Jane’s voice, quiet but certain, drew the focus back. “Perhaps Mr. Darcy is unaccustomed to our sort of assembly. It may be different in Town.”
“Then London has made him very particular,” Lydia said. “He told Sir William that the punch needed more spice, then did not drink it.”
“I am told he has ten thousand a year,” Mrs. Bennet mused. “I hope for his sake he spends it on better company than himself. The room grew colder when he entered.”
Elizabeth offered a mock shiver, and even her father’s mouth twitched. “Ten thousand a year,” he said. “One would think he might spare a civil word from so large an income.”
The family let the noise of laughter roll and fade. The dog, sensing the mood, thumped her tail twice more, then snuffled into the rug. For a moment the only sound was the shifting of embers and the tick of the clock on the mantel.
Elizabeth leaned against the shelf, hands behind her. Her gaze drifted to Sarah, whose chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. She pressed her left hand to her side and straightened.
“I cannot say I am wounded,” she said, “but after judging me on sight, he might at least have said it to me.”
Mary, who had been quiet in her corner by the sideboard, closed her book and looked up. “One offense does not always reveal everything worth knowing about a man’s character.”
Elizabeth did not turn. “That is very like a proverb, Mary. Did you find it in Fordyce, or invent it on the spot?”
Mary’s lips pinched, but she did not answer.
Elizabeth turned back to the room, her expression cleared. “To be fair, the assembly offered offense enough. In his defense, Mr. Darcy delivered his with polish.”
“Mr. Bingley did not offend,” Jane said.
Lydia bounced in her seat. “Mr. Bingley was the best of them. He danced every set, and his coat was the brightest I have ever seen. He called Jane the prettiest woman in the room.”
Jane colored, but did not argue.
Mrs. Bennet’s cap now rested against her eyebrow and bobbed as she nodded. “He was all that is amiable, and I am certain he will call before the week is out.”
“Not if Mr. Darcy can prevent it,” Kitty said. “He seemed determined to keep Mr. Bingley from enjoying the assembly.”
“He cannot keep him from Jane,” Lydia said.
Elizabeth’s mouth twisted. “Not unless he controls the weather, the walking paths, and Sir William’s guest list.”
Bennet lowered his feet to the floor and studied Elizabeth over his clasped hands, with the patience of someone who expected folly and seldom had to wait for it.
“Mr. Darcy may lack the advantages of wit and manners, but he has done the neighborhood a favor,” he said. “He distinguished himself so well that none of the local men need fear comparison.”
Kitty dissolved into laughter, Lydia let out a whoop, and even Mary allowed a thin smile.
Mrs. Bennet huffed. “I suppose you have made your point, but I still think he is the rudest man in Hertfordshire.”
Elizabeth touched her hair, fingers tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “It is no matter,” she said. “Tomorrow will bring new material for the neighborhood. By next week, I am sure he will have insulted someone else and left me in peace.”
Lydia yawned, and Kitty followed. Mrs. Bennet fussed with her cap and sent them all upstairs.
Jane gathered her gloves and moved to the door, her steps soft. She squeezed Elizabeth’s hand in passing.
Lydia and Kitty scampered ahead, making a contest of who could ascend the stairs in fewer steps. Mary trailed after, cradling her book to her chest.
Bennet lingered by the fire a moment longer, then patted Sarah’s flank and followed the others.
Elizabeth remained at the mantel, her shoulders dropping as the door clicked shut behind her father. The hush was near complete, broken only by the crackle of the last embers and the steady, sleepy breathing of the dog on the rug.
She looked at Sarah, whose head had lifted, eyes open and waiting. Elizabeth moved to the hearth, knelt, and pressed her palm to the warm spot at the dog’s side.
“You have seen worse than pride,” she said, voice pitched low. “And so have I.”
Sarah’s tail swept the rug, once, twice. She pressed her head into Elizabeth’s hand, then closed her eyes.
Elizabeth sat for a while in the shifting light, feeling the burn of the hearth and the ghost of the evening’s laughter. She knew the injury was not her appearance, it was what Darcy decided she was even before he knew her name.
She pressed her palm against the dog’s ribs, felt their warm, steady rise, and kept her hand there until the fire turned to ash.
The morning room at Netherfield filled with sunlight, the air warm despite the early hour.
Bingley sat at the breakfast table, having finished two cups of coffee, his napkin on the carpet.
He relived the previous night in fits and starts, recounting every detail for anyone willing to listen: the music, the crowd, the briskness of the sets, the local pastries, and, above all, the warmth in Miss Bennet’s face whenever she spoke to him.
“She is so composed, and yet never shy. I spoke with her for a quarter-hour during the second set. She never faltered, not once. There is a sweetness in her manner I do not see in Town. None of the affectations. And her beauty—”
Caroline sat on the sofa with her embroidery and did not lift her eyes. “So you have said, Charles. Several times.”
“She is not like the others,” he said. “Did you see how the sisters watched over her, as if she were the only one worth noticing?”
“I confess I noticed none of the others,” Darcy said from his place near the window.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the lawn outside. His reflection in the glass added a second audience for Bingley’s enthusiasm, but he did not turn.
Caroline drew her needle through the cloth and examined the stitch. “The assembly interested me less than discovering that the young woman you saw repairing the hedge was Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the second daughter of Longbourn.”
Bingley looked pleased. “You are sure?”
Caroline allowed herself a small smile. “Mrs. Long confirmed it as I left the hall. Miss Bennet is eldest, Miss Elizabeth the second. The others are younger.”
Darcy’s mouth pressed into a line. “She is a gentleman’s daughter, then.”
Caroline looked up, not quite at Darcy. “Did you mistake her for a tenant’s?” She let the question rest, needle poised above the cloth.
Darcy took his time answering. “She looked like someone who is accustomed to fieldwork.”
“Some families do not mind their daughters learning practical things,” Caroline said. “But I grant you, it is unusual.” She glanced at Louisa, who sat by the tea service, half-listening, half-skimming the local newspaper.
Louisa said, “Mrs. Long claims the Bennets have no brothers. The girls will inherit nothing, so the father manages with what he can.”
Bingley seized on this. “I think it creditable. They keep a cheerful household on modest means.”
“Modest?” Caroline arched an eyebrow. “If the rumors are accurate, Longbourn is a poor cousin to Netherfield.”
“Then let us hope they call soon,” Bingley said, “so we may form our own judgment.”
Darcy looked through the window. “I have mine.”
Bingley grinned. “So have I.”
Caroline returned to her stitch. “Miss Elizabeth is lively. She danced all but one set, and I hear she walks each day, even in the worst weather.” She drew the needle through the cloth.
“Her manners are less finished than her elder sister’s, but she has a clever way of turning everything into a jest. I see why you noticed her. ”
Darcy answered without hesitation. “The impression she made was strong. Last night showed me that I had mistaken her position, not her character. The Bennets are too free in their manners, and Mr. Bennet manages Longbourn no better than its hedges.”
Caroline nodded. “Indeed. The mother appalled me, and the younger girls are wild. The Lucases are not much better, but at least they appear genteel.”
Bingley looked unconcerned. “I thought them very pleasant. Lively, as you say.”
Louisa, still browsing the newspaper, remarked, “There is a note about the boundary hedge. Mr. Bennet asked the parish to send a repairman, but it may be Netherfield’s responsibility after all.”
Darcy turned toward the table. “Establish the boundary before you arrange for any work.”
Hurst yawned behind his hand. “Those sheep appear to have no respect for leases. Sensible beasts.”
Bingley laughed. “You may be right.”
Darcy moved to the table, picked up a piece of toast, and set it down again untouched. “If the Bennets come to call, I trust we will offer the correct formality.”
Caroline did not look up. “I never neglect formality, Mr. Darcy.”
A small silence grew, filled by the scratch of Louisa’s page and the faint snap of Bingley’s cup against its saucer.
Bingley rose and paced the length of the room. “I hope we will see Miss Bennet and her sisters soon. I think Miss Bennet the prettiest woman I have met in years. Miss Elizabeth, too, though in a different way. What is the word...”
“Rustic,” said Caroline.
Bingley stopped, puzzled. “No. Spirited.”
Darcy’s gaze shifted to the green beyond the windows, where a line of sheep drifted along property’s edge. The boundary hedge caught the sun, its shadow jagged from the gap that was not yet mended.
His eyes narrowed, and he turned away.
Caroline’s voice, quiet but pointed, followed him. “Some impressions take time to revise, Mr. Darcy.”
“And some are best left as they are.”
He stood by the door, hands in his pockets, the lines of his coat sharp in the new sun. For all the certainty in his words, his gaze lingered on the broken green between Netherfield and Longbourn, as if he might see a figure walking it. He flexed his hand once, then left the room.