13. A Gentleman’s Attentions
thirteen
A Gentleman's Attentions
The news of Netherfield reached Longbourn at breakfast, which Mrs. Bennet afterward declared the most fortunate time for receiving intelligence, since one had the whole day remaining in which to discuss it.
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” she cried, entering with ribbons still untied beneath her cap and triumph in every step, “have you heard? Netherfield Park is let at last.”
Mr. Bennet did not lower his paper. “Is it? Then I hope the tenant knows what he has undertaken. A house that has been empty so long may have acquired habits difficult to correct.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had expected inquiry and therefore resented philosophy, planted herself before him. “You must not make light of it. A gentleman of large fortune has taken it.”
“That is considerate of him. Netherfield would have looked very odd with a gentleman of small fortune inside it.”
Kitty giggled. Lydia, who had been buttering toast with more energy than accuracy, perked up at once.
“A gentleman? Is he handsome?”
“My dear Lydia,” Mr. Bennet said, “your concern for the architectural happiness of Netherfield does you credit.”
“I do not care for Netherfield’s architecture,” Lydia replied. “I care whether he dances.”
“Then let us hope his fortune has been invested in feet.”
Mrs. Bennet pointed a teaspoon at her husband. “You may laugh, but it is a very serious thing. Mrs. Long says he is single, very agreeable, and worth four or five thousand a year.”
“Mrs. Long is generous. Most people require acquaintance before assigning agreeableness.”
“She heard it from her niece, who heard it from the housekeeper’s cousin, and that is very near certainty.”
Elizabeth traded a glance with Jane and hid her smile in her cup.
Mary, never one to let a new tenant escape moral application, observed that fortune was a trust and should be employed for the benefit of others.
Kitty wished to know whether he had sisters.
Lydia declared sisters a nuisance unless they brought gowns worth copying.
Mrs. Bennet began calculating, aloud, how many young ladies in the neighborhood might reasonably be considered rivals, then remembered she possessed five daughters and grew distracted by maternal hope.
“His name is Bingley,” she said. “Mr. Charles Bingley.”
Elizabeth’s cup paused halfway to the saucer.
Bingley.
Could he be Mr. Darcy’s friend?
For an instant the breakfast room receded, replaced by a London parlor and Darcy’s voice speaking with warm affection of a gentleman too eager to be pleased to manage fashion properly.
Mr. Bingley, who had been in the North. Mr. Bingley, whose sisters remained in town.
Mr. Bingley, for whom Darcy meant to find an estate.
Jane’s eyes moved to Elizabeth with sudden awareness.
Mrs. Bennet noticed nothing. “Of course Mr. Bennet must call upon him directly.”
“Must I?”
“You know very well you must.”
“I know very well that if I do, I shall be deprived of the pleasure of hearing you argue the point for another quarter hour.”
“That is abominable of you.”
“It is economical. I obtain amusement without leaving my chair.”
Mrs. Bennet narrowed her eyes, then unexpectedly laughed. “Very well, sir. I shall argue no more. I shall merely inform the girls that their father refuses to introduce them to a handsome gentleman of fortune and that all future disappointment lies at his door.”
“An effective strategy.”
“I thought so.”
Mr. Bennet folded his paper enough to peer over it. “You need not distress yourself, my dear. I shall call upon Mr. Bingley when he arrives, provided he does not first flee in terror from the reports of us.”
Mrs. Bennet beamed. “I knew you would.”
“You knew no such thing.”
“I hoped it very confidently.”
Elizabeth laughed then, and even Mr. Bennet’s eyes warmed.
The excitement did not remain confined to breakfast. By noon, Mrs. Philips had sent a note confirming every particular Mrs. Bennet had received and adding three more, each contradicting one of the others.
By dinner, Longbourn had learned that Mr. Bingley was either to arrive alone, with two sisters, with five gentlemen, or with a dozen servants and a French cook.
By the next morning, Meryton had supplied him with chestnut horses, a scarlet curricle, a taste for music, a dislike of boiled fowl, and a mother who had either been dead for ten years or expected on Tuesday.
Mr. Wickham, calling with Mr. Philips that afternoon, entered directly into the spirit of the thing.
“So I am to have a rival,” he said, accepting tea from Jane with a look of exaggerated resignation.
Lydia straightened in her chair. “A rival?”
“This Mr. Bingley. A gentleman of fortune. New to the neighborhood. Probably in possession of polished boots and a very fine watch. I see how it is to be. Miss Lydia will throw me over before Michaelmas.”
Lydia wrinkled her nose so violently that Kitty laughed. “That is ridiculous. I would not trade you for five such gentlemen.”
Mr. Bennet lowered his book. “Five, Lydia? It would be positively scandalous for my daughter to entertain so many suitors at once.”
“I did not say I would entertain them. I said I would not trade.”
“A delicate distinction.”
Mr. Wickham placed a hand over his heart. “I am greatly relieved to be valued above quantity.”
“You should be,” Lydia said. “Five gentlemen would be very troublesome. They would all wish to dance, and then I should have no time to sit down.”
“An intolerable fate,” Elizabeth observed.
“And expensive,” Mr. Bennet added. “Think of the gloves.”
Mrs. Bennet protested that no daughter of hers ought to think of gloves when a gentleman with four or five thousand a year had entered the neighborhood, then remembered Wickham’s presence and added that of course respectable affection and industry were worth more than fortune, though fortune was never to be despised when Providence placed it within three miles.
Mr. Wickham bore the speech with commendable self-command. Lydia, instead of being offended, looked at him with such fierce preference that Elizabeth suspected no fortune on earth could have tempted her at that moment.
The rumors continued until Sir William Lucas arrived at Longbourn with the air of a man charged by the Crown to deliver news of national consequence.
“My dear Mrs. Bennet,” he declared, having bowed to every lady in the room and shaken Mr. Bennet’s hand with unusual vigor, “I bring confirmation. Mr. Bingley is expected at Netherfield by Michaelmas, and he is to attend the next assembly.”
Mrs. Bennet nearly dropped her work. “The assembly! Are you certain?”
“Quite certain. I had it from Mr. Goulding, who had it from the steward’s man, who received instruction regarding the rooms at Netherfield. A large party is expected.”
“How large?” Kitty asked.
“Large enough to promise elegance,” Sir William answered, which clarified nothing and satisfied everyone.
Elizabeth sat beside Jane near the window, her sewing forgotten in her lap. A large party. Mr. Bingley. Sisters, perhaps. Mr. Hurst. And Darcy?
She did not ask.
She would not expose herself before the room.
Still, the question moved beneath every other sound until Lydia, with more courage and less motive for concealment, went to Mr. Wickham.
“You will attend the assembly, will you not?”
Mr. Wickham’s expression shifted before he answered. Slightly. Had Elizabeth not been attending to him, she might have missed it.
“I regret that I cannot.”
Lydia’s face fell. “You cannot?”
“Mr. Philips has business requiring me that evening. Papers to prepare before a meeting the following morning. He is cruel, but profitable.”
Mr. Philips, who had accompanied Sir William and now stood near the mantel, lifted both hands. “Do not lay the whole blame upon me. You said yourself the work must be done carefully.”
“So I did,” Wickham admitted. “Then I accuse the law instead.”
Mary approved this enough to say that duty ought always to precede diversion. Lydia did not appear consoled.
Mr. Wickham leaned nearer, lowering his tone enough to be particular without becoming improper. “Had I been there, Miss Lydia, I would have asked for your first set and your last.”
Her disappointment dissolved into such rosy pleasure that Elizabeth looked away to spare her sister the indignity of being observed too closely.
“Just those?” Lydia asked, attempting sauciness and nearly succeeding.
“A gentleman must leave some opportunity for others to be miserable with envy.”
“That is very generous of you.”
“I strive for Christian charity.”
Mr. Bennet coughed into his hand. Jane bent over her sewing. Mrs. Bennet sighed audibly, whether from satisfaction or impatience with delayed engagements, Elizabeth could not determine.
Lydia’s color remained high for the rest of the visit.
Elizabeth found herself pleased as well, though for a different reason.
Wickham’s refusal had been gently given; his attention to Lydia had not lapsed into possessiveness; and the mention of business, far from diminishing him, made his situation appear more respectable.
He was building a future by practical means.
That he would sacrifice an assembly for legal work would have been impossible to imagine in most young men Mrs. Bennet thought charming.
Later, when the guests had gone and Mrs. Bennet began issuing declarations concerning gowns, ribbons, and what might be done to improve the girls’ appearance before Michaelmas, Elizabeth escaped to the window.
Across the lawn, the late afternoon light lay warm upon the grass.
Netherfield was let.
This Mr. Bingley was coming. If this was Mr. Darcy’s friend, perhaps he would not be far behind.
Elizabeth pressed her needle through the linen in her hand and discovered she had made three stitches in the wrong direction.
Jane, sitting beside her, said very softly, “Lizzy.”
“I know.”
“You do not know what I was going to say.”
“No,” Elizabeth admitted, pulling the thread loose with more force than necessary. “But I suspect I should be embarrassed by it.”