Chapter 5
Drawing Room
Longbourn
The Next Morning
A fire crackled softly in the hearth, sending gentle warmth out into the room to curl around the legs of chairs and couches, and one or two tables, and ankles hidden demurely within skirts and slippers.
There was not an overabundance of furniture, as Mrs. Bennet did not care for clutter.
Each piece in the room had been chosen scrupulously, beautifully complementing the room without overcrowding.
The space was, at the moment, deliciously warm.
The windows were set snug in their sills, blocking out the cold of the out of doors, and keeping the fire’s heat within.
Mrs. Bennet appreciated the spicy smoke of the wood that was burned at Longbourn; she remembered the unpleasant odor produced by burning coal that hung pervasively in the streets and homes in London.
In Town, only the wealthiest could afford wood for their fires.
Here in provincial Meryton, wood was easier to come by, and she was grateful that Longbourn’s budget permitted for generous purchase of fuel.
It was altogether a delightful morning in a comfortable, attractive room, and Mrs. Bennet looked about in contentment at her three eldest daughters.
Jane was curled on the couch beneath the window, her faraway gaze on the softly undulating tree outside the glass.
Mary and Elizabeth were seated on the settee closer to their mother, their red heads bent together as they chatted with one another quietly.
Mrs. Bennet could not quite make out their words, but she smiled as some remark of Elizabeth’s made both girls giggle.
In time, Kitty and Lydia would join the family.
For the time being, they were closeted in the schoolroom at the top of the stairs with Miss Trent, their formidable but kindly governess.
Mrs. Bennet bent to her workbasket, which sat at her feet, to select another bundle of wool yarn.
A small sock hung from her needles, its mate lying beside her on the arm of her chair.
The tenant women, with their large and growing families, were generally too busy for such time-consuming work as knitting, and children tended to grow quickly.
Mrs. Bennet could often be found knitting scarves and socks or sewing breeches for their young dependents.
The door opened, and the Bennet’s butler stepped into the room with three ladies in his wake.
“Lady Lucas, Miss Lucas, Miss Maria,” he announced and withdrew.
Mrs. Bennet set aside her needlework and rose to her feet with a smile.
“Come in, ladies, come in and sit down!” she said. “I hope you are well?”
“Oh yes, we are very well indeed,” Lady Lucas said happily as she and her two elder daughters obediently sat down, with Maria taking a seat next to Mary and Elizabeth, Charlotte sat beside Jane, while Lady Lucas took a wingbacked chair by the fire.
“I do not know if you noticed, Mrs. Bennet, but Mr. Bingley danced with Charlotte first last night!”
Mrs. Bennet turned to look at Charlotte Lucas and was not surprised to see her cheeks warm a little, though her expression remained calm.
“I did,” she said kindly. “You were indeed Mr. Bingley’s first choice, my dear. Congratulations!”
“But he seemed to like his second choice better,” Charlotte said, “since he danced with Jane twice.”
Mrs. Bennet clenched her jaws at these words, but she took a deep breath, forced herself to relax and smiled. “I think it is difficult to know why gentlemen make certain choices, especially on first acquaintance.”
“Indeed, Charlotte,” Jane said earnestly, “I expect that Mr. Bingley just happened to be standing by when the fifth dance was announced, so he asked me to dance again.”
“No doubt,” Charlotte said quietly.
Mrs. Bennet, regarding the two young ladies seated side by side, suppressed a sigh. She had never met the first Mrs. Bennet, who had died within a fortnight of giving birth to Jane, but everyone told her that Jane was the living image of her incredibly handsome mother.
And Jane was beautiful, along with being kind, if not quite as intelligent as her younger sisters.
She would be a good wife, but Mrs. Bennet feared that most men were more attracted to her stepdaughter’s face and figure than her person.
Moreover, it was not fair that Charlotte Lucas was more or less on the shelf.
She was far more sensible and clever than Jane, and she would make some man a truly excellent wife.
“He is a very proud man, even if he is the nephew of an earl and master of a great estate worth ten thousand pounds a year,” Lady Lucas said indignantly, breaking into Mrs. Bennet’s thoughts.
“He walked here, and he walked there, and he spoke to no one but his own party, and then he departed early! How very rude, quite unlike his friend!”
“I overheard Mr. Darcy talking to Mr. Bingley,” Elizabeth said, “and Mr. Darcy said that the room was filled with very pretty girls, but that he did not feel like dancing again. He also mentioned sisters back at Netherfield and his eagerness to return to ensure that they were comfortable and well.”
“Mr. Darcy has sisters!” Lady Lucas cried out. “How very interesting! I wonder why they did not attend!”
“Perhaps they are too young?”
“Mr. Darcy looks to be nearly thirty,” Mary mused. “One would imagine that his sisters would not be a great deal younger.”
“It happens sometimes that there is a substantial gap between children,” Mrs. Bennet said. “But come, tell me about Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, Lady Lucas. They certainly were dressed very well, do you not think?”
In truth, Mrs. Bennet had thought them a trifle overdressed for a country assembly, but she was confident that Lady Lucas would follow this conversational tangent, as the woman adored talking about clothing.
“Oh yes, truly!” the lady replied, her faded blue eyes brightening. “Did you see the lace on their hems and overdresses? Such incredible work. Their hats, too, were lovely indeed. Do you not think so, Charlotte?”
“I do, of course,” Charlotte said composedly. “I understand that Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley each have a dowry of twenty thousand pounds and thus have substantial pin money at their disposal. One would need quite a fortune to dress in lace, with ostrich feathers in one’s bonnets.”
The door opened at this moment to reveal two maids with tea service, who were followed by the two youngest Misses Bennet, along with their governess.
Kitty and Lydia sat down next to Maria and began chattering.
Miss Trent took a seat near Lady Lucas and started discussing the making of blueberry preserves, while Mrs. Bennet prepared tea for everyone.
The motions of pouring and serving were helpful in calming her heart. She was a sufficiently rational woman to know that all of her daughters would probably marry eventually, and Jane, as the eldest and the most beautiful, had every chance of wedding first.
She loved Jane as much as her own daughters by birth and could not help but worry about her. But then again, was she being fair to Mr. Bingley? He might be a truly excellent young man.
“Here is your tea, Elizabeth,” she said, handing over a sweetened cup to her second daughter.
***
Breakfast Parlor
Netherfield Hall
11 O’clock in the Morning
Serena closed her bedroom door and glanced up and down the hallway to reorient herself.
She turned to the right and was rewarded a moment later by finding the elegant wooden staircase that would lead to the breakfast parlor a floor below.
Miss Bingley had told the Darcy sisters that she intended to keep Town hours where breakfast was concerned, and the hour had finally arrived for the inhabitants of the manse to come together for their first meal.
This suited Serena well enough. It was not her habit to eat directly after rising, which she had done while the sun was newly peeping over the eastern horizon.
The house had been blessedly quiet, and she had labored industriously through the early hours.
Her novel, a delicious secret all her own, was perhaps halfway completed.
Only Georgiana knew of the Gothic tale taking shape under Serena's pen, and Georgiana was both faithful and discreet with secrets.
Fitzwilliam was aware, from visits to and bills from stationery shops, that Serena had a fondness for scribbling away on foolscap, but his support had always been of a passive rather than inquisitive nature, happy to support her interests, whatever they might be.
Serena dreamed, sometimes, of being published and seeing her own brainchild bound, perhaps even in leather, and sold on the shelves of bookshops.
It was to some degree a silly dream, and she did not cherish it close to her heart.
Ultimately, writing a novel was for fun as she allowed her own imagination to take her to unknown places.
She was satisfied with her efforts of the morning, as a rather sticky plot point had finally been resolved.
A character had tumbled dramatically down the stairs.
To have him die would have been catastrophic, but for him to entirely escape injury would not only be completely implausible but would not serve the story at all.
A broken ankle, Serena had decided, would do nicely, and pleased at having reached a decision, she had risen from her chair to go to breakfast. She wondered, now, as she descended the stairs, one hand gliding lightly down the curved oak banister, whether other authors ever had such sticking points in their own work.
How did the best novelists write? Did they plot it all out ahead of time?
Did they let their flights of fancy carry them hither and yon, their characters running wild with the author feeling dragged along in their wake like a carriage behind runaway horses?
Perhaps most authors preferred somewhere in the middle, a vague outline that was subject to change?
She stepped through the open door of the dining parlor and halted in surprise. The room was very full, with every resident of the manse sitting at the dining room table, including her brother, Darcy.
“Good morning, Sister,” Darcy said.
“Good morning, Miss Darcy,” the Bingley siblings chorused.
“Serena,” Georgiana said with a glowing smile. “Collect some food and sit down here beside me. The hot chocolate is wonderful.”
Serena was a great enthusiast of hot chocolate, and she obeyed her younger sister with alacrity. She sat down next to Georgiana and eagerly applied herself to her meal.
Miss Bingley, confident that her last guest was comfortable, said in the tone of one repeating an argument, “But Charles, surely you are not pretending that the locals are anything like the haut ton of London!”
“Of course they are not,” Mr. Bingley said, rising to his feet and wandering over to pour more coffee into his cup. “But then again, the local gentry in our hometown of Scarborough are hardly like the haut ton either, are they?”
Serena cast a curious glance at Miss Bingley and was not surprised to see the lady’s cheeks grow pink. She knew two things; firstly, that the Bingley fortune came from trade, and secondly, that Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst hated to be reminded of that fact.
“That is true enough,” Mrs. Hurst said in a soft voice, her expression anxious as she focused on her sister’s fulminating countenance, “but the reason that our mother sent us both to finishing school and you to Eton and then Cambridge was so that we would raise ourselves in Society. Caroline merely wishes to be certain that you do not fall in love with a pretty face, Charles.”
Mr. Bingley sighed, took another sip of coffee, and said, “I promise that I will not ask Miss Bennet to marry me in the next few weeks, Sisters. Now, Darcy, are you interested in riding the estate with me?”
Fitzwilliam rose with obvious eagerness and said, “Yes, of course, Bingley. I would enjoy that.”
“What about you, Hurst?” Bingley asked, and rather to Serena’s surprise, the older man levered himself up into a standing position and said, “I would like to come along as well, thank you.”
“Until later then, ladies,” Bingley said, bowing toward the Darcy sisters, and the three gentlemen departed.