NINETEEN
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Elizabeth woke before the rest of the household four days after her return to Longbourn.
Sleep had eluded her for much of the night, her thoughts lingering upon the poem she and Mr. Darcy had discussed at Netherfield.
At last, unable to dismiss the matter from her mind, she went in search of the volume in the library.
She was not surprised to find her father already there, a book open before him. Mr. Bennet glanced up as she entered.
“You seem remarkably at peace this morning, sir,” she said, smiling as she crossed to kiss his cheek.
“I am enjoying the unusual quiet of my house,” said Mr. Bennet. “Mr. Collins’s departure has improved Longbourn considerably.”
“I thought you tolerated him rather well.”
“My dear Lizzy, remaining civil to Mr. Collins for an entire week required exertions of character I hope never to repeat. I am extremely grateful Charlotte accepted him before I was forced to flee my own estate.”
“We all had to bear it.”
Mr. Bennet placed one finger between the pages of his book.
“Before his departure, Mr. Collins thanked me for receiving him at Longbourn, as he would otherwise never have met the woman he means to marry. He seemed to credit me with the success of the affair. Had he remained another few days, I believe he would have thanked the teaspoons personally for their assistance.”
Elizabeth laughed until her side ached. “At least he has gone to prepare for the wedding.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Bennet. “Charlotte Lucas is a remarkable woman.”
“She is,” Elizabeth agreed, though with less amusement.
She moved toward the shelves and drew out the book she was looking for.
Cowper.
“I thought you had read that already,” said her father.
“I have.”
“Then either the poetry has improved since last week, or you have discovered some new reason to admire it.”
Elizabeth kept her attention upon the book as she began to speak. “I was speaking with Mr. Darcy about it, and—”
“You and Mr. Darcy spoke of poetry?” Mr. Bennet closed his book, his brows lifting.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened, for she realised at once what she had revealed. Since returning to Longbourn with Jane, she had said very little of Mr. Darcy to anyone. Indeed, the most she had admitted was that the party at Netherfield had cared for them well during Jane’s illness.
“He mentioned preferring Cowper to more sentimental poets,” she said, taking the chair nearest her father. “I was reminded of a passage today and wished to look at it again.”
“Hm.” Mr. Bennet regarded her over his spectacles. “I confess myself relieved. I had not entirely settled whether the man disliked conversation or merely humanity in general.”
Elizabeth laughed despite herself. “He speaks perfectly well when he wishes to.”
“Then I must conclude you succeeded where the rest of Hertfordshire failed.”
“There is nothing remarkable in having a conversation, Papa.”
“No,” said Mr. Bennet in a gentle tone. “Though I admit I did not expect Mr. Darcy to begin discussing poetry with my daughter within three days of residing under the same roof.”
Elizabeth looked down at the page. “He is not quite what people suppose. I do not think people understand him particularly well.”
“I suspected as much.”
“That sounds almost charitable,” said Elizabeth.
“Do not spread it about. I have a reputation for severity to maintain.”
For several minutes they read in companionable quiet, though Elizabeth found her attention straying.
“Papa.”
“Hm?”
“Do you think Charlotte will be happy?”
Mr. Bennet did not answer immediately.
“I think Charlotte will manage,” he said at last. “She is too sensible to expect what she has not chosen, and too practical to despise what she has secured.”
“That is not the same as happiness.”
“No,” he agreed. “It is not.”
Elizabeth looked toward the fire. “I understand her reasons. I do. But I could not do such a thing, even for the sake of securing Longbourn.”
“No,” said Mr. Bennet quietly. “I did not think you could.”
“Do you think such principles inconvenient?”
“They usually are,” said her father. “But I have observed that agreeing to spend one’s life with a person one cannot bear to hear speak is a much greater inconvenience.”
Elizabeth said nothing.
“Your mother would consider that a very foolish doctrine.”
“Mama considers many things foolish when they interfere with marriage.”
“Indeed. Happily, she has enough daughters left to educate into wisdom.”
Elizabeth laughed softly, which only widened Mr. Bennet’s grin.
At that moment Mrs. Bennet’s voice sounded from the hall, followed by Lydia’s much louder one.
Mr. Bennet sighed. “There. Peace was delightful while it lasted.”
Later that evening, a letter arrived from Lucas Lodge inviting the family to a ball in honour of Charlotte’s engagement.
“Another ball!” cried Kitty as Elizabeth finished reading the invitation. “Meryton has been dull of late.”
“I hope Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham attend,” said Lydia, clapping her hands together with all the abandon of fifteen.
Mr. Wickham.
Elizabeth lowered the invitation slightly.
She had not thought of him in several days.
She hoped Wickham would attend — though certainly not for Lydia's reasons.
She wondered too whether Mr. Darcy would attend, and whether, if he did, she might find the right moment to ask him directly what had passed between them — not because she had settled the question, but because she found she could no longer bear leaving it open.
* * *
Netherfield
Darcy
The invitation arrived shortly before dinner.
Bingley intercepted it almost immediately from Mrs. Goddard, who entered the drawing room to announce its delivery.
“Lucas Lodge,” said Bingley at once, breaking the seal with evident curiosity before unfolding the cream card inside.
His face brightened almost immediately. “Sir William is giving a ball in honour of Miss Lucas’s engagement to Mr. Collins.
Ah, that is one of Miss Bennet’s particular friends, I believe.
” He glanced lower upon the page. “The tenth of November.” Looking up again, he smiled broadly. “We must certainly attend.”
“Another country soirée?” said Caroline, making very little effort to disguise her disappointment.
“Sir William is a respected neighbour and we shall honour his invitation,” said Bingley easily, returning the card to its envelope. “Besides, there will be many friendly faces there.”
“You are exceedingly quick to consider faces friendly, Charles,” said Mrs. Hurst, stretching out her hand for the invitation.
“A ball celebrating an engagement is generally little more than an opportunity for ambitious mothers to parade their daughters before every eligible gentleman within twenty miles.”
Darcy, who had reluctantly allowed Marsh to persuade him to the drawing room that evening after spending the better part of the day avoiding company altogether, watched the exchange from beside the fire.
The mention of Sir William’s daughter’s engagement brought unexpectedly to mind Elizabeth Bennet’s mention of Mr. Collins’ rejected proposal at Netherfield.
Darcy had thought very little of it at the time.
He found himself thinking of it now. That Mr. Collins had attached himself elsewhere within days of being refused appeared less a testament to constancy than convenience.
Darcy thought Elizabeth Bennet exceedingly fortunate to have refused him.
“Darcy,” said Bingley suddenly, turning toward him. “You will come.”
It was not entirely a request.
Darcy shook himself slightly from his thoughts. “I am not certain I wish to go anywhere.”
“Why not?” Bingley frowned.
“The last assembly I attended,” said Darcy dryly, “produced considerably more discussion regarding myself than I found desirable.”
“You must forgive Meryton its first impressions of you. Many there did not know you well enough to understand your reserve.” Bingley moved a little closer to him. “Matters have improved considerably since then, and I am certain you will find agreeable company at the assembly.”
“Agreeable company?” Mrs. Hurst repeated with a knowing smile. “I wonder of whom you speak, Charles.”
“You speak as though Mr. Darcy has lately developed a taste for society, Charles.” Caroline gave a knowing smile. “Though I suspect his preference extends only to very particular company.”
Darcy said nothing.
He understood the implication behind the sisters’ remarks well enough.
Since the Bennet sisters’ departure, he had found progressively fewer reasons to endure the company of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst for longer than civility demanded.
Most days were spent either in Bingley’s office attending correspondence, in the library or in his own room with only Marsh for company.
Bingley, predictably observant where his friend was concerned, looked altogether too satisfied by Darcy’s silence.
“You should keep your plans open at least,” he said. “You may discover the evening less intolerable than expected.”
Darcy scoffed at the remark. Only one person could render the evening anything other than intolerable. The same person Darcy had repeatedly assured himself he merely wished to speak with again, should the opportunity arise. Speak, nothing more.
Yet was Elizabeth Bennet reason enough to attend a ball?
Unfortunately, she was.
But balls were for dancing, and sensible ladies attended them in hopes of securing agreeable partners. Elizabeth Bennet would spend the evening dancing. He could offer very little that resembled dancing.
Darcy pushed the thought aside with some irritation. He remained entirely undecided on the matter.