Chapter Twenty-Six
Miss Bingley flitted about the drawing-room like a restless wasp, her voice sharp as she issued commands to the footman who had been summoned with barely concealed irritation.
“And tell Cook we shall require the imported tea, not the local fare. The last shipment was passable at best.” She turned on her heel, skirts rustling like silk wings.
“And be certain the chandeliers are polished to brilliance. We cannot be seen hosting in anything less than splendour.”
Her agitation crackled in the air. She had relented, albeit grudgingly, to her brother’s persistent entreaties and agreed to plan a ball at Netherfield.
What began as a mild suggestion from Bingley had, over the course of a single evening, taken root and bloomed into a full-blown obsession in Caroline’s mind.
She moved through the house like a general preparing for war, snapping at servants and regulating every particular from the floral arrangements to the wine pairings.
Darcy observed her from his seat near the window, feigning interest in a volume of Milton but noting every movement, every sigh, every falsely sweet smile she wore like armour.
There was no mistaking the feverish gleam in her eyes.
She was not merely planning a ball—she was orchestrating a spectacle. For whom, it was painfully clear.
He cast his thoughts back to the evening when it all began, the very day Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth had returned home to Longbourn. Bingley, buoyant and nearly glowing, had raised the idea during tea, leaning forwards with uncharacteristic fervour.
“A ball, Darcy! Can you not picture it? A proper gathering—music, dancing, laughter. The season needn’t be dull simply because we’re outside Town.”
Darcy had lifted an eyebrow. “You are confident, then, that your neighbours would enjoy such a thing?”
Bingley laughed. “Enjoy it? They would love it.”
Caroline had scoffed audibly, her tone lined with acid. “A ball, Charles? Why would we squander resources on something so provincial? The people here would hardly appreciate our efforts. They would not even know what a proper ball entails.”
“Do not be such a bore, Caroline,” said Mr Hurst from his chair by the fire, swirling the last of his brandy before draining it in a single, practised motion.
“I say, an evening of revelry sounds wonderful. This place has been insufferably dull—no society, no opera, no gambling halls. The countryside offers little but fresh air and damp walks.”
Mrs Hurst looked up from her embroidery and offered a mild but pointed comment. “I shall help you, Charles. Besides, Caroline, it would be an excellent opportunity to display your talents as a hostess.” She cast a significant glance towards Mr Darcy, her meaning unmistakable.
Darcy suppressed a sigh, keeping his face neutral. He knew exactly what was intended.
Caroline paused, her expression calculating.
Then, like the flick of a fan at a fashionable soiree, her demeanor shifted.
“Very well. It would not hurt to introduce some refinement into this—quaint—society. We shall host a ball worthy of the first circles. If we are to do it, we shall do it properly.”
From that moment on, the matter was settled. Or rather, wrested from Bingley’s hands entirely.
Miss Bingley had taken the reins with a vengeance. The drawing rooms were inspected, tapestries refreshed, invitations carefully penned in her slanted, delicate hand. Even the guest list was subjected to her scrutiny, though Bingley insisted the Bennets must attend.
Darcy had offered no opinion at the time.
He knew his friend’s intentions. Bingley was determined to propose to Miss Bennet that evening.
It was written across his face with every smile he gave, every hopeful glance towards the object of his affections.
A man in love was difficult to miss, and Bingley had never been good at hiding his heart.
Darcy, however, had remained silent, his own thoughts far more tangled.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He could not banish her from his mind. The brightness of her eyes, the effortless wit, the confidence with which she carried herself amongst company far more practised in the art of society. She had unsettled him, stirred something he had not expected—did not want—to feel.
And now, with this ball approaching, he found himself watching the preparations with a strange blend of anticipation and dread. A night of dancing meant proximity, conversation, vulnerability. And he was not yet certain if proximity to Elizabeth Bennet was a balm or a poison.
Across the room, Miss Bingley turned towards him suddenly, hands clasped like a hostess at Almack’s.
“Mr Darcy, shall I expect your company for the first two dances?” Her smile was brittle and expectant.
He met her gaze, then bowed his head slightly. “I do not yet know if I shall dance, Miss Bingley.”
Her mouth tightened, but she said nothing more, only swept away to instruct a servant about the candles.
Darcy returned to his book, though his eyes did not move across the page. Somewhere in Hertfordshire, Miss Elizabeth was laughing with her sisters, unaware of the storm that was gathering around her—around them both.
And in a few days’ time, he would see her again.
The late-morning sun broke through the haze that lingered after an early rain, painting golden light across the dewy fields surrounding Netherfield.
Inside the breakfast parlour, the scent of toast and fresh coffee lingered, though breakfast ended some time ago.
Darcy had little appetite. His attention was fixed on the fire, the flames offering a poor distraction from the storm of decisions churning inside him.
Fitzwilliam dropped into the chair beside him with his usual irreverent grace, stretching his legs and pouring himself a cup of coffee. “You have been brooding for days. I take it today is the day you do something about it?”
Darcy did not pretend to misunderstand. “It is.”
Fitzwilliam arched a brow. “So you mean to secure a set with Miss Elizabeth at the ball?”
“Yes. And more than that.” Darcy’s voice was steady, firm. He folded his hands and met his cousin’s gaze without hesitation. “I intend to court her.” He did not know when precisely he had resolved to no longer wait, but it felt right to inform his cousin in that moment.
There was a beat of silence. Then Fitzwilliam leaned back with a low whistle. “Well done. You really are in love with her. I am very happy for you!”
Darcy allowed a small smile to touch his lips. “It is not a decision I have made lightly. But it is the right one. She is everything I have ever wanted.”
“Have you made peace with the possibility that…everything you suspect may still be true?” Fitzwilliam’s tone had softened now, more thoughtful than teasing.
“I have.” Darcy’s voice dropped. “Whatever the truth may be, I would rather face it with her than walk away with doubt. I have spent enough time second-guessing my heart.”
Fitzwilliam studied his cousin for a long moment, then clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Then let us hope she is amenable.”
Moments later, Bingley burst into the room, flushed with enthusiasm. “Darcy! Fitzwilliam! I was just about to send a servant, but if you are not otherwise engaged, shall we ride to Longbourn? The invitations are ready, and I told Caroline I wished to hand-deliver the Bennets’.”
Darcy stood, already reaching for his gloves. “Wonderful. We shall prepare to depart at once.”
The three gentlemen mounted their horses and rode out under the sun, hooves drumming against the softened earth.
Bingley led the way with energetic eagerness, humming under his breath, whilst Darcy remained contemplative, the reins firm in his gloved hands.
Fitzwilliam rode beside him, eyes skimming the hedgerows, the thatched roofs in the distance, the sprawling quiet of the Hertfordshire countryside.
Longbourn came into view—its modest charm softened by ivy-covered walls and the scent of wild roses blooming in the garden.
As they approached, Darcy's horse slowed of its own accord. His eyes had caught movement in the little wilderness bordering the house.
Three figures darted between the hedges: two young ladies and a child.
Lydia and Kitty Bennet, easily recognizable, were laughing loudly as they attempted to catch the little boy between them.
He was tall and gangly for his five years, with curly hair and strong, lithe limbs. His laughter rang out clear as bells.
Then the child turned, the sun hitting his face full-on.
Richard pulled his horse to a sharp stop.
Darcy, already dismounted, turned. “What is it?”
His cousin did not respond. He simply stared, breath caught mid-inhale. His expression was unguarded—stunned. Pale.
The child, Tommy, broke free of his sisters’ mock chase and ran towards a patch of wildflowers, his laughter trailing behind him.
“Good heavens,” Richard whispered, barely audible. “It is like seeing…”
Darcy walked to his cousin’s side and followed his gaze. The same blow that had struck him upon first laying eyes on the boy now landed anew in the pit of his stomach. Cherubic curls, the mouth—the Fitzwilliam mouth, unmistakably. Even the set of the shoulders. It was all there, in miniature.
“You see it too,” Darcy said, low.
Richard dismounted stiffly, his movements wooden. “I did not believe you when you spoke of a resemblance. But now—” He shook his head slowly. “It is like looking into the past. He has our features. Our family’s blood.” His voice was barely a murmur. “I do not understand… How can this be?”
“I do not know.” Darcy’s voice was tight with restraint. “But I wish to find out.”
Richard turned away from the scene, scrubbing a hand over his face. “If that child is who you suspect he is… what has been done? What of Anne?”
Darcy placed a steadying hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “That is why I want to speak with Elizabeth. Not to accuse. Not to interrogate. But to understand. She is protective—and I do not think she will part with the information easily. Do you see my predicament now?”
From the direction of the house, the front door opened. Mrs Hill emerged and began to descend the steps, clearly recognising the gentlemen.
Bingley, oblivious to the tension behind him, waved cheerfully. “Come along, you two! We have guests to invite and hearts to win.”
Darcy straightened his coat, every motion deliberate. His heart pounded, but not with nerves—not entirely. He was a man on the brink of something profound.
He would ask Elizabeth to dance. He would begin to court her. Answers could come later.
Behind him, Fitzwilliam stood staring at the child, as if haunted.