Chapter 11
The following morning dawned gray and misty, the kind of weather that discouraged any exertion more ambitious than pouring another cup of tea. Still, the Bennet breakfast table was unusually full for the hour. Even Lydia had come down in decent time, eager to replay the previous night’s excitement.
Elizabeth sat with her boiled egg cooling beside her plate and her head somewhere else entirely. Her thoughts drifted between the figures in her account book and the deeper puzzle of Mr. Darcy—tall, gloved, self-contained, and now impossibly entangled in her imagination despite her best efforts.
Mr. Bennet, who was at the head of the table with his face buried in the newspaper, gave a grunt of disapproval.
Elizabeth, without looking up from buttering her toast, said, “What is it now, Papa? Was your name misprinted in the society pages again?”
He snorted in amusement, but his voice was surly as he replied, “No, merely an opinion piece about the army allowing soldiers the right to practice Catholicism—again. Rather like beating a dead horse, I say.”
Jane glanced up mildly. “I thought that decision was made months ago?”
“In March,” he replied. “And apparently we must all continue to feel very strongly about it, whether we did at the time or not.”
“Ah, yes, back in the spring—an excellent season for heresy. Everything else is already in bloom.” Elizabeth smirked at her father in an attempt to lighten his mood.
Mary, who had been stirring her tea with all the severity of a temperance preacher, set down her spoon with a decisive clink.
“Well, I for one did feel strongly about it then—and I do now. Allowing Popery to flourish in His Majesty’s army is nothing short of national suicide.
Next, they shall be handing out rosaries with rations and replacing sermons with incense! ”
Kitty blinked. “But I thought incense smelled nice?”
“It is idolatrous,” Mary said firmly. “Catholics, Methodists, all the Dissenters—they draw people away from the truth with their noise and their indulgences. It is treason against God and King, and no society can survive when it panders to false religion.”
Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow and sipped her tea. “I did not realize a Catholic soldier praying for survival on the battlefield was such a threat to the Crown. Does a French bullet strike more accurately when it follows Latin?”
Mary flushed. “It is the principle of the thing. Tolerating heresy is as great a sin as practicing it. And those who excuse it shall find themselves no less damned.”
Mr. Bennet lowered his paper with theatrical slowness. “Ah, well done, Lizzy. You have driven the most pious of my daughters into wrath. A rare feat. Do see if you can provoke sloth next.”
Mary bristled. “It is godly wrath, Papa. A righteous indignation at the decay of our moral foundations is not sin—it is Scripture. And Elizabeth is walking dangerously close to heresy. I fear for your soul, Sister.”
Elizabeth allowed a wry smile. “I only wondered why a soldier’s prayer was more dangerous than his musket.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had been humming vaguely to herself through the exchange, suddenly clapped her hands. “Oh, mercy, who cares what the soldiers pray, so long as they are not disturbing the furniture? What matters is how elegant last night’s assembly was!”
The tension broke like a stick snapped over a knee.
Jane smiled into her tea. Lydia perked up immediately.
“I thought the musicians played better than usual,” said Kitty.
“And Mr. Bingley danced every set,” added Jane, her cheeks just barely pink.
Mrs. Bennet fanned herself. “And with you, my darling! Twice, in fact—and then he danced with Lizzy. Imagine! What gentleman could ask for a more promising start to a courtship?”
“And with that dreadful Miss Goulding not at all,” Mrs. Bennet continued, ignoring her. “Mark my words, girls—we are on the brink of something. I feel it in my bones.”
“If your bones are so wise,” murmured Mr. Bennet, returning to his paper, “perhaps they can tell us whether we are to expect rain.”
But Mrs. Bennet had no ear for sarcasm this morning. She was already recounting—again—the cut of Mr. Bingley’s coat and the elegance of his cravat. “And did I mention that he danced with Jane twice?” she repeated. “Oh, Mr. Bennet, you should have seen it!”
“Considering the fact that you have now informed me twice of the event, it feels as though I had been present.”
Mrs. Bennet ignored her husband. “Did you notice, girls?”
“I think, Mama, that half the room noticed,” Elizabeth said dryly.
“And the other half will hear of it by breakfast,” Kitty added with a grin.
Lydia giggled. “Well, I heard Mr. Bingley told someone that Jane was the most beautiful girl in the room. And even Mr. Darcy said it as well.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?” Mary muttered, though no one paid her any heed.
“Did he?” Mrs. Bennet’s eyes opened wide. “When was that?”
“Right before he asked Lizzy to dance.”
Mr. Bennet’s face popped over his newspaper once more. “Danced with you, Lizzy, eh?”
Before Elizabeth could respond to her father, Mrs. Bennet raised a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes. But that man is peculiar. He danced only once—and with you, Lizzy, and not even Jane! Very strange behavior, I say. Very telling.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Telling of what, Mama?”
“Oh, heavens, I do not know. Perhaps he has poor eyesight. Or perhaps he merely wished to oblige Mr. Bingley—he is clearly quite smitten with Jane. Perhaps Mr. Darcy danced with you so his friend might appear more at ease.”
“I see,” Elizabeth said mildly, reaching for her toast.
Mrs. Bennet leaned in, whispering behind her hand as though sharing a confidence no one had asked for.
“I mean no offense, my dear, but you must admit—dark hair and green eyes? It is not what fashionable gentlemen are looking for. Very striking, yes, but not at all elegant. Not like Jane’s coloring or the other girls. ”
“Mama,” Jane said softly, her cheeks tinged pink.
“I’m only being honest. One must be realistic when making matches. Mr. Darcy has ten thousand a year and wears boots better than a prince—he will want refinement. London polish. Not cleverness.”
“Then I am safe indeed,” Elizabeth said sweetly, folding her napkin. “For I have never been in danger of being either rich or polished.”
Mr. Bennet’s newspaper rustled once more.
“I do wish,” he muttered, “that our breakfast table would cease being a battlefield for beauty and theology. I am beginning to fear for the marmalade.”
Elizabeth laughed under her breath.
And if her breakfast tasted a touch more bitter after that, she said nothing.
∞∞∞
Darcy sat alone in the breakfast parlor, the silence broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire and the faint rustle of newsprint as he turned the page. His brow furrowed, his mouth tightening as he reread the offending paragraph.
Another opinion piece—self-righteous and smug—claiming that a recent defeat on the Continent was Heaven’s punishment for allowing Catholic soldiers to practice their faith within the ranks.
Darcy’s fingers tightened around the edges of the paper. How easily people passed judgment when they had never borne its weight. He had carried that weight himself: whispers behind gloved hands, suspicious looks at church, the quiet cruelty that thrived in school corridors.
He folded the paper with precise deliberation, willing away the sting of old hurts.
The door opened.
“Good morning, Darcy!” Bingley burst in, bright as the winter sun, though the effect was somewhat dimmed by the extraordinary disarray of his hair. He looked half-asleep and wholly pleased with life. “I had no intention of waking so early, but the scent of coffee found me.”
Darcy suppressed a smile. “I am astonished you rose at all.”
“So am I,” Bingley said cheerfully, dropping into the nearest chair. “But I blame Miss Bennet. My dreams were all of her. She is an angel, Darcy. An actual angel.”
“I doubt the parson would appreciate the comparison,” Darcy said wryly, “but yes, she is very handsome.”
“She is more than handsome. She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld.”
Darcy sipped his tea to avoid laughing outright. “You said that of Miss Pitt last month.”
“Miss Pitt?” Bingley waved a hand. “I scarcely recall her. But Miss Bennet—Miss Bennet cannot be forgotten. And she danced with such grace. I declare I have never met a young lady so gentle in manner.”
Darcy hesitated, then admitted, “I was surprised to learn that she and Miss Elizabeth are sisters. They look nothing alike.”
“Ah. Yes.” Bingley chuckled. “Miss Elizabeth is—well—very different from her sister. Both in looks and personality. I daresay a bit too intelligent for my taste.”
Before Darcy could reply, the door to the breakfast parlor opened and Miss Bingley swept in—swept being the only appropriate description, for her gown was a creation of silk, spangles, and entirely too much fringe for so early an hour.
Her hair gleamed with fresh pins, and the sharp scent of lemon verbena trailed behind her like a proclamation.
“Good morning,” she said in the tone of one bestowing favor. “I trust you two enjoyed your rest? Mine was tolerable. The beds in the country are always a little hard.”
Bingley muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Mine was not,” though he covered it with a cough.
Miss Bingley took her seat, unfolding her napkin with the precision of a queen preparing for court. “I heard you speaking of the Bennet ladies as I came down the hall,” she said, her gaze fastening upon Darcy like a hook. “Such a large party for so small a neighborhood, do you not think?”
“There are five daughters,” Bingley said. “Each of them was quite charming.”
Miss Bingley gave a small, skeptical hum. “Charming. I see. I believe you danced with one of them, did you not, Mr. Darcy?”
“I did,” he replied shortly.