Chapter 11 #2
Miss Elizabeth, I believe. A curious choice, for she is not at all like her elder sister. Miss Bennet is quite lovely, of course, but Miss Elizabeth…”
Miss Bingley paused, as though searching for a generous description.
“…she has a most unusual appearance. Her hair was much too dark to be fashionable…”
Bingley shot his sister a warning look. “Caroline—”
She continued as though she had not heard him. “…and with those eyes… well, let me just say that I much prefer blue or brown, especially with a complexion like hers. It is just not a combination that suits most ladies.”
Darcy set down his teacup with deliberate care. “It is an appearance I have always admired.”
Miss Bingley blinked. “Indeed?”
“Yes,” Darcy replied. His voice cooled until the air between them seemed to drop several degrees. “Both my stepmother and her sister possess similar coloring. Neither lady has ever wanted for excellence.”
Miss Bingley froze, her cheeks blotching with sudden color. “Yes… yes, of course. I only meant that fashions do change so very quickly, and—”
“Some things,” Darcy said, cutting her off, “are above fashion.”
Miss Bingley dropped her gaze to her plate. “Naturally. I had not meant—well—I was merely—”
“Speaking without thought,” Bingley supplied cheerfully as he reached for more eggs, rescuing his sister with a grin. “As we all do sometimes. Now, Darcy—were you not saying something about walking to the far meadow? I believe I might be persuaded to join you after all.”
Darcy rose, grateful for the diversion. “Capital,” he said, brushing off his sleeve. “I could use the air.”
Miss Bingley looked up from her plate, lips pursed. “I shall inform Mrs. Nicholls to have luncheon delayed, then. I suppose two gentlemen on a constitutional must take precedence over a cook’s schedule.”
Bingley stood and bent over to give her cheek a loud kiss. “That is why we keep you, Caroline. Always so obliging.”
She sniffed, but said nothing further.
As the two men departed, Darcy cast one last glance back at the discarded newspaper, its headline visible above the crease. He said nothing—but the set of his shoulders was stiffer than usual as they passed through the door.
∞∞∞
As was customary, the Lucases paid a call on the Bennets the afternoon after the assembly.
They were shown into the drawing room, where Jane and Elizabeth sat at their needlework and Mrs. Bennet hovered near the window, ostensibly minding a tear in the drapery but in truth hoping to glimpse the Netherfield carriage go by.
“Good morning, my dears,” Lady Lucas said cheerfully, sweeping into the room with her usual maternal bustle. “Oh, it was such a delightful evening last night. I declare I’ve not seen the assembly room so full in ages.”
Charlotte followed, curtsying politely, her eyes already scanning the room.
“Jane,” she said warmly as she settled in beside the eldest Bennet daughter, “you are looking quite well today. Perhaps in expectation of a caller?”
Jane flushed slightly, and Elizabeth laughed. “Jane always looks well, Charlotte; you know that. Besides, the Netherfield party would hardly call this soon after a ball.”
“Yes, but Mr. Bingley danced twice with Jane last night. And you made such a striking pair, my dear.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Jane said, “You are very kind, but I think he was merely being polite.”
Charlotte’s smile was tight. “Twice, Jane. He danced with you twice. That is hardly done out of civility. You must not dismiss it.”
“I am sure I do not deserve it.”
“Nonsense,” Charlotte said lightly. “Mr. Bingley was practically devoted. It is most fortunate, I think, that his affections settled so quickly. So many young men, when they are of means, grow fickle before they grow serious.”
Elizabeth frowned slightly. There was a slight edge in Charlotte’s voice that was not usually there. Not quite envy, but something near it.
“And he was very attentive during the intermissions,” Charlotte added.
“It is most fortuitous. Mr. Bingley is clearly of recent fortune—one can tell by the cut of his coat and the way he defers to his sisters. But still, a very respectable match. He is no baronet’s heir, but you could do far worse than a wealthy tradesman’s son with cheerful manners. ”
Jane, ever modest, bent her head. “I am sure I could not say what he intends. He is only lately arrived.”
“All the more reason to secure his regard quickly,” Charlotte said with a knowing look. “Gentlemen of new fortune can easily fall in love, but just as easily turned away.”
Elizabeth frowned slightly and shifted her stitching, not liking the way her friend spoke—so pragmatic, so cold beneath the polite words. She caught Jane’s eye and offered a small smile.
“Speaking of names,” Charlotte said after a moment, glancing at Elizabeth, “Mr. Darcy’s sounded familiar, but I cannot think of why. Perhaps in a scandal sheet?”
“Mary said the same thing at breakfast this morning,” Elizabeth said, “but I cannot imagine why. If he were frequently in the gossip pages, one of our mothers would have said something.”
Charlotte gave a short laugh. “Still, I suppose he must be important. Ten thousand pounds a year is nothing to sneeze at.”
Lady Lucas, who had taken a seat by Mrs. Bennet, rose suddenly. “We must be off, I’m afraid. Charlotte, the turnips still need preparing, and Cook has not yet found the goose fat. I promised we would not be long.”
Charlotte’s expression barely shifted, but Elizabeth saw the flash of annoyance in her eyes—and then the faint flush of embarrassment.
She hid it well, standing smoothly and adjusting her gloves.
But Elizabeth had heard from Hill—whose cousin was in service at Lucas Lodge—that Charlotte often had to step into the kitchen as the household was short-staffed.
Sir William might call himself a gentleman since his knighthood, but their household still bore the marks of a shopkeeper’s purse.
Charlotte turned to Jane again. “Truly, you must not let this opportunity pass you by.”
“I had not thought of it as an opportunity,” Jane said quietly.
Charlotte smiled, though it did not reach her eyes, and said nothing more.
It must sting, Elizabeth thought—not just the labor, but the knowledge that others knew of it. She reminded herself of that whenever Charlotte’s observations grated or her advice came too sharply worded. Pride and practicality often made uneasy companions.
They saw the Lucases to the door with the usual farewells. Jane was sweetly attentive, Elizabeth a little quieter than usual.
But long after the drawing room was quiet again, Elizabeth remained thoughtful.
∞∞∞
The ladies of Longbourn soon called on the ladies at Netherfield, and the visit was soon returned. Elizabeth was gratified to see that her elder sister’s sweet demeanor and gentle manners were appreciated by Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst.
Only Mary seemed untouched by the excitement of the visit. She had withdrawn to her corner of the drawing room with the latest volume of Fordyce and answered all questions with the slow solemnity of a vicar delivering a eulogy.
She had not yet recovered from their debate the other morning, and her glances toward Elizabeth were tinged with righteous indignation.
That her sister had taken the part of the Methodists—and worse, the Catholics—rankled.
For Mary, spiritual danger loomed behind every papist hymn and every unregulated chapel in the countryside.
“I only mean to say,” she had told them at breakfast, with all the wounded gravity of a prophet ignored, “that tolerating false doctrine is no better than preaching it.”
Elizabeth had not replied. There was no winning such a conversation.
Even now, as the sisters gathered later that day for a quiet afternoon by the fire, Mary’s occasional sighs and carefully turned pages betrayed her simmering discontent.
At one point, she cleared her throat loudly and remarked to no one in particular, “It is a terrible thing when the truth must yield to fashion.”
Kitty, who was trying to coax Lydia into mending a hem rather than tearing it further, rolled her eyes. “Mary, no one is being fashionable. Lizzy was just saying people should mind their own churches and not worry so much about everyone else’s.”
Mary pressed her lips together, her knuckles whitening on the book’s edge. “I pray none of you learn too late what it means to treat sin lightly.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who gave a tiny shake of the head. It was not worth arguing. Not tonight.
Let Mary fume in righteousness. The rest of them had more pressing matters to consider—like the fact that Jane had received an invitation to dine at Netherfield that evening. An invitation extended not to the family, but to Jane alone.
Mrs. Bennet was already concocting ways to ensure her eldest daughter would not only attend—but stay so she could see Mr. Bingley. “You must go on horseback, for it looks like rain.”
Biting her lip, Elizabeth wished to object, but knew her mother would only silence her with a cruel jibe about her looks. Instead, she looked out the window at the gathering clouds and prayed for her sister’s safety.