Chapter 1
Preparations and Prejudices
Mrs. Bennet awoke unusually early, for the sun, streaming with uncommon brightness through the chintz curtains, would not allow her the pleasure of slumbering longer. Her husband, Mr. Bennet, was still asleep, though he often had dressed and sat at his desk before she went downstairs.
She lay for a few moments, as her mind fluttered between the agreeable remembrance of yesterday’s visit and the delightful prospect of the days to come.
A real ball, at Netherfield! Her mind quickly reviewed her daughters’ wardrobes to see what needed to be done.
No mother in the neighbourhood could compete with her when it came to her daughters.
Everyone would be at the milliner’s before the day was out, she thought.
Thankfully, in her mission to advantage her daughters, she had purchased the best her pin money could buy from time to time.
Besides, she always had a cupboard full of linen, lace and ribbons, pearls, and silk roses that would make the village milliner envious.
The collection had grown over many years, almost as long as she had been a mother.
She kept it under key and used it when needed.
Her daughters, in their surprise, never really questioned where the treats had come from.
Mr. Bingley, such a charming man! He had stood by his word. Good Heavens! All that expense to fulfil a girl’s request. It must be for Jane. What other inducement would do?
And to top it all, the Netherfield party, and Mr. Bingley himself, no less, had condescended to bring the invitation in person. It was an honour she could not cease to turn over in her thoughts. How many ladies in the neighbourhood could boast the same? None, surely.
Propped upon her pillows, she smiled to herself and began to consider how best such distinction ought to be acknowledged.
Mere expressions of thanks would never do.
No, something more was required, something that might impress upon Mr. Bingley and his sisters the gratitude of the Bennet family – and perhaps persuade them the wisdom of attaching themselves to it more permanently.
A dinner, yes!
Everybody praised her table. And with such fine weather, there could be no objection to an evening engagement; the roads would be perfectly dry, and no one could plead inconvenience.
A handsome dinner at Longbourn, and as soon as possible, before the ball should take up all the conversation.
Saturday evening would do exceedingly well.
Already she could picture the table groaning beneath a profusion of dishes, Mr. Bingley seated beside Jane, Caroline Bingley obliged to admire the abundance of the repast and her silver candlesticks from London, and Mr. Darcy – well, she would find a place for him too. However, he need not be her concern.
The vision was so pleasing that she clapped her hands together in bed, to the astonishment of Mr. Bennet, who muttered from his own pillow that he hoped such early industry would not ruin his breakfast. Mrs. Bennet paid him no attention.
He must be tired after his exertion the previous night, she mused with a smile on her face.
They did not always agree on matters, but that never stopped her husband from enjoying her company in the solitude of her chamber.
Her head was now full of matters more important: menus and invitations, and she determined, the very instant she quitted her chamber, to set Hill upon the business.
Mrs. Bennet dressed with unusual despatch, for her head was so full of dinners and Netherfield that she scarce had patience for cap or kerchief.
Before Hill had a chance to gather up the discarded ribbons, she was already descending the stairs into the small parlour she claimed for her own affairs.
The great round table stood ready, covered with patterns, stray needles, and scraps of old menus; but she brushed these aside, seized a sheet of paper, and began to write as if all Hertfordshire depended on her pen.
“First, Mr. Bingley,” she murmured, speaking half aloud, for she loved an audience even when she had none.
“He shall sit by Jane, and no power on earth shall separate them. His sisters, of course, and Mr. Hurst – though he eats more than he speaks. He likes the ragout, Lizzy had said. And Mr. Darcy – well, I cannot do otherwise, however proud he may be. He must be seated close to the head of the table. He must see with his own eyes what good connections we make.”
Her pen scratched furiously, blotted, scratched again.
“Then our own household – Mr. Bennet, myself, and all five girls. Lydia will be wild to sit near the officers; well, we shall see the numbers.” Now, should I ask Sir William and Lady Lucas?
Yes, certainly – it would not do to leave them out, and Charlotte, she will not take away the attention, poor girl.
“Mr. Collins!” Oh, he must be included, for the honour of his noble patroness.
That will please him beyond reason, and the Bingley party will see we have clergymen in the family.
She paused, tapping the pen against her teeth. “Mrs. Phillips… perhaps not. She is my sister, to be sure, but she brings too much of Meryton’s gossip with her. “Better leave her for another time.”
She paused again, counting on her fingers, frowning at the oddness of the numbers.
‘A hostess must be attentive to these things’ – she had heard it often said.
“Six gentlemen, ten ladies? That will never do.” She tapped the pen against her teeth, then brightened suddenly.
“The officers!” Yes, Lydia and Kitty speak so warmly of Mr. Wickham and Mr. Denny.
And if we have the Colonel too, that makes three more gentlemen – and so handsome they will look at the table, the scarlet set against our best damask.
She hastily wrote down the names, then realised that, although the balance was better, a gentleman was still missing.
She decided on the vicar to fill in the list. There, ten gentlemen and ten ladies – nothing could be more correct.
What a sight it will be when they are all arranged about our table, the Bingleys and Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bennet and our girls everywhere admired between. The Lucases will die of envy.
Having settled the matter, she leaned back with a satisfied air, the list before her blotched and triumphant, and rang for Hill to carry word to the kitchen that a dinner of true distinction was to be prepared for Saturday evening. She took her wooden box containing her menu cards.
“Hill, Hill! Make haste! Send Mary to wake Kitty and Lydia. How they will like my news. Hill!”
At that very moment, the parlour door opened, and Elizabeth stepped in, her cheeks bright with the freshness of an early walk.
Mrs. Bennet started, then frowned. “Lizzy! Out already? And in the damp morning air! When will you give up this unladylike behaviour? Look at you, your nose and cheeks red as a ripe apple. You will catch your death of cold, and what is to become of me if you are in bed sniffing your nose just when I want you most? Go upstairs and get warm at the fire. But before you go, you shall play the piano tomorrow evening. Jane must join you with her sweet voice, and then, oh, then, Mr. Bingley will be quite undone. He will fall in love with her on the spot, if he has not already.”
Elizabeth removed her gloves with great composure. “Saturday evening, Mama? What is happening then?”
Mrs. Bennet all but dropped her blotched paper for eagerness.
“A dinner, child! A grand dinner at Longbourn, in honour of Mr. Bingley and his dear sisters, and all the Netherfield party, with officers too, and Mr. Collins besides. Ten gentlemen and ten ladies – nothing could be more exact! Charlotte and her family will also be invited. We shall shine, Lizzy, we shall shine as never before, and the Lucases will choke with envy when they hear of it.”
Elizabeth bit her lip, half amused, half resigned, while Mrs. Bennet pressed the bell again for Hill, declaring that not a moment was to be lost in giving orders to the kitchen.
Elizabeth left her mother, who was still full of her imagined triumph, and went upstairs, escaping the flurry of orders and menus.
In her chamber, the hearth was cold, the small blaze of the night before long extinguished.
She stooped to lay a few sticks, coaxing them into flame until a gentle warmth spread once more.
Settling in the chair by the fire, she let her thoughts wander over her mother’s plan.
A dinner at Longbourn. She could not help but smile at the bustle it would produce – the dishes, the rearrangements, the fluttering of her sisters.
Elizabeth was, in essence, a sociable creature.
She flourished in society. Yes, she needed her escape sometimes, but she enjoyed gatherings; after all, she loved to laugh.
Her mother was an eager strategist, such as when she made her own daughter leave on horseback, knowing it was going to rain.
It was heartwarming, though, to see how Mr. Bingley fretted around her sister the evening she brought her down after dinner.
He was enthusiastic by nature, but a little help in bringing him and Jane together could indeed help them grow more attached.
This dinner may be one of her better ideas, she thought, though she was not yet certain she trusted that conclusion. And yet, even as the thought formed, she checked herself. It was not often that her mother’s plans bore such promise, and she was not quite certain that she judged fairly.
One idea, however, would not leave her: Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy, seated under the same roof, at her father’s table.
What would it be like? And would it be as revealing as she imagined?
A scene of civility forced and strained, or the cold disregard of two men whose histories were too bitter to be softened by courtesy?