Chapter 2 #2
For a moment, he considered: ought he to warn her?
A word of caution might prevent her from being deceived.
But no. To speak would be to drag her into a history she had no claim to share, a history painful to himself and mortifying to his family.
He could not expose Georgiana, nor would he condescend to defend himself before a young lady whose opinion should mean nothing to him.
And yet it troubled him – more, perhaps, than he would willingly confess, even to himself, that she might think ill of him.
She, with her clear eyes and her lively mind, whose judgement already seemed too quick to condemn him.
He pulled on his coat with a sharper motion than was necessary, fastening the buttons as though each were an act of resistance.
He would be silent. Wickham might whisper what falsehoods he pleased; Darcy would not descend to contradict them.
He did not owe anybody an explanation, not even her.
And yet, the reflection did not bring him the ease he expected.
The thought of Elizabeth’s regard being turned against him lodged like a thorn beneath his composure, small, perhaps, but not easily disregarded once felt.
***
He descended to the dining-room to find Bingley already at table, cheerful as ever over ham and eggs, and Mr. Hurst comfortably occupied with his plate, speaking little, save to request the claret. Darcy seated himself, offering the ordinary civilities, and took coffee.
“You were out early, Darcy,” Bingley said, his face alight. “I never saw such a fellow for riding. Do you find the Hertfordshire air invigorating?”
Darcy allowed a half-smile. “It is fresh enough.”
“That is a recommendation in itself,” Bingley replied, cutting his toast with brisk contentment.
Hurst gave no opinion, save a grunt of satisfaction as he applied himself to the dish before him.
It was not long before Miss Bingley swept in, her voice preceding her with its usual music of complaint. “I protest, this country air will be the ruin of my complexion. Louisa, do you not feel the same?”
Mrs. Hurst, who followed in a more languid state, assented with a graceful sigh. “Indeed, Caroline, I should prefer Grosvenor Street to all Hertfordshire combined.”
Bingley laughed and welcomed them both to the table. “You are unjust! I find the neighbourhood full of cheer and civility. Why, every day we receive some fresh kindness.”
As if to confirm him, a servant entered with a letter. Bingley took it up, broke the seal, and read with visible delight. “An invitation! From Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn. A dinner for tomorrow evening, in gratitude, I suppose, for our own little scheme.”
Miss Bingley raised her brows and cast a glance at Darcy. “A dinner at Longbourn. My dear Charles, I cannot imagine Mr. Darcy will think it a suitable amusement. He is not used to such provincial society.”
Darcy looked up from his cup with composure. “On the contrary, Miss Bingley. One ought to honour the attentions of one’s neighbours, wherever one resides. Hospitality is not measured by fashion.”
Bingley beamed at him. “There, you see? We must certainly go. Jane will be pleased… that is, Miss Bennet. It will be most agreeable.”
Caroline bit her lip and offered no more, but her glance, first at Darcy and then at her brother, betrayed her vexation that either should think of Longbourn as anything but a bore.
Darcy returned quietly to his breakfast, his face unreadable.
Yet inwardly, he was a little astonished at himself.
Was it truly a sense of neighbourly duty, or had he been influenced by something less easily accounted for that had prompted his reply, or the wish to cross Miss Bingley in her officious certainty?
Or – and here he would not linger – was it the sudden thought of Elizabeth Bennet, and the prospect of meeting her again?
He dismissed the question with impatience, but it was not so easily silenced.
***
By the time the messenger from Netherfield was heard upon the gravel, Longbourn was already in motion.
Mrs. Bennet had not waited for certainty before acting; certainty, she believed, was for those without imagination.
Hill had been dispatched twice to the larder, the cook consulted with great seriousness, and the parlour table was once again strewn with papers, menus, and half-sharpened pencils.
If Mr. Bingley declined the invitation, it would not be for want of readiness on her part.
Elizabeth, passing the window on her way from the back room, saw the messenger arrive and paused. She smiled to herself.
“So,” she said quietly, turning back, “the die is cast.”
Jane looked up from the small stack of linen she was folding, her expression composed but attentive. “Do you think it is the answer already?”
“I cannot imagine my mother would allow a messenger from Netherfield to come to our door for anything less,” Elizabeth replied. “Come, we may as well be present when the thunder breaks.”
They had scarcely reached the parlour when Hill entered, breathless with importance, bearing a sealed note upon a salver.
Mrs. Bennet snatched it up at once. “From Mr. Bingley himself, I see! Very handsome paper, too. I always said they had good taste at Netherfield.” She broke the seal with unnecessary force, scanned the contents, then clapped her hands.
“Accepted! Accepted. With the greatest pleasure! He says they shall all attend, and that he looks forward to the evening exceedingly. Did I not tell you so?”
Jane felt her colour rise, though she smiled. Elizabeth caught her hand for a moment and squeezed it, saying nothing.
“Well,” Mrs. Bennet continued briskly, already moving to her next thought, “Kitty, go tell your father the dinner is on. There is not a moment to be lost. Jane, Elizabeth, you will assist me. Jane, you must help decide what music will be suitable; Elizabeth, you shall oversee the table arrangements and see that nothing is wanting. Kitty and Lydia can help you. Mary, call Lucy and make sure the dining room is all clean and presentable. The picture frames and windowsills, too. Ten gentlemen and ten ladies must not be left to chance.”
Mary was about to respond, but Elizabeth shook her head at her. She raised her brows. “Twenty people. A grave responsibility indeed.”
Mrs. Bennet waved aside the remark. “You may laugh, Lizzy, but these things are observed. Mr. Bingley observes them, I am sure of it.”
Elizabeth smiled, but she obeyed, following Jane into the smaller parlour where the pianoforte stood. For a moment, neither spoke; the stillness was broken only by the distant clatter from the kitchen at the rear of the house.
“At least,” Elizabeth said at last, lightly, “everything will be spotless. After all, Netherfield is coming to us in full force.”
Jane nodded, smoothing the linen absent-mindedly. “Mr. Bingley wrote very kindly. He thanked Mama most warmly.”
“I should be surprised if he did otherwise,” Elizabeth replied. “He seems constitutionally incapable of refusing pleasure – or gratitude.”
Jane smiled. “I see nothing wrong in it.”
“No, you would not. And I did not mention it because I disapprove. His manners are open, and he puts others at ease. He happily discusses any subject with anyone, unlike his friend, Mr. Darcy. I really wonder what makes the two of them so close. It seems an impossible relationship. Mr. Darcy goes out of his way to do the opposite.”
“I know what you are saying, but then he behaved rather out of character at Netherfield.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was downstairs, he was easily drawn into conversation with you. I thought he was shockingly honest about ladies walking in front of gentlemen. It made me pause.”
“Oh, I do not deny he is capable of conversation, but he seems to find great pleasure in arguing with me.” She huffed.
Jane looked at her sister. “I think you are too harsh on him. Maybe, maybe he likes to engage you. Maybe he does not mean unkindness.”
“Jane, you think well of anyone.”
Jane smiled but did not answer.
“Elizabeth, do you think it will be very formal?”
Elizabeth considered. “Formal enough to satisfy Caroline Bingley, and comfortable enough to please her brother. As for Mr. Darcy…” She stopped, then laughed softly. “Well. He will endure it.”
Jane glanced at her sister. “You think he will come?”
“He accepted the invitation, did he not?”
“Yes, but…”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I know what you mean. Still, he is a man of propriety. He would not absent himself when the rest of the party attends. Besides,” she added, with a touch of mischief, “I am curious to see him at our table. It is quite a different thing from meeting at an assembly.” Though whether that curiosity would end in satisfaction, she could not be certain.
Jane did not answer at once. “I hope,” she said quietly, “that everyone will be at ease.”
Elizabeth looked at her, more seriously now. “Do you think that likely?”
Jane smiled faintly. “Perhaps not. But I hope it all the same.”
Elizabeth softened. “You always do.”
She went to the pianoforte and lifted the lid. “Very well. Let us decide what shall charm Netherfield into perfect contentment. What do you propose to sing?”
Jane hesitated. “Something simple. Nothing that draws too much attention.”
Elizabeth laughed. “My dear Jane, that is quite impossible.”
And with that, they set to work – Jane selecting, Elizabeth teasing, both of them aware, in their different ways, that the quiet order of the morning was already slipping into something more animated, more uncertain, and far more interesting.
Elizabeth, too, gave some thought to the part she must play the following evening. She had always taken pleasure in amusing others; yet on this occasion, she was not entirely certain for whose satisfaction she was most inclined to shine.