Chapter One
Hertfordshire
She does try so very hard, does she not?
” Lady Jane Bennet observed, adjusting her afternoon parasol as they walked the tree-lined path from Longbourn towards Netherfield.
The early autumn air carried the scent of ripening apples from the nearby orchards, and golden light filtered through the canopy above.
Elizabeth glanced back towards Longbourn’s modest Tudor facade, where Miss Caroline Bingley had just bid them farewell with elaborate curtseys and excessive praise for their afternoon walking dress.
“Miss Bingley’s desperation to ingratiate herself with us grows more pronounced each day.
I begin to fear she may injure herself with all that bowing and scraping. ”
“Lizzy,” Jane chided gently, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “She is merely eager to fit in. Consider how daunting it must be—they are trying to become members of the gentry, after all. The gulf between us must seem vast to them.”
“The gulf exists, certainly, but Miss Bingley’s attempts to bridge it through flattery grow rather tiresome. Did you see how she praised my ribbon? As if a simple piece of silk were the height of fashion.” Elizabeth shook her head. “I almost felt sorry for her.”
“You are being unkind,” Jane replied, but her smile was fond. “Despite the social differences, I believe her attempts at friendship are sincere, if misguided in their execution.”
Elizabeth studied her sister’s face, noting the particular softness in Jane’s expression whenever the Bingleys were mentioned—or more specifically, whenever Mr Bingley was mentioned. “And what of her brother? I suppose you find his attempts at friendship equally sincere?”
Jane’s cheeks bloomed pink. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, come now.” Elizabeth linked their arms conspiratorially. “I have eyes, sister dear. Mr Bingley can scarcely look away from you for five minutes together. And you—well, you practically glow when he enters a room.”
“I do not glow,” Jane protested, her colour deepening further.
“You absolutely do. Like a candle in a dark window.” Elizabeth squeezed her arm. “And there is nothing wrong with it. He seems genuinely kind, which is more than can be said for most gentlemen of our acquaintance.”
Jane’s countenance grew thoughtful as they rounded the bend towards the village church. “He does seem different from the others. But I worry about the propriety of encouraging his admiration when Mama disapproves so strongly.”
Elizabeth kicked at a fallen leaf with the toe of her half boot.
“Mama doesn’t want us associating with the Bingleys at all because they are of lower birth.
As an earl’s daughters, we are meant to aim much higher—or so she reminds us daily.
But I think when love strikes, it strikes regardless of birth or breeding.
Besides, if Mr Bingley does purchase Longbourn from Papa as he intends, he will be a gentleman of property.
That should satisfy even Mama’s elevated standards. ”
“He will still not be titled,” Jane pointed out.
“Lady Elizabeth! Lady Jane!”
They turned to see Charlotte Lucas approaching with her younger sister Maria trailing behind. Charlotte executed a proper curtsey, her practical brown walking dress a stark contrast to the sisters’ fine muslins.
“Miss Lucas,” Elizabeth replied, offering a warm smile despite the formal address that always made her feel rather silly. When alone, they were simply Lizzy and Charlie, but propriety demanded these little performances in public.
“Good afternoon, Miss Lucas, Miss Maria,” Jane added with her characteristic gentleness.
Maria’s eyes sparkled with curiosity as she fell into step beside them. “We saw you leaving Longbourn. Was Mr Bingley at home? What a fine man he is. They say he is worth five thousand a year!”
“Maria,” Charlotte warned, though she looked equally interested in the answer.
“He was indeed at home,” Elizabeth replied. “Along with his sisters, who seem quite taken with the notion of becoming our dearest friends.”
Charlotte’s eyebrows rose. “Despite the… difference in circumstances?”
“Perhaps because of it,” Elizabeth said. “Nothing elevates one’s social standing quite like intimate friendship with an earl’s daughters. Or a knight’s. I am surprised they have not yet attempted to befriend you.”
“Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst called on me,” Charlotte admitted. “But I was not home.”
“I do not care for the sisters,” Maria said. “But Mr Bingley is so very handsome! And rich! Though I suppose such things matter little to ladies of your rank.”
“They matter to hearts,” Elizabeth replied. “And hearts, I have observed, pay little attention to bloodlines.”
They had reached the church now, its ancient stones warm in the afternoon sun. Charlotte adjusted her bonnet, considering. “Will you attend the assembly next week? The entire neighbourhood will be there, and I dare say Mr Bingley will ask you to dance, Lady Jane.”
Jane’s colour rose again. “If he asks, I suppose I shall accept.”
“Mama will not like it because of propriety,” Charlotte observed practically.
“Hang propriety,” Maria declared with the boldness of sixteen years.
“Maria Lucas!” Charlotte gasped, looking genuinely shocked.
They burst into delighted laughter. “I could not agree more, Miss Maria. Hang propriety indeed!”
Jane shook her head at them both, but her smile was fond. “You are both quite terrible, you know.”
They walked on in companionable silence until Netherfield’s grand facade came into view—their home.
Unlike Longbourn, the original Tudor manor where the Bingleys now resided, Netherfield proclaimed wealth and status in every classical line.
Lord Hartford had spared no expense when he purchased and renovated this estate as their family seat.
But as they approached the main entrance, Elizabeth noticed something amiss. Voices carried from the open windows of the main hall—raised voices that spoke of crisis rather than casual conversation.
“What on earth?” Jane murmured, quickening her pace.
They found their mother in the study, wringing her hands whilst pacing before the massive oak desk where their father sat reviewing correspondence. Her ladyship’s morning dress of yellow silk was already wrinkled from her agitated movements, and her dark hair had begun to escape its arrangement.
“—the rent collection must be completed before Michaelmas, and the harvest requires constant oversight, and half the cottages need their roofs mended before winter, and now Percival tells us he cannot manage any of it!” Lady Hartford’s voice rose to near hysteria.
“Whatever shall we do? We cannot possibly manage the estate ourselves!”
Lady Mary Bennet looked up from her corner chair where she had been reading, her plain features marked by mild interest rather than alarm.
“Lord Matlock made an offer when he dined with us last month. Some young man looking for an estate to manage. A Mr Darcy, I believe—son of his steward or some such person.”
“What has happened to Percival?” Elizabeth interrupted, settling into a chair beside Mary.
“Fallen and broken his leg,” their father replied, glancing up from his papers. “Poor man has announced he plans to retire. Takes the injury as a sign from Providence.”
“It seems Lord Matlock has the solution for us,” Jane pointed out.
Lady Hartford whirled around, her expression shifting from panic to wariness. “And what, pray tell, does Lord Matlock want in return for this generous recommendation? Nothing comes without a price in these circles.”
Lord Hartford’s weathered face remained calm despite his wife’s dramatics.
“Matlock seeks nothing beyond the favour of helping a promising young man find suitable employment. This Mr Darcy was trained under his own steward and under another gentleman before that. He comes with considerable experience, though he has never managed his own estate.”
“How old is this paragon?” Elizabeth asked.
“Five-and-twenty, I believe,” their father replied. “Young, but well recommended.”
Mary’s eyes took on a speculative gleam. “If he is handsome, Lydia will set her cap at him within a week of his arrival.”
“Mary!” Lady Hartford snapped. “Such inappropriate thoughts regarding someone so far beneath our station! Really, what has got into all of you today? Jane, you brought this one, being so moon eyed over this Bingley fellow.”
Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye and saw her own thoughts reflected there. First Jane’s attachment to Mr Bingley, now a strange steward coming to manage their estate. Change seemed to be sweeping through their ordered world.
Lady Hartford’s social consciousness revealed itself fully as she continued her tirade.
“An earl’s daughter, consorting with a tradesman!
What will people say? We have a position to maintain, standards to uphold.
Your dear father may have earned his title through heroics, but that makes our duty to marry advantageously all the more important. ”
Jane’s face had gone very pale. Elizabeth felt a familiar surge of protective anger towards her gentle sister, who absorbed their mother’s criticisms like rain into parched earth.
“When would this Mr Darcy arrive?” Jane asked diplomatically, changing the subject with her usual grace.
“Within a fortnight, if we accept Matlock’s recommendation,” Lord Hartford replied. “Percival’s accident has rather forced our hand. The man can barely walk, let alone oversee the harvest.”
Lady Hartford continued her pacing, muttering about the impropriety of bringing unknown persons into their household and the shocking state of everything from the larder to the candle expenses.
“Perhaps we should retire to discuss these developments privately,” Jane suggested quietly, rising from her chair with obvious desire to escape their mother’s dramatics.
Elizabeth stood as well, recognising the wisdom of retreat. “Indeed. We shall leave you to your correspondence, Papa.”
Lord Hartford nodded absently, already returning his attention to the papers before him. Lady Hartford continued her recitation of domestic disasters, now focused on the deplorable state of the wine cellar.
In Jane’s chamber, they settled on the window seat overlooking the rose garden.
“A steward,” Jane mused, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them in a gesture reminiscent of childhood. “I wonder what sort of man this Mr Darcy might be.”
“Someone seeking employment, apparently,” Elizabeth replied, though without malice. “I wonder why he would not stay under-steward at Matlock, until the steward retires. Matlock is grander than the Hartford lands.”
Jane’s charitable nature asserted itself immediately. “Perhaps he has family to support. A mother, or younger siblings. Lord Matlock would not recommend someone unsuitable—his reputation depends upon such judgements.”
Elizabeth nodded, though privately she wondered if their quiet existence at Netherfield was about to become considerably more complicated.
First Mr Bingley’s obvious infatuation with Jane despite their mother’s objections, now a mysterious steward who might prove to be anything from salvation to scandal.
Outside, the first leaves of autumn drifted past their window, carried on a breeze that whispered of change. Elizabeth shivered slightly, though whether from the cooling air or from some unnamed apprehension, she could not say.
“Do you think,” Jane asked, “that our lives are about to become very different?”
Elizabeth reached for her sister’s hand, squeezing the slender fingers gently. “I think that whether we wish it or not, change is already upon us.”
The words hung between them like a promise—or perhaps a warning—as the September shadows lengthened across the garden below.