Evening - Netherfield
T hat night, the firelight glowed.
The drawing room had settled into a kind of after-dinner stillness—warm, flickering, and uneasy beneath the surface.
Bingley offered dessert with such cheerful insistence that refusal felt ungracious.
Now the ladies chatted in low tones, while the men drifted between the port and the fireplace, according to temperament.
Darcy stood near the hearth, one hand resting lightly on the mantel.
Across the room, Richard lounged like a man who had conquered both pudding and propriety.
And in the center, entirely unaware she had captured the room’s full attention, sat Georgiana Darcy.
“I found Miss Elizabeth absolutely delightful,” she said, bright with unstudied enthusiasm.
“So clever, so easy to talk to. And kind—genuinely kind, not merely polite. I think we shall be great friends.”
Miss Bingley’s smile was thin.
“Indeed. Miss Eliza Bennet has… a certain charm.”
“Oh, but it is more than charm,” Georgiana said, her eyes alight.
“It is how she listens. When she asks you something, she is not just being polite, she actually wants to know the answer.”
Mrs. Hurst made a sound of vague agreement, or perhaps a muffled yawn.
Beside her, Mr. Hurst had already drifted into an open-eyed slouch that suggested sleep was not far off.
“I should like to write to her,” Georgiana continued.
“Not formally, of course. Just a friendly note—perhaps to invite her to play a duet. She is wonderful at the pianoforte. I think we would suit one another quite well.”
Miss Bingley blinked.
“You mean… as friends?”
“As sisters,” Georgiana said simply.
Darcy nearly choked on his brandy.
Richard turned his head and coughed into his sleeve, shoulders shaking—though whether with mirth or panic was unclear.
A stunned silence followed, thick as pudding.
Miss Bingley set her cup down with audible precision and said nothing.
Mrs. Hurst leaned toward her sister and murmured, “Do not glare. It makes you look unwell.”
“I am not glaring,” Miss Bingley replied, teeth barely moving.
“I am smiling with reserve.”
“Then smile less. You are perspiring,” answered Mrs. Hurst.
At last, Miss Bingley turned toward Georgiana with a fixed smile.
“Well. Miss Elizabeth certainly does leave an impression.”
“Oh yes,” Georgiana agreed brightly.
“She made a wonderful one on me. We talked of music and books and gardens—real conversation, not small talk. She never once treated me like I was younger, or fragile.” She glanced toward Richard.
“She reminded me a little of you, wry, but generous in spirit.”
“High praise,” Richard murmured, tipping an imaginary hat.
“I am flattered.”
Mrs. Hurst stared into her teacup as if it might offer her an escape.
Then Miss Bingley turned, her gaze drifting to the hearth.
“And what do you think of Miss Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy looked up, his expression unreadable.
His fingers tightened slightly on the mantel.
“I think,” he said, measured as ever, “that Miss Elizabeth possesses a singular understanding.”
“Of what, precisely?” Miss Bingley asked.
Darcy hesitated.
“Everything,” Georgiana said, before her brother could answer.
“She understands people. She even understood me.”
Richard let out a low laugh.
“Now I am truly amazed.”
“I am not joking,” Georgiana said, smiling toward him.
“She saw me, not just my name, or my family, but me. That does not happen often.”
Richard leaned forward, warm with affection.
“I am not laughing at you, Georgie. I am delighted. I cannot recall the last time I heard you speak with such conviction.”
“She is admirable,” Georgiana said simply.
“And I hope—well—I hope we see a great deal more of her. I think she is exactly what I need.”
With that, she rose, smoothing her skirts.
“It has been a very happy day, but I am exhausted. Thank you all for a wonderful evening. ”
She curtsied with grace and swept from the room, smiling at her brother as she passed—unaware—or perhaps perfectly aware, that she had just detonated several polite facades and left the ripples in her wake.
The moment the door shut, the temperature shifted.
Miss Bingley lifted her cup again.
“Well,” she said with artificial brightness, “Miss Eliza Bennet certainly knows how to make an impression.”
“Remarkable,” Mrs. Hurst echoed, her tone as flat as her expression.
“She is remarkable,” Bingley said, beaming.
“I have been saying so for weeks.”
Miss Bingley’s smile grew pinched.
She did not reply.
Shortly thereafter, the ladies took their leave, Mrs. Hurst tugging at her half-sleeping husband.
Miss Bingley paused to offer Darcy a final, charged look—somewhere between wounded pride and desperate scheming—and then left as well.
When the door closed behind them, silence fell.
Only the gentlemen remained.
Bingley stirred the fire with enthusiasm, as if conversation might rise from the coals.
Richard spoke first, his voice softer now, tinged with something more genuine than usual.
“It is good to see her happy again,” he said, nodding toward the door Georgiana had just exited.
“It has been a long road back.”
Darcy did not respond immediately.
He stared into the fire, his jaw working slightly before he said, “She has changed. Grown stronger.”
“She was always strong,” Richard said.
“She just did not know it yet.”
Bingley, who had taken a seat by the window with a glass of port, nodded cheerfully.
“Miss Darcy and Miss Elizabeth seemed very comfortable together. They suit. Rather like—” he paused, eyes dancing toward Darcy “—sisters.”
Richard raised a brow.
“Indeed. A good match of temperaments and tastes.”
Darcy remained silent.
“Speaking of temperament,” Richard began, suddenly more serious, “you will be interested to know that Wickham has left Meryton.”
Darcy blinked, his gaze sharpening.
“Left?”
“About an hour after he saw me. Completely abandoned the idea of joining the militia.”
Darcy frowned.
“You mean after he saw us.”
“No,” Richard said with a dry snort.
“He left after he saw me. He does not run from you, Fitz. You are still too decent to force his hand. From me, he knows better.”
Darcy stiffened slightly.
“I have never shielded him.”
Richard turned his head, eyes sharp.
“Have you not?”
Darcy’s mouth thinned.
“I know you have done it for your father’s memory,” Richard continued, more gently.
“But tell me—how long do you plan to let that man walk free, with his charm and his lies and his eye for every vulnerable woman in sight?”
Bingley looked up, brow creased, but stayed silent.
Richard glanced between them.
“You think he will not come back? That he will not stir trouble once he learns you have chosen the future Mrs. Darcy?”
Darcy flinched.
Only slightly, but enough.
“He would poison it,” Richard said.
“With words, or whispers, or something worse. He will resent her the moment he believes she has what he wanted.”
Darcy’s hand clenched around the mantel.
He did not flinch—he froze.
Because it was true.
“He has already tried to harm your sister,” Richard said.
“What makes you think he will not attempt to harm the woman you intend to marry?”
There was silence.
And then—softly, finally—Darcy said, “You are right. I will not hold you back anymore.”
Richard nodded once.
“Good.”
Darcy straightened from the fireplace, smoothing his coat with deliberate precision.
“If he returns, he will find no more chances.”
Another moment passed.
Bingley, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat.
“Well then,” he said, his voice bright with barely contained excitement.
“That is quite serious. And I think we have earned a happier topic. The ball! I cannot stop thinking about it. I hope Miss Bennet is feeling well enough to enjoy it. I already have the first and the supper set, but if I could, I would spend the whole evening beside her.”
He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, eyes unfocused and dream-filled.
“Just imagine—dancing every set together. Talking in the hall between. Perhaps a turn about the room. No one else in the world, really—just the music, and Miss Bennet.”
Then, he glanced into the fire, quieter now.
“I have never wanted anything more than to spend time her.”
Richard gave him a look of mock pity.
“You are a romantic, Bingley. It is a miracle you have survived in society this long.”
“Is it too much?” Bingley asked, half-laughing.
“Wanting the whole evening?”
“No,” Richard said with a grin.
“It is enviable. But I warn you, someone else may be planning something just as determined.”
Bingley blinked.
“Who?”
Richard turned slowly toward Darcy.
“Someone newly motivated. Say, my cousin Fitz, especially now that there is news,” Richard said innocently.
Darcy looked over, wary.
“What news?”
Richard smiled like a man about to enjoy himself.
“Apparently, Lady Catherine has once again involved herself in matrimonial politics. She has advised Mr. Collins to marry one of the Bennet sisters.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed.
“Miss Bennet?”
“Indeed,” Richard said, and then, very slowly, turned to Bingley.
“At first.”
Bingley sat upright.
“But,” Richard continued, “knowing that Miss Bennet may be otherwise engaged—” another glance at Bingley “—Mrs. Bennet has redirected Mr. Collins to a more… available daughter.”
There was a beat.
The image of Elizabeth enduring Collins’s simpering attentions turned Darcy’s blood cold.
“No,” he said flatly.
Richard only smiled.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
Darcy turned from the fire, the expression on his face thunderous.
“No,” he repeated. “That is not acceptable.”
“I rather thought you would say that.”
Darcy’s voice sharpened.
“He cannot—he must not—think she would ever—” He broke off.
“I have asked for the first and the supper set. And I will ask for the last,” Darcy said, his voice climbing.
“Three dances in one night. Everyone will see it. They will understand.”
“Scandalous,” Richard murmured.
“Decisive,” Bingley said, awed.
“—and if I must… I will propose that same night. Should she accept—God willing—it will be announced at supper.”
Richard let out a long, appreciative whistle.
“Now that is decisive.”
Darcy ignored him.
Bingley, wide-eyed but smiling, leaned forward.
“You know… perhaps I should propose as well. If Miss Bennet agrees. They are very close sisters, Miss Elizabeth and Jane. They might enjoy announcing together.”
Richard cackled.
“A double engagement! Imagine Mrs. Bennet’s face.”
Darcy gave him a withering glare.
“This is not amusing.”
“Oh, it is entirely amusing,” Richard said.
“But I am also rather proud. You are finally acting like a man in love.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, then, after a pause, he looked at Richard and said, “How do you know all this?”
Richard gave him a smug smile.
“Ah. Regimental secret.”
“Richard.”
“Fine. Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty,” Richard said.
“When I was speaking to them this morning, they positively volunteered the information. Wickham, Collins, Lady Catherine’s unsolicited advice—if I had asked their opinion on troop movements, they might have offered that, too.”
Darcy shook his head.
“And what did they want in return?”
Richard grinned.
“Only stories of cavalry duels and the scandalous length of my regiment’s coats. It was a fair exchange.”
Bingley chuckled.
“Then it is settled. You have done your reconnaissance, Richard. The two of us just need to make our moves.”
Darcy nodded once, quiet again, but no longer brooding.
For the first time, he was not afraid of wanting more.
Not just respect. Or peace.
Or duty fulfilled.
But joy.
All his thoughts were on the Netherfield Ball.
And Elizabeth Bennet.