Chapter Eleven
“Really, Charles, must we entertain the Bennets? They are in every way objectionable.” Miss Bingley’s voice grated on Darcy’s ears, sharp as a poorly tuned violin.
She sat very straight at the table, chin lifted, every line of her posture announcing her displeasure.
Already conflicted after his conversation with Hurst, Darcy wished he could retreat to his chambers and contemplate the mess his friend had created of his life.
He moved his spoon around the soup bowl without lifting a bite to his mouth, watching the pale surface ripple with each idle motion.
The dining room at Netherfield was handsome enough—high ceilings, polished mahogany, a well-laid table gleaming in candlelight—but the air felt thick with irritation. Darcy could not recall another evening on which Miss Bingley’s voice had seemed so persistently intrusive.
“Yes, Caroline, we must. They are the first family of the area—”
“You mean they were.” Miss Bingley smirked and lifted her wineglass, the ruby liquid catching the light as she took a delicate sip, as though punctuating her remark with disdain.
“Be that as it may, the Bennets are a family of longstanding. They have already earned their acceptance. I am new here and thus must make the effort to be pleasing.” Bingley grinned, entirely untroubled, his good humor as irrepressible as ever.
“Any of that aside, Miss Bennet is delightful company. I would enjoy knowing more of her.”
Darcy felt his jaw tighten, though he kept his expression neutral. He did not know whether to be relieved or concerned by his friend’s enthusiasm.
“Yes, Miss Bennet is a pretty girl, I grant you that.” Miss Bingley sniffed disdainfully.
“She is a classical beauty—the perfect example of an English rose. But her family and her circumstances! My dear brother, I have it from Miss Long that the Bennets’ estate is entailed.
Marriage into such a family would do nothing to raise your consequence. ”
Darcy ceased listening to the brother and sister squabble.
Their voices faded into a dull hum as his concern for Bingley’s fortune and future pressed heavily upon his mind.
He had watched his friend drift from one enthusiasm to the next before, guided more by inclination than prudence.
Had he not been raised to help those who needed it—to offer assistance in any way that might relieve burdens?
It was a principle instilled early and reinforced often.
Yet principles were of little use when they were resented.
Bingley does not truly wish for my aid, he mused, finally putting some soup into his mouth.
He winced slightly—it was far too salty for his liking.
The small discomfort mirrored his larger dissatisfaction.
Darcy placed his spoon back into the bowl and reached for a soft, brown roll, tearing off a piece absently.
“Louisa, I do wish you would help me convince our brother of this folly.” Miss Bingley’s voice broke his attention once more, her gaze flicking pointedly toward Mrs. Hurst, seemingly in expectation of an ally.
“On the contrary, dear sister, Charles is correct. He must form friendships with his neighbors. Hurst has told me all about it.”
The man in question raised his glass of wine in response as if saluting his wife, his expression wry and amused.
They exchanged brief smiles, a silent understanding passing between them, and Darcy was once again forced to reconsider his opinion of the couple.
Perhaps their marriage is more than just convenient.
Hurst had proven himself more than met the eye—observant, measured, and not nearly so indolent as Darcy had once assumed. Who else had Darcy misjudged?
Miss Bingley sighed, the sound laden with martyrdom. “Very well, I shall pen the invitation to be sent on the morrow.” She fiddled with the edge of her plate, clearly displeased, before signaling the footmen to bring the next course.
Darcy straightened slightly in his chair, bracing himself. He hoped that whatever was being served would be palatable.
And though he would not have admitted it aloud, he hoped even more that the coming dinner would offer better company than the present one.
“Mr. Bennet, we have been invited to Netherfield to dine on Thursday!” Mrs. Bennet beamed at her husband across the dining table. “What an honor! I have it on good authority that the Lucases have yet to be invited.”
The breakfast room was bright with morning light, the windows thrown open just enough to let in a mild autumn breeze. Fresh bread, butter, and preserves lined the table, and the gentle clink of china accompanied the Bennets’ usual lively discourse.
“Perhaps they too will be in attendance?” Mr. Bennet peered at his wife over his spectacles, a hint of amusement in his expression.
“Do not be ridiculous. This is clearly in honor of our Jane. Even a blind man could see how smitten our new neighbor appears.”
Elizabeth struggled to suppress a grin. Her parents’ banter was a regular occurrence, and it pleased her to see them still so much in love after over twenty years of marriage. Their teasing was affectionate rather than sharp, born of familiarity and genuine regard.
“What say you, Jane? Is this invitation meant to single you out?”
Jane’s cheeks turned a little pink. “Mr. Bingley is a new acquaintance, Papa. And because he is new to the neighborhood, he will likely invite all the principal families to dine at one point or another.”
Her tone was gentle, conciliatory, and entirely Jane—always eager to see the best in others and to soften expectations before they could harden into disappointment.
“Ah, but we are the first.” Mrs. Bennet smiled smugly and then reached for a scone. “That must count for something.”
Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye and smiled reassuringly. If her sister felt any pressure from her mother’s enthusiasm, she bore it with grace.
“Are we to attend, Mama?” Lydia looked hopeful, and Elizabeth could practically see her quiver with excitement.
“I am afraid not, my dove. If it were the Lucases or the Gouldings or the Longs, it would be reasonable. The Bingleys are not so well acquainted with us.”
Lydia’s face fell, but to her credit, she did not argue. Even four months ago, she would have protested loudly and thrown her napkin. Elizabeth noted the restraint with quiet approval; her youngest sister was learning, slowly but surely.
Pleased with Lydia’s show of self-control, Elizabeth reached out and patted her sister’s hand. “Will you help me re-trim my cream evening gown, dearest? No one is as talented as you at recreation.”
This cheered the young girl a little, and she nodded, her disappointment easing into eager anticipation of ribbons and lace.
Unprepared as they were with dowries for their girls, the Bennets had seen to their daughters’ education.
Though their governess had left, Mr. Bennet had since hired tutors to cover any areas where the girls still lacked the knowledge.
The lady of the house had learned along with her daughters, and as a result, all the girls knew not only how to behave with propriety but also how to manage a house with economy and fashion.
Elizabeth reflected that this subtle competence—so rarely remarked upon by outsiders—was one of their household’s greatest strengths.
“May I help?” Kitty asked timidly.
Elizabeth nodded, and both girls immediately put their heads together, planning what to do with Elizabeth’s evening gown. Their whispers grew animated as they debated ribbons, trimming, and what might best suit Netherfield’s elegance.
“How do you mean to spend your morning, Mary?” Mr. Bennet peered over his newspaper at his third child. “It seems you alone do not yet have an occupation.”
“Milton and my music call, Papa.” Mary was the most serious of the Bennet girls.
She would be classified as a bluestocking by some, but that did not bother her in the slightest. She devoured books at a rapid pace and debated them fiercely with her father.
Elizabeth participated and could hold her own against both… most of the time.
Affection bloomed within her as she examined her family. The easy laughter, the familiar rhythms, the small domestic plans—it all felt achingly precious. Then, she met her father’s gaze across the table, and her chest tightened.
The gold.
The great secret pressed in on her thoughts, unwelcome and heavy. The joy of the morning dimmed, replaced by a knot of unease she could not dispel.
Quietly, she excused herself and went to her chambers. Kitty and Lydia could find her when they were ready.
As she climbed the stairs, Elizabeth wondered how long such ordinary happiness could endure beneath the weight of an extraordinary secret—and whether the invitation to Netherfield would mark the beginning of solace…or of consequence.
Mrs. Phillips kindly invited Kitty and Lydia to dine in Meryton that Thursday.
This pleased both ladies, as they were able to participate in preparing for an evening out with the others in their family.
The invitation lent them a sense of importance they rarely enjoyed on such occasions, and both took it as proof that they were edging ever closer to full inclusion in society.
“I look so very fashionable!” Kitty twirled in her evening attire, a modest silk gown that had once been Jane’s.
The neckline was high as befitting a lady not yet fully out, though the skirts were long like her elder sisters’ were.
The silk caught the candlelight as she spun, and she laughed breathlessly, clearly delighted by the transformation.