Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Elizabeth had expected Lucas Lodge to be lively.
She had not expected it to be—quite literally—full.
The moment the Bennets’ carriage turned in at the gates, she caught sight of lantern-light flickering through a press of windows and heard, even before they had come to a stop, the muffled swell of voices within: laughter, greetings, the scrape of chairs dragged closer, and the restless hum of too many people gathered in too small a space.
As they drew nearer, the whole house seemed to breathe heat.
“Oh,” Lydia breathed, leaning forward as if she might launch herself from the carriage before it had properly halted. “Look at all the carriages!”
Kitty’s eyes widened. “Half the county must be here.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” Mary said with solemn certainty, though she craned her neck all the same.
Elizabeth exchanged a look with Jane—one half amusement, one half resignation. Jane’s smile was steady, as it always was, and she gave their sisters a look of indulgent amusement.
They were admitted at once. The entryway was crowded with servants moving like a practiced current, taking cloaks and shawls and guiding guests into the drawing room with polite efficiency that barely concealed the strain of managing so many bodies.
The air smelled of beeswax and warming wine, of damp wool and crushed greenery—Sir William’s attempts at festivity warring against the simple truth that too many people filled the rooms of the Lodge.
So, the common has emptied itself into Lucas Lodge, Elizabeth thought, and immediately wished she could take the thought back.
The image of shovels and hoes, of ladies and laborers stooping together over the earth, rose unbidden.
With it came the memory of her father’s locked library—candles lit, linen spread over the top of the desk, and gold glistening in the light.
“You two had best behave yourselves,” Mrs. Bennet said to her youngest girls. “If I had known it would be such a crush, I would have forbidden you to attend.” Kitty and Lydia nodded obediently and promised to be on their best behavior.
They were scarcely past the threshold before Sir William himself appeared, beaming like he had personally ordered the stars to shine.
“My dear Mrs. Bennet! My dear Misses Bennet!” he declared, spreading his hands as if to receive them all at once. “Welcome, welcome! Lucas Lodge is honored—honored, I assure you!”
Mrs. Bennet fluttered and smiled, her attention already darting past him into the press beyond. “Sir William, I vow you have the whole neighborhood here!”
“Ah!” Sir William’s eyes brightened in triumph at the observation, as though it were praise rather than warning.
“One does what one can to encourage society, madam. One must keep the county enlivened! And—” his gaze slid meaningfully to the room beyond, where conversation rose in vigorous tides, “—it is a topic of uncommon interest, is it not?”
Elizabeth needed no interpreter for that. Even before they entered the drawing-room, she heard it repeated in fragments—coins, Romans, the common, the magistrate, surely there is more, and something about what a man in Meryton said.
So, it is to be that sort of evening. Elizabeth was resigned to hiding her feelings amid the circulation of gossip.
At the first opportunity, after being claimed by a wave of greetings and pressed hands, Elizabeth slipped away from her mother’s orbit and found Charlotte near the edge of the room, where she stood like a calm island amid the crush.
Charlotte conversed with a lady from a neighboring estate while simultaneously aiding her mother as she tracked the movements of guests with a hostess’s instinct.
Her expression held that particular composure Elizabeth had always admired: not animated, not weary, but quietly competent.
Elizabeth reached her with relief.
“This is worse than I imagined,” she murmured once Charlotte had excused herself with an easy smile.
Charlotte’s eyes flicked over the room, then returned to Elizabeth with a faintly amused resignation. “Worse? I fear it is precisely what I imagined.”
“There are more guests than I have ever seen here,” Elizabeth said, lowering her voice, though it scarcely mattered. The crowd supplied enough cover ; no one could attend to every word.
“That is because there are,” Charlotte replied. “My father very often sends out more invitations than the Lodge can adequately accommodate.”
Elizabeth stared at her. “On purpose?”
Charlotte’s mouth curved. “Yes, quite deliberately. He knows several will decline. Illness, weather, distance, a preference for their own hearth—there are always excuses. The number who arrive is usually manageable.”
Elizabeth glanced about again. Mrs. Bennet was already held captive in a cluster of matrons, her hands fluttering as she delivered what was likely a retelling of some recent intelligence.
Lydia and Kitty had drifted toward the center of the room with predatory intent, as if hunting officers.
Mary stood with the Misses Long near the pianoforte, searching the music as she listened to the ladies’ chatter.
Jane smiled at a neighbor, making the lady feel, no doubt, as if she were the most important person in Hertfordshire.
“And yet no one declined this time,” Elizabeth said.
Charlotte’s eyes softened with dry humor. “No one wished to decline. My father assumed they would. He is—how shall I put it—an optimist in matters of hospitality.”
Elizabeth gave a short laugh. “And what do you assume is the cause of this unexpected devotion to Lucas Lodge?”
Charlotte tilted her head the smallest amount. “I can only assume they wish to speak of treasure.”
It was said without fuss or excitement, as one might discuss the weather. Elizabeth envied her for it. She, too, tried to treat the subject as a fleeting curiosity, but it had spread through the neighborhood with such speed that even indifference felt like effort.
“Do you believe anyone will find gold?” Elizabeth asked, because it was clearly the question demanded of all sensible people, whether they wished to ask it or not.
Charlotte’s laughter was quiet, practical, and entirely unromantic. “Gold? No, I believe people will find mud, and lost buttons, and perhaps the occasional broken pot. Anything more is a fanciful notion.”
“A fanciful notion supported by an alarming number of shovels,” Elizabeth said, thinking of the common earlier.
“They will tire,” Charlotte replied. “Or the weather will defeat them. And if they find nothing to justify their excitement, they will grow embarrassed and pretend they never cared at all.”
Elizabeth smiled at that, because it was so very like her dear friend—accurate, unsparing, and somehow still kind. Charlotte knew how to see the world as it was, without any dramatic despair at the fact.
Before Elizabeth could respond, a ripple passed through the room, as distinct as if someone had dropped a stone into water. Heads turned. Conversations shifted, rising and then lowering. A pause, a quickening.
Elizabeth knew the feeling now. The Netherfield party had arrived.
Her attention caught, as it always did, almost by instinct.
He was composed, even in a crowded room, but his composure did not feel aloof that evening.
Not when his gaze moved—briefly, quickly, as if by habit—toward her corner of the room.
But it was not Darcy alone. Beside him walked an unknown gentleman.
Elizabeth’s brows rose a fraction before she remembered herself and schooled her expression.
She had heard nothing of another guest at Netherfield.
But there he was—taller than Bingley by an inch or two perhaps, with a build more athletic than elegant, a confident carriage, and a face that—though not striking—held an openness that invited easy conclusions.
He wore a dark blue coat that set off the fairer tone of his hair, and a waistcoat of gold so rich it seemed meant to catch candlelight.
The ensemble was handsome without being foppish, suggesting a man who dressed well but did not dress to be admired.
Charlotte leaned closer, her voice pitched low. “That must be Mr. Darcy’s cousin.”
Elizabeth turned her eyes toward her friend, grateful for the explanation. “Cousin?”
“My father received a note,” Charlotte said. “From Mr. Darcy. He asked if his cousin might be included this evening.”
Elizabeth’s surprise sharpened. Mr. Darcy, writing to Sir William—soliciting an invitation—was not what the neighborhood’s gossip would have predicted of him. He is more determined than he appears, she thought, and found that the notion both warmed and unsettled her.
Charlotte’s lips twitched. “Yes. And my father was delighted to oblige—though I think he would have obliged without a note, if the gentleman had arrived at the door with a title of any description.”
Elizabeth’s gaze returned to the newcomer. Cousin. Could it be Colonel Fitzwilliam, of whom Darcy had spoken once or twice in passing?
He could not be called handsome—not like his cousin, whose features compelled attention even when his expression discouraged it.
But this gentleman’s amiable countenance spoke of good humor and friendliness.
His eyes—quick, light, observant—moved over the room in a way that suggested interest rather than judgment.
Sir William moved forward at once, practically glowing. He welcomed the Netherfield party as though they were visiting royalty, bowing and smiling with such enthusiasm that Elizabeth wondered he did not exhaust himself before the evening truly began.
Sir William’s attention fixed upon the newcomer with hungry curiosity, eager to meet the gentleman.
Elizabeth watched from a distance as Mr. Darcy made the introductions, and the gentleman responded with an apparent ease that would immediately endear him to the room. Whatever else he was, he was not shy.