Chapter Twenty-One #2
Mrs. Hurst rolled her eyes with affection and left the room.Richard stood and stretched, looking ready to depart already, his thoughts clearly fixed on Longbourn.
“I shall fetch my gloves,” he declared. “And perhaps a book. If we are detained by Mrs. Bennet’s hospitality, I shall require diversion. ” He winked in good humor.
Darcy’s mouth quirked despite himself. “You will not require diversion in Miss Bennet’s company.”
Richard’s grin widened, eyes bright with mischief. “Ah, so you admit she is diverting.”
Darcy did not rise to the bait. He only stood, adjusting his cuffs as if that were the only matter worthy of attention.
As the party dispersed—each going about their own business until it was time to depart—Darcy remained for a moment longer, his gaze drifting toward the window where Bingley’s conveyance had vanished.
Bingley was gone. The house felt quieter for it, though the quiet was not peace. It was the kind of quiet that settled before a storm. And still, beneath all of it—beneath the tension of finances, of secrets, of treasure fever and imprudent choices—Darcy felt one bright certainty.
In a few short hours, he would see Elizabeth Bennet. And whatever else threatened to unravel, that thought steadied him.
Elizabeth had scarcely finished arranging the last flowers in the small vase upon the sideboard when Mrs. Hill announced the Netherfield party.
The words themselves still carried a pleasant sense of novelty—Netherfield—as though the estate had only just awakened and begun to take its place among the settled rhythms of the neighborhood.
“Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mrs. Hurst, Mr. Hurst, and Miss Bingley,” the housekeeper declared.
Elizabeth turned, smoothing her hands over her gown out of habit rather than necessity, and inclined her head in greeting as the visitors were shown into the drawing room. Her first, unbidden thought was one of surprise.
Miss Bingley was smiling.
Not the tight, superior smile Elizabeth had come to associate with her, but something softer—still carefully composed, still unmistakably aware of itself, yet not sharpened into disdain.
She spoke readily to Mrs. Bennet, praised the arrangement of the room, and even bent her head politely toward Mary when introduced, offering a few words on the elegance of the pianoforte.
Elizabeth watched closely, half expecting the transformation to dissolve at any moment.
Well, she thought, this is new.
Darcy met her gaze across the room, his expression betraying the same mild astonishment. When the bustle of greetings allowed it, he crossed to her side.
“You observe it too,” she murmured, keeping her tone light as her eyes flicked briefly toward Miss Bingley, now engaged in animated conversation with Mrs. Hurst. “Have I misjudged her entirely, or has something remarkable occurred?”
Darcy’s mouth curved faintly. “Something remarkable, I suspect. Miss Bingley spoke to me this morning.”
Elizabeth raised her brows. “And you participated voluntarily?”
“Yes,” he said dryly. “She spoke with sincerity. She has…revised her expectations.”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched despite herself. “That sounds ominous.”
“On the contrary,” Darcy replied. “She expressed her wish that we remain on amicable terms. Friends, even.”
Elizabeth glanced again toward Miss Bingley, who had just laughed—laughed—at something Mrs. Bennet said, laying a hand briefly upon her arm in a gesture that might almost be called warm.
“Then I applaud her restraint,” Elizabeth said.
“It must require considerable effort.” Could the lady be sincere?
Her manner was so different today than it had been, it beggared belief.
Darcy allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “I believe she has come to the conclusion that resistance would only make matters…uncomfortable.”
Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. “That is a conclusion many people arrive at far too late.”
The afternoon continued agreeably, and the party was indeed invited to dine. Elizabeth and Darcy kept to themselves, their rapport growing with every passing minute.
They were interrupted by Mrs. Bennet herself, radiant and bustling, eager to usher everyone toward the dining room.
The matron declared there was no need for formality, and so no one dressed for supper.
Elizabeth took her place beside Darcy as they moved with the others, and once seated, she found her attention divided—though not entirely willingly—between him and Jane.
Jane sat opposite Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Elizabeth scarcely recognized her sister.
Her sister was animated—truly animated. She leaned forward as she spoke, her hands moving with gentle emphasis, her eyes bright with interest rather than polite attentiveness.
Colonel Fitzwilliam listened with evident pleasure, responding in kind, his expression lively and engaged.
There was laughter between them, easy and unforced.
Elizabeth felt a faint stir of wonder. Yet even as she watched her sister, she remained quietly aware of Darcy beside her—the steadiness of his presence, and the ease with which her thoughts returned to him.
She leaned toward Darcy once more. “Have you ever seen her like this? For I have not.”
He followed her gaze, his expression thoughtful.
“No. I have not. Miss Bennet is invariably gracious, but she gives everyone the same courtesy, the same smile. This—” He paused as Jane laughed outright at something Colonel Fitzwilliam said.
“—this is enthusiasm.” Darcy’s gaze lingered only a moment before returning, almost instinctively, to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth smiled, both pleased and faintly unsettled. “She is usually so careful. I had not realized how much.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Nor had I.”
From the head of the table, Mrs. Bennet watched Jane with barely contained triumph, her eyes flicking repeatedly between her eldest daughter and Colonel Fitzwilliam’s distinguished bearing. Elizabeth could almost hear the calculations unfolding behind her mother’s expression.
“Mama is delighted,” Elizabeth said quietly. “The son of an earl trumps the son of a tradesman, no matter how wealthy.”
Darcy’s brow creased. “And Bingley?”
“Is currently absent,” Elizabeth replied. “Which, I suspect, improves everyone’s satisfaction.”
Darcy nodded. “He has gone to London. Business.” The word carried weight between them.
“I hope he finds what he seeks,” Elizabeth said after a moment. “For his sake—and for Jane’s.”
“So do I,” Darcy replied.
The meal itself passed more agreeably than Elizabeth had anticipated.
Conversation flowed easily; even Miss Bingley contributed without sharpness, remarking upon the excellence of the dishes and the pleasant order of Longbourn.
When the final course was cleared, Mr. Hurst leaned back in his chair with obvious satisfaction.
“Mrs. Bennet,” he declared genially, “you have quite outdone yourself. A finer meal I have not enjoyed in Hertfordshire.”
Mrs. Bennet beamed, preening just slightly. “You are very kind, sir. I am always pleased to provide for my guests.”
Elizabeth watched the scene with a mixture of amusement and cautious optimism. For one evening, at least, harmony reigned—and if the future threatened complication, it had the decency not to intrude just yet.
A week altered the texture of life at Longbourn more thoroughly than Elizabeth Bennet would have thought possible.
Mr. Bingley’s sudden departure for London had left a void—and into that space stepped Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam with an ease that suggested he had never intended to hover at the margins.
He called daily, most often in Darcy’s company, sometimes lingering after his cousin departed, sometimes arriving earlier under the excuse of walking the lanes before breakfast. He escorted Jane to suppers and card parties, stood up with her whenever the opportunity to dance came along, and contrived, without ever appearing contrived, to place himself at her side whenever opportunity allowed.
And Jane, to Elizabeth’s careful eye, seemed pleased.
Not dazzled, not carried away, but animated in a way that had grown steadily more apparent with each passing day.
She smiled more readily, laughing freely and without the reflexive restraint that so often tempered her expressions. She spoke and was heard.
Elizabeth watched it unfold with mingled satisfaction and caution. She trusted Jane’s judgment more than her own, yet she could not help noticing the contrast between past and present.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s attentions were not loud. He did not proclaim admiration in a manner calculated to be overheard. Instead, he asked questions—real ones—and waited for the answers.
When Jane spoke of books, of the management of a household, of her thoughts on the militia’s presence, or the restless speculation surrounding Roman treasure, he listened with the clear impression that her words mattered for their substance, not merely for the sweetness of her voice.
Mr. Darcy observed all of this with an expression that hovered somewhere between approval and concern, though he never interfered. Elizabeth suspected he was measuring something—his cousin, perhaps, or Jane herself—but if so, he kept his conclusions to himself.
It was on the seventh evening of Bingley’s absence that Jane finally spoke of it.
They sat together in Elizabeth’s chamber, the candles newly lit, the window cracked just enough to admit the cool breath of early autumn. Jane had come under the pretense of borrowing a shawl, but Elizabeth had known better. Jane only ever borrowed what she did not truly need.
“Lizzy,” Jane said at last, smoothing a fold of fabric between her fingers, “may I speak freely?”
Elizabeth set aside her book at once. “You always may.”
Jane smiled, though it carried a hint of uncertainty.
“I have been thinking—more than I care to admit—about the difference between Mr. Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Elizabeth said nothing, content to let her sister continue.
“With Mr. Bingley,” Jane went on carefully, “I always felt… admired. He praised my looks often, and my temper, and my manners. I was grateful for it. I still am.”
She hesitated.
“But when I spoke of anything of substance—my opinions on a book, or my thoughts on a subject—he would laugh. Not unkindly, but with the sense that he was amused rather than engaged.”
Elizabeth felt a slight tightening in her chest. She had noticed it too.
“And Colonel Fitzwilliam?” she prompted gently.
Jane’s eyes lifted, thoughtful. “He listens. When I speak, he considers what I have said and responds to it. We disagree sometimes—and he does not seek to smooth it over with flattery. He seems to enjoy the exchange itself.”
Elizabeth smiled, warmth spreading through her. “That is no small distinction.”
“No,” Jane agreed softly. She faltered, the word hanging between them. “Does Mr. Bingley not have some claim upon my consideration? He showed interest first. He sought me out. It feels—unkind—to allow another gentleman to step into his place so readily.”
Elizabeth leaned back against the chair, folding her arms loosely. “Jane, may I speak plainly?”
Jane nodded.
“Mr. Bingley admired you,” Elizabeth said. “He did not claim you. There is a difference. He has not asked for a courtship. He has not sought Papa’s permission, nor yours. Courtesy does not bind you where no promise has been made.”
Jane absorbed this in silence.
“You are not pledged,” Elizabeth continued. “You are not engaged, nor even formally courted. You have done nothing to encourage impropriety. You have only responded with civility to attention that was offered—and attention that respects you.”
Jane’s shoulders eased marginally, though her brow remained knit. “I do not wish to be unfair.”
“Nor are you,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Affection is not a race, Jane. There is no prize awarded for arriving first. You are free to choose—not merely who admires you, but who knows you.”
Jane exhaled slowly. “I am conflicted.”
“As any thoughtful woman would be,” Elizabeth replied, reaching for her hand. “Guard your heart, my dear sister—but do not lock it away simply because someone else once knocked upon the door.”
Jane’s fingers tightened around Elizabeth’s. “You always make things clearer.”
Elizabeth smiled, though her thoughts strayed—briefly, unbidden—to Darcy, and to the quiet certainty with which he listened, questioned, and understood.
Perhaps clarity, she reflected, is born not of certainty, but of being heard.
And in that, at least, Jane was beginning to find her way.