Chapter Twenty-Two
Longbourn
Darcy
Mrs. Bennet was kind enough to extend an invitation to dine.
This suited Darcy exceedingly well, for it afforded him even more time in Elizabeth’s company before returning to Netherfield.
The hours between their meetings had grown into a torment, especially now, when he had gained some assurance that her feelings toward him had changed.
If the warmth in her air, the lively sparkle in her eyes when they conversed, and her gentle teasing were any indication, she was no longer merely tolerating him. She was enjoying his presence.
Upon accepting the invitation, Bingley had dispatched his man to fetch a change of clothing for the gentlemen.
They were shown to a pair of guest chambers, likely intended for a married couple, Darcy observed, for a single door adjoined the chambers.
Longbourn, though elegant in its own modest way, did not boast an overabundance of accommodations for visitors.
In his chamber, Darcy stood before the looking glass, adjusting the folds of his cravat with precision. His fingers moved by habit, long-practiced in the ritual since he was at times obliged to travel without his valet, but his thoughts were far removed from the intricacies of linen and starch.
Her words echoed in his mind. “You surprise me, Mr. Darcy, that a man of your fortune and consequence is not yet married.”
“I am only for you, Elizabeth,” he murmured into the stillness. “No other lady is perfect for me, and I shall have only you, or no one at all.”
That gentle probing, an observation far from indifferent, had stirred something within him.
Her curiosity was not idle; her intent was plain when she inquired of Anne and the supposed cradle betrothal.
By all appearances, she was testing the waters.
The memory of her question stirred his heart, no less than when she bravely raised it.
Had he only imagined her distress until he had calmly reassured her?
He thought not. Surely she would accept him when he proposed.
He fastened the cravat pin and took a moment to study his reflection, smoothing the front of his waistcoat with exact attention.
Not much longer now.
The days since Christmas had both flown past and yet seemed to lag, a contradiction he could not reconcile.
Each day brought them closer to Twelfth Night, and the final gift.
He dared not yet express his fervent hopes aloud, but he felt certain Elizabeth understood.
And if she did not—well, all would be the sweeter when he declared himself.
A sudden knock and the creak of the adjoining door interrupted his reverie.
“Say, Darcy, may I ask for your assistance this evening?”
Bingley’s genial face appeared around the edge of the door, furrowed in uncharacteristic agitation. The sight amused Darcy, for it was rare indeed that his friend displayed even a hint of vexation.
“Of course,” He stepped away from the glass and motioned to the chairs near the hearth. “Come in, Bingley. You know I shall assist you in any way you require.”
Bingley crossed the threshold, his movements quick and light despite his agitation. He held a small parcel wrapped in fine paper and tied with a blue ribbon, clearly prepared with care.
“I wish to give Jane a present,” he began, taking the offered chair.
“But it has been nigh on impossible to speak with her alone. Mrs. Bennet insists upon inserting herself into every conversation, usually with some urgent matter of lace, flowers, or guest lists. I mean no ill will toward my future mother-in-law, but if Jane and I are not afforded some privacy soon, I shall hie off to Scotland and wed her over the anvil at Gretna Green. At least there, I would be spared muslin samples. In truth, I begin to understand why Bennet locks himself in his study.”
Darcy laughed, the sound warming the space between them.
Bingley seldom let his feathers be ruffled, and it delighted him to see his genial friend unsettled by something so domestic.
“Do not tempt fate. Mrs. Bennet might follow you to the border only to offer counsel on floral arrangements. Have you decided upon a date? Perhaps that would suffice to divert the lady.”
Bingley grinned, though he pressed a hand to his temple in mock despair. “We intend to settle it this evening. I mean to give this necklace to Jane after we do.”
Darcy sobered. “I shall do my best to secure you a few private moments. If necessary, I shall engage Mrs. Bennet directly and give her my full attention—though I warn you, I may never recover.” He spoke in jest, for he had become rather fond of the matron.
“You are a true friend, Darcy” Bingley rose, clutching the parcel with renewed purpose. “Shall we go down? I daresay dinner should soon be served.”
Darcy nodded. He cast one last glance at his reflection—sharp cravat, composed mien, expectant heart—and together they quitted the room, descending the staircase side by side to join the company in the parlor, anticipation mounting for the evening ahead.
The Longbourn dining room, though modest beside the great houses to which Darcy was accustomed, was warm and cheerfully appointed.
A long table was laid with white linens edged in lace, silver cutlery polished bright, and delicate bone china plates painted with a rose motif.
The aroma of roast beef with rich gravy and root vegetables filled the air, accompanied by the subtler notes of baked apples, stewed pears, and a currant-studded pudding kept warm near the hearth.
As the company gathered and the first course was served—a fine soup of parsnip and barley—conversation grew lively with the clinking of spoons and the rustle of napkins.
“Mrs. Long has promised mistletoe and several kissing boughs at her Twelfth Night party!” Lydia announced from her place with excessive animation, nearly knocking over her glass of small beer. “I expect I shall be kissed a dozen times before the night is out.”
Kitty huffed, flicking a crumb off her sleeve. “That is nonsense, Lydia. Everyone knows the officers like me best. Denny paid me two compliments in one evening!”
Lydia rolled her eyes and scoffed so dramatically that even Mr. Bennet looked up from his plate. “Kitty, you are absurd. It is not only the officers—it is everyone. I am the liveliest girl in Meryton. Why, even Colonel Forster’s wife said so; she ought to know, being the colonel’s wife and all.”
Darcy, seated beside Bingley, gave no outward sign of his opinion, though inwardly he reflected that both Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty wildly overestimated their own attractions.
Such was the way with very young ladies—undisciplined, indulged, and wholly unaware of the weight of their words in mixed company.
He found himself wondering how Elizabeth and Miss Bennet bore it with such grace.
When the first dishes were removed and a fragrant lamb pie with a golden crust was brought in, Darcy addressed Mrs. Bennet with civility. “I must say, madam, this is a remarkably fine meal. I have rarely enjoyed a dinner more than when dining at Longbourn.”
Mrs. Bennet, already beaming from the distinction of having two wealthy gentlemen beneath her roof, flushed with pleasure.
“Oh! Mr. Darcy, you are too kind! But I must admit, it is all owing to my mother’s receipts.
I never stray from them—not for meat, nor pie, nor jam.
Even the plum preserves are prepared just as they were when I was a girl. ”
Darcy smiled as he took a sip of wine.
“They are closely guarded secrets, of course,” she went on, leaning toward him to speak as though sharing a confidence.
“Mrs. Goulding has tried above twenty years to get the way of making my syllabub from me, and Mrs. Long is forever pestering me for my pie paste receipt. But I always say, ‘Some things are not to be shared, even among the friendliest neighbors.’ Why, if I let those ladies know how Cook contrives my lemon tarts, they would be passing them off at their tables as their own!”
“You are wise to keep them to yourself,” Darcy returned with sincerity. He set down his fork and met her gaze with composed gravity. “Your puddings and pies would not be out of place in the finest dining rooms of London.”
Mrs. Bennet fairly fluttered with delight.
Elizabeth, seated opposite, had paused in her own conversation to regard him with astonishment.
Her cheeks flushed prettily, and her striking eyes glowed with warmth and amusement.
He allowed himself a brief glance, and when their eyes met, an unspoken understanding passed between them.
She was pleased. And that meant more to him than the approval of any London hostess.
After the meal, the ladies adjourned to the drawing room.
Darcy tarried but briefly with Bingley and Mr. Bennet over a glass of port, but his every thought pressed toward Elizabeth.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies, she had seated herself upon the settee with needlework in her lap, though the needle moved but little.
She glanced toward him once, almost in invitation.
Before he could cross to her, Bingley caught his eye and raised his brows meaningfully. The plan. Of course.
Darcy altered his direction, approaching where Mrs. Bennet was expatiating to Miss Mary and Miss Bennet on the superiority of goose over turkey for Christmas Day. He bowed slightly. “Mrs. Bennet, may I beg your counsel on a rather personal matter?”
“Oh! Of course, Mr. Darcy, anything at all.” She clasped her hands eagerly, her attention entirely his. Miss Bennet rose and slipped away from her mother’s side.
Darcy continued, intent on his assignment to keep the matron’s attention engaged until the pair returned. “I wondered; do you have any notion of what a young lady of sixteen might like for her birthday? My sister’s is soon, and I confess I find myself at a loss.”