Chapter Ten #2
The sky was a soft, endless blue, and the late-summer warmth lingered just enough to be pleasant rather than oppressive.
Rugs were spread beneath the trees at the edge of the little wilderness, baskets arranged with care, and parasols leaned nearby as though awaiting further use.
It was precisely the sort of day meant for gentle society and idle speculation.
Naturally, everyone wished to speak of Mr. Bingley and his occupation of Netherfield Park.
“I have heard he is bringing guests,” Penelope Long revealed, her eyes bright with anticipation. Her sister, Miss Martha Long, nodded excitedly, her bonnet ribbons fluttering as she did so.
“Yes, there will be twelve ladies and five gentlemen,” Miss Beatrice Goulding contributed confidently, as though she had it from unimpeachable authority.
“Nay, I heard it was seven ladies and four gentlemen,” Maria Lucas declared, lifting her chin with certainty.
“Too many ladies and not enough gentlemen,” Elizabeth whispered to Jane, who giggled softly behind her gloved hand.
“I should not mind if he brought all his friends from London.” Miss Long nodded crisply. “There are far too few gentlemen from whom we ladies must choose.”
John Lucas, Charlotte’s younger brother, scowled faintly at this remark.
Everyone present knew his best friend, Arnold Goulding, had been sweet on Penelope Long for many years and waited only for his father’s approval before approaching the lady’s uncle.
Elizabeth observed Mr. Goulding, who stood a few steps away, with quiet fondness; there was something endearing in constancy so unashamed, and she suspected that affection long held was affection unlikely to fade.
“What are your thoughts, Miss Elizabeth?” Miss Goulding came to her side, her tone curious rather than intrusive. “Perhaps this newcomer will cast his sights on you.”
“He is bound to be disappointed. It is well known that my future is not entirely my own to navigate.” I really must speak with Uncle Bennet about that.
Elizabeth kept her tone light, though her thoughts were not.
She did not wish to be placed in a position where she had to refuse an offer of marriage and could not give a good explanation as to why—especially if she genuinely cared for the man making the offer.
Miss Goulding looked unaccountably pleased with that information.
It was obvious why—Elizabeth was by far the most eligible match in Meryton.
Though they did not know the particulars, the residents knew Elizabeth’s future was dependent on her ‘London relations.’ The strictures placed upon her meant the path was clear to others, and Miss Goulding was not alone in recognizing opportunity when it presented itself.
The picnic proceeded without discord and with plenty of discussion.
Elizabeth spoke with each guest in small groups or separately, mindful to distribute her attention evenly.
She asked after illnesses survived, relations married or buried, harvest prospects, and assembly plans.
She listened more than she spoke, a habit carefully cultivated, and observed the subtle shifts of expression that revealed far more than words.
The fare prepared by Longbourn’s cook was delicious—cold meats, fresh bread, preserved fruits, and a delicate lemon syllabub that drew universal praise.
When their gathering was done, the footmen and maids packed everything into baskets and carried it inside, leaving behind only flattened grass and a sense of pleasant exhaustion.
“You will come to the assembly, will you not?” Miss Long took Elizabeth’s hand, her grip warm and hopeful.
“Yes, of course.” Elizabeth smiled. “I adore dancing, as you well know.” Elizabeth was a favorite partner when the ladies were forced to stand up together for lack of gentlemen partners. She danced with equal enthusiasm regardless, determined that no evening should be ruined by circumstance alone.
Their guests departed one by one, soon leaving only Mary, Jane, and Elizabeth in the little wilderness. The air felt quieter without the overlapping voices, the afternoon stretching ahead with unclaimed possibility.
“Well, that was entertaining,” Elizabeth said cheerfully, settling more comfortably beneath the trees.
“Yes, it was very enjoyable.” Jane frowned slightly, her brow creasing despite her gentle disposition. “I feel as though there will be a war once our new neighbor arrives. Every lady will vie for his attention.”
“And he will bestow it upon whomever he chooses. Come now, Jane, you must not worry needlessly. We have yet to meet this Mr. Bingley, and so we must patiently wait to form our opinions. I am certain Mr. Bennet will call upon him when he takes residence, if only to see how he treats a property not his own.”
Elizabeth’s tone was thoughtful rather than dismissive. There had been tenants who had not cared properly for Netherfield. Her uncle vetted potential occupants heavily now. If Mr. Bingley had been granted the lease, then she felt certain they would like him.
No tenant knew Mr. Bennet had a connection to Netherfield, however. Mr. Morris handled matters on his behalf. Elizabeth preferred it this way; privacy, she had learned, was its own form of protection.
They strolled arm in arm back to Longbourn, skirts brushing against fallen leaves, conversation drifting to lighter topics.
Mrs. Bennet waited eagerly to hear all about their picnic, her curiosity barely restrained.
Jane and Mary took over explaining, recounting each detail with increasing animation, while Elizabeth sat listening.
Her natural verbosity had been well-tamed with years of practicing comportment. She knew when to sit silently and when to speak. Such knowledge was critical when one lived as she did—always observed, often assessed, and rarely permitted error.
Pleased with the success of the picnic, the ladies soon parted ways to partake in their own activities. Elizabeth returned to her chambers, determined to pen a letter to Aunt Caroline before supper.
She will wish to know everything, Elizabeth thought, already reaching for her writing desk. And I shall tell her—of the sunshine, of laughter, and of a countryside that still feels like home.
Elizabeth sat at her writing table and pulled a sheet of paper towards her. She dipped her quill into ink and began to write.
My dearest Aunt,
I hope this letter finds you in tolerable health and spirits, though I fear you will smile at my cautious phrasing and remind me that true tolerance is something you mastered long ago.
Still, I think of you daily, and each pleasant moment here carries with it the wish that you were beside me to enjoy it.
I arrived safely at Longbourn and was received with such warmth that I was almost persuaded, for a moment, that I had never left it at all.
The family bustle, which you know I both cherish and endure in equal measure, has already resumed in full force.
My aunt was quite determined to hear every particular of my summer, and though I obeyed your injunction to discretion, I could not resist speaking of the sea air and the quiet it brought.
How I wished you had been there, sitting beside me as we once did, free of watchers and whispers.
Today we held a picnic, arranged by my cousins with great enthusiasm and no small amount of speculation.
Netherfield Park is at last let, and the entire neighborhood is alive with conjecture regarding the new tenant.
I confess, I find the excitement more diverting than contagious, though I cannot deny a certain curiosity.
I was very happy to see my cousins and friends again, particularly Jane, whose goodness remains unchanged, and Charlotte, who grows ever more sensible and thoughtful.
They speak often of the pleasures of society, and I am reminded how different my own path has been.
I miss you more than I can easily express.
There are moments here—simple ones, unremarkable to anyone else—when I am struck by the absence of your voice, your counsel, your steady presence.
Yet I carry you with me in all things, and I hope I conduct myself in a way that would earn your approbation.
I am mindful always of your lessons: to observe before speaking, to value my own mind, and to give my heart only where it is safe and deserved.
I shall write again soon, for there is comfort in imagining your eyes upon these pages. Until then, know that you are loved, remembered, and missed beyond measure.
Your most devoted niece,
Elizabeth
The rest of September passed with little excitement. Talk of Mr. Bingley and his arrival was on everyone’s tongues at every gathering. When he did take up residence just before Michaelmas, Mr. Bennet called upon their new neighbor. He brought his assessment back to his wife.
“He seems like an amiable gentleman,” said the family patriarch. “He wore a blue coat with cream trim. His hair is neither red nor brown, but somewhere in between. And he is very young.” That seemed to concern him the most.
Elizabeth expressed her desire to meet the gentleman at a later date. Unfortunately for the ladies of Longbourn, they were out when Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s call. They were forced to wait for the assembly before being granted an introduction.