Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
After the local assembly, Mrs. Bennet informed Elizabeth, Jane, and Mary that they would call on the ladies of Netherfield Park.
To call upon Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst on their at home day was only polite, and Mrs. Bennet—who understood the delicate balance between propriety and opportunity—would not hear of delaying it.
The prospect of possibly seeing Mr. Bingley had its appeal as well, though Jane endeavored, with mixed success, to conceal her anticipation behind calm attentiveness.
When the time came to depart, the ladies climbed aboard the Bennets’ sensible carriage.
It was not overly opulent, though its construction was sound.
The springs were tight, and the journey in the conveyance pleasant, even over imperfect roads.
The upholstery had been refreshed within the last decade, the leather well cared for, and the fittings polished but not garish.
Though the Bennets possessed a family crest, Mr. Bennet had never seen a reason to have it emblazoned upon the carriage doors for all to gawk at; he preferred solidity to display, and Elizabeth had inherited that same inclination.
From the carriage window, Elizabeth glimpsed Netherfield long before the house itself appeared, announced first by the subtle ordering of the land.
The hedgerows grew neater, the fields broader and more carefully kept, their greens deepened by recent rain.
A pale ribbon of gravel curved away from the main road and wound through gently rising ground, flanked by young trees whose branches were just beginning to turn with the season.
Sheep grazed at a polite distance, as though aware they belonged to a place not meant for disorder, and the lawns beyond them stretched smooth and unbroken, betraying the quiet expense required to keep nature so obliging.
As the carriage rolled onward, the house emerged at last—solid, symmetrical, and pale against the sky—its windows catching the light and reflecting it back without warmth.
Elizabeth noted the balance and restraint of it all, the careful dignity of a place designed to impress without excess, and she could not help thinking that Netherfield, like its present occupants, presented itself impeccably while revealing very little of what lay within.
The ladies spoke amongst themselves as they trundled down Netherfield’s drive.
Mrs. Bennet speculated aloud on the arrangement of furniture in each of the rooms and the likely refreshments; Mary observed that the grounds were well laid out and wondered whether the new owner would add anything to the library worth examining; Jane listened with polite interest, though her gaze lingered on the front steps and the tall windows beyond.
Elizabeth remained largely silent. This was the first time she would go inside the house she had inherited from her father.
She had shown little interest in it over the years beyond what was required of her.
Indeed, according to her uncle, she had never lived there with her parents.
To her, Netherfield was simply another building—handsome, well situated, but devoid of sentiment.
As the carriage came to a stop, a footman stepped forward to open the door.
Jones and Weston jumped down to hand the ladies out before following them inside.
It was their responsibility to remain vigilant, but Elizabeth scarcely believed herself in any danger here.
Netherfield might house disagreeable manners, but it was hardly a den of villains.
She dismissed them with a small nod just outside the parlor where they were being announced. Both men faded discreetly into the background as she followed her aunt and cousins inside, her expression composed and her posture easy.
Elizabeth’s first impression of the parlor was favorable.
There were some elements that were out of date and required refreshing, but overall, it was furnished with timeless pieces that needed no replacing—the sort of solid, well-proportioned furniture chosen with care rather than fashion in mind.
The mahogany sideboard bore only a few superficial scratches, the sort acquired through years of honest use, and the sofa—though covered in a faded damask—retained excellent lines and a comfort that bespoke quality workmanship.
She noted the curtains at once: serviceable, yet heavy, and better suited to a darker room than one so generously supplied with light.
Those would need replacing, she decided—perhaps something lighter, in a warmer tone, to soften the space.
The carpet, too, had seen better days, its pattern dulled by time rather than neglect; a new one, with a gentler palette, would alter the room considerably.
The arrangement pleased her; the chairs were sensibly placed, the tables neither crowded nor sparse, and the mantel—though plainly dressed—would benefit from a few carefully chosen ornaments.
None of the deficiencies suggested poverty or indifference—only the gradual settling of a house that had not been altered simply for novelty’s sake.
As Elizabeth’s eye moved from corner to corner, she found herself making a quiet inventory of what might be retained and what improved, content in the knowledge that once the present occupants departed, a judicious hand could restore the room to something both cheerful and refined.
“Welcome to Netherfield.” Miss Bingley stood statuesque beside her shorter sister, chin tilted upward and nose ever so slightly in the air.
“Please have a seat.” She gestured with regal languor toward the chairs opposite before seating herself in a high-backed chair that looked rather like a throne.
That will have to go, Elizabeth thought, suppressing a sly smile.
It would never do to have such a commanding piece dominating one of the principal rooms. The thought of Miss Bingley’s reaction—were she to learn that the true owner of her brother’s leased estate sat before her—nearly drew a laugh from Elizabeth.
Conversation was stilted at first, circling safely around the weather and the comfort of the roads, until Jane remarked upon Miss Bingley’s gown.
The fabric was remarkably similar to what Elizabeth had brought from town; she recognized it at once and knew it must have come from Bond Street—likely from the same establishment Aunt Caroline had taken her to before her departure.
“Yes, it is very fine indeed,” Miss Bingley said, preening. “Madame Clarice made the gown—do you know her? She is one of the premier modistes in London. Her clientele is very exclusive.”
“I prefer Madame Dubois,” Elizabeth said before she could stop herself.
The words hung in the air.
Madame Clarice was talented, but Madame Dubois catered to an even more discerning—and far more exclusive—circle. Miss Bingley’s eyes widened.
“You have had a gown made by Madame Dubois?” Her tone carried disbelief, shading quickly into insult.
“I have. Several, in fact.” Elizabeth kept her expression neutral. There was power in information, and she had no wish to reveal more than necessary—indeed, she had already said too much.
“Did Aunt Caroline take you?” Mary asked softly, glancing nervously between Elizabeth and Miss Bingley.
“She did,” Elizabeth replied evenly. “The fabric for your gowns was purchased on the same trip.”
That, she thought firmly, was enough. Mrs. Bennet hastened to fill the silence, speaking enthusiastically of her brother’s warehouses and the quality of fabric he supplied to merchants on Bond Street. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst exchanged a look that passed swiftly from incredulity to judgment.
“Your brother lives in London, Mrs. Bennet?” Mrs. Hurst raised a brow. “And has warehouses?”
“Yes, near Gracechurch Street. We are very fortunate in our connections.”
Miss Bingley covered what could only be called a laugh with a delicate cough.
If only you knew, Elizabeth thought, smothering a smile.
“Hello!” The gentlemen entered then, breaking the tension.
Mr. Bingley came first, greeting the room warmly before seating himself beside Jane.
Mr. Darcy followed, taking up a position by the fire, where he leaned against the mantel with a familiar air of aloof scrutiny.
Mr. Hurst came last, making straight for the settee where a decanter and glasses awaited him.
He poured himself a drink without ceremony.
Conversation resumed, more easily now, and Elizabeth noted when the polite quarter-hour came and went.
She spoke amiably with Mr. Bingley and Jane, while Mrs. Bennet and Mary engaged the ladies.
Soon, Jane and Mr. Bingley were conversing almost exclusively, and Elizabeth turned her attention elsewhere.
It was then she realized that Mr. Darcy was watching her.
She did not meet his gaze directly, but she could see him studying her from the corner of his eye—an intent, assessing look that irritated her more than last week’s open disdain.
It was not enough to find fault in a crowded assembly hall—now he must continue his silent examination. Elizabeth resolutely ignored him, turning instead to the more pleasant business of conversation, determined that whatever conclusions Mr. Darcy drew would be made entirely without her assistance.
Darcy watched the call with disinterest at first, and then guarded interest. He had taken his accustomed position near the mantel, adopting the air of detached observation that had served him well in a thousand drawing rooms. His posture was relaxed but closed, one shoulder angled toward the fire, gaze unfocused enough to suggest indifference.
It was a habit born of long practice: appear disengaged, reveal nothing, invite no one to presume familiarity.
And yet—against his will—his attention kept returning to Miss Elizabeth.