Chapter Five
A Call at Longbourn
Mrs. Bennet was ecstatic when Bingley called. She was less ecstatic about Darcy.
Elizabeth watched her mother from across the drawing room and experienced the peculiar sensation of remembering an event before living it. The room was almost the same: faded carpet, the vase Jane had arranged, Mary's book upon a side table, Kitty and Lydia whispering, Mr. Bennet absent.
But Darcy was not the same.
He entered behind Bingley and bowed to Mrs. Bennet with genuine courtesy. Not warmth--Darcy had never been naturally warm with strangers--but no stiffness either, no sense that Longbourn's modest drawing room offended his standards.
"Mrs. Bennet. Thank you for receiving us."
Mrs. Bennet's response held less pleasure. "Mr. Darcy."
Bingley immediately found Jane.
Darcy found Elizabeth.
Of course.
She pretended to be absorbed in needlework.
He sat across from her rather than beside her.
Wise man.
Lydia began interrogating Bingley about the ball while Kitty joined in, asking whether Netherfield possessed a music room and if the floor in the ballroom had been polished. Mrs. Bennet apologized for neither.
Elizabeth once would have burned with embarrassment.
Now she listened.
Lydia was loud. She was also fifteen and excited. Bingley appeared delighted.
"Will there be officers at Netherfield?" Lydia asked, leaning forward with such enthusiasm that Mrs. Bennet caught the edge of her sleeve before she upset a cup.
"Lydia," Jane murmured.
"What? I only asked."
Bingley laughed. "I have invited none yet."
"Then you should."
Mrs. Bennet gave her youngest daughter a look. "Lydia."
That was enough to subdue her for almost seven seconds.
Darcy's eyes flicked toward Elizabeth. He expected her embarrassment. She knew. Instead she smiled at Lydia and said, "Perhaps Mr. Bingley would prefer to meet his neighbors before supplying you with an army."
Kitty laughed. Lydia stuck out her tongue.
Mrs. Bennet gasped. "Lydia!"
Elizabeth laughed too, not at Lydia but with her. Lydia grinned.
Darcy watched.
Something softened in his face.
Elizabeth met his eyes. He knew, or at least recognized a change.
Mary spoke from her chair. "An excess of frivolity may be considered injurious to the development of female character."
Lydia groaned. "Mary! Must everything become a sermon?"
Elizabeth turned toward her middle sister. In her first life she would have smiled at the absurdity and perhaps exchanged a glance with her father. Instead she asked, "What are you reading?"
Mary blinked. "Fordyce."
Darcy's mouth twitched.
Elizabeth saw. She nearly smiled. "What do you like about him?"
Mary looked suspicious. "No one asks me that."
"I just did."
Mary glanced at her book. "He values discipline."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Mary considered.
The conversation became real.
Darcy watched, and Elizabeth felt his gaze.
After several minutes Mrs. Bennet directed Mary to play. Mary rose at once. Elizabeth winced internally, not because Mary was dreadful. She was not. She lacked delicacy. She attacked music as though excellence could be achieved by force.
Elizabeth remembered laughing with Darcy about it.
Later regretting it.
Mary sat at the instrument. Elizabeth went to turn pages.
Mary looked startled. "You need not."
"I know."
She stayed.
Mary began. Too fast.
After a difficult passage Elizabeth said quietly, "Would you take the second section again? I like the melody, but I think I missed part of it."
Mary stopped, her face flushing. "You did?"
"Yes. Slower, perhaps."
Mary tried.
Better.
Not beautiful.
Better.
When she finished, Elizabeth applauded first. Mary looked pleased.
Darcy's eyes remained on Elizabeth.
She knew he was thinking.
So was she.
Bingley and Jane spoke near the window. Mrs. Bennet talked to Mrs. Hurst, while Caroline had not come. Thank heaven for small mercies.
Eventually Darcy rose and approached Elizabeth. "May I ask you a question?"
She looked up. "You appear committed to unusual questions."
His mouth moved. "What do you think of hawthorn?"
Elizabeth's heart stopped.
No.
He could not.
Years--decades--ahead, they had argued over whether the old hawthorn near Pemberley's south meadow should be removed. Darcy thought it diseased. Elizabeth had threatened to chain herself to it. The tree survived another thirty years.
She stared. "Hawthorn?"
"Yes."
"An innocent tree."
"Generally."
"Unless someone wishes to cut it down."
Darcy went utterly still.
Elizabeth's pulse roared.
There.
Too specific.
She had done it.
He knew.
His eyes locked on hers.
Neither breathed.
Then Lydia called, "Lizzy! Which ribbon?"
Elizabeth looked away.
Lydia held up blue and green.
Elizabeth almost laughed from sheer nerves. "The blue."
Lydia smiled.
When Elizabeth looked back, Darcy was still staring. His hand rested at his side. The forefinger tapped against his thumb once, twice, three times.
Elizabeth's eyes filled.
Not yet.
Surely not.
Darcy bowed. "Miss Elizabeth."
His voice had changed. She knew that voice. The one he used when emotion threatened his control.
"Mr. Darcy."
He left with Bingley.
Elizabeth remained standing.
Jane came beside her. "Lizzy?"
Elizabeth watched the door. "I think I am going mad."
Jane blinked. "Should I be worried?"
Elizabeth laughed shakily. "Possibly."