Chapter 2
News from Netherfield
Elizabeth Bennet sat between Jane and Mary at the long dining table, her work set aside for the present, though she had been employing her needle in the hour before supper.
The candles were lit, their steady glow making the room into a place of warmth and familiarity.
Outside, the last light of day had faded, leaving the windows dark and reflective, so that the family seemed gathered not only together but enclosed within their own quiet world.
They dined as they always did when no guests were present—together, without formality, though not without order.
Mrs. Bennet presided at one end of the table, Mr. Bennet at the other.
The arrangement had long since settled into something natural, and though the household had altered much in the years since Elizabeth first came to Longbourn, the comfort of these evenings had remained constant.
Mr. Bennet glanced up from his plate, his expression composed but attentive.
“How has your day passed, my dear?” he asked.
Mrs. Bennet set down her fork with unhurried precision.
“Very well, I thank you. I made several calls this morning, though I cannot say they were all equally worth the time. Mrs. Philips was much as she always is, and Mrs. Goulding had little to offer beyond complaints of the weather. However—” she allowed the smallest pause, sufficient to gather the attention she had already secured, “—I did learn something of interest from Mrs. Long.”
The atmosphere shifted directly.
Kitty and Lydia, who had been whispering together over some private amusement, leaned closer still, their heads nearly touching.
Their hair, worn loose about their shoulders as befitted girls not out, fell forward as they bent together, forming a curtain behind which their murmured speculation began without delay.
Jane’s hand stilled upon her glass. Mary’s gaze came up from her plate. Elizabeth, who had suspected such a turn from the moment Mrs. Bennet spoke Mrs. Long’s name, met Jane’s glance with a slight smile.
Mr. Bennet’s interest, though not exaggerated, was unmistakable. “Indeed?”
“Netherfield Park is let at last.”
The words were received in a brief silence that held more attention than any immediate exclamation might have done.
“Is it so?” Mr. Bennet said.
“It is. Mrs. Long was quite certain of it, though I confess I always allow for some adjustment where her certainties are concerned.”
A low sound escaped Mr. Bennet—something between a laugh and a hum of agreement.
“And who has taken it?”
“A gentleman by the name of Bingley,” Mrs. Bennet replied. “He is said to be from the north of England, with an income of four or five thousand a year.”
Lydia sat up in shock. “Four or five thousand!”
“Or perhaps,” Mrs. Bennet continued, with a slight lift of one brow, “something nearer half that, if one considers the source of the information.”
Mr. Bennet gave a quiet chortle. “Mrs. Long has never allowed accuracy to impede her enjoyment of a report.”
“Nor has she any reason to begin now,” Mrs. Bennet returned.
Elizabeth glanced down to hide her smile.
There was in their exchange a familiarity, a shared understanding, that had long since replaced the sharper contrasts she had once imagined must exist between husband and wife.
Their humor ran along similar lines—dry, observant, and never quite as serious as it first appeared.
“From the north,” Mary said thoughtfully. “That is a considerable remove.”
“Not so great as to prevent him from letting a house in Hertfordshire,” Mr. Bennet replied.
Jane spoke next, her tone composed but not without curiosity. “It is uncommon, is it not, for Netherfield to be taken so suddenly?”
“It has stood empty long enough to invite speculation,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Now it invites something rather more substantial.”
Kitty, unable to restrain herself, leaned back from Lydia. “Will he come soon? Has he arrived already?”
“I believe he is expected shortly,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Though whether he will bring a large party with him remains to be seen.”
Lydia, who had been watching her mother with growing animation, now burst forth. “How very romantic it would be if he were to fall in love with me!”
A pause followed—brief, but sufficient.
Mrs. Bennet turned her gaze upon her youngest daughter.
“You are not out,” she said.
Lydia’s expression shifted into something between disbelief and protest. “But why must I be denied my share of amusement simply because my elder sisters are disinclined to marry early?”
The words had scarcely left her lips before Mrs. Bennet’s look changed—not in severity alone, but in a steadiness that admitted no argument.
It was a look the girls knew well. It did not raise the voice, though it carried with it a certainty that rendered further discussion both unnecessary and unwise.
Lydia’s mouth closed. She sank back in her chair, her displeasure evident but contained.
The moment passed.
The discourse reverted to its prior trajectory, albeit with subtle alterations. There was now an undercurrent to it, a quiet awareness of the new presence that would soon enter their neighborhood.
Mr. Bennet took a sip of his wine. “I suppose I shall be required to call upon this gentleman.”
“Whenever it is convenient,” Mrs. Bennet said, as though the matter were of no particular urgency.
Elizabeth noted the slight emphasis on the last word. It was not insistence. It was not even expectation. It was, rather, a suggestion placed with such care that it might easily be mistaken for indifference.
Mr. Bennet nodded his head. “I shall endeavor to find a convenient moment.”
Kitty exchanged a glance with Lydia, her earlier disappointment already giving way to renewed interest.
Jane, meanwhile, resumed her meal with composed attention, though Elizabeth could not help but observe the brightness in her expression. New arrivals were rare enough to stir even the most tranquil spirits.
At the lower end of the table, Thomas and Toby had been unusually quiet.
Elizabeth’s attention, drawn by instinct rather than sound, shifted toward them—and there she discovered the cause.
Duke, the large wolfhound, stretched comfortably beneath the table, had become the object of their careful attentions.
One by one, peas disappeared from their plates, only to reappear—after a brief and circuitous journey—before the patient muzzle of the dog, who accepted each offering with dignified restraint.
Elizabeth leaned slightly toward them. “You will have nothing left at this rate.”
Thomas looked up, his expression earnest. “He is very hungry.”
“He has already eaten,” Elizabeth said.
Toby shook his head. “Far from enough. Besides, he likes peas better than we do.”
The dog, as though in agreement, thumped his tail once against the floor.
Mary glanced down, her brow knitting. “Dogs ought not to be fed during dinner.”
“He is nowhere near the table,” Thomas said. “He is under it.”
Kitty stifled a laugh. Lydia did not make the attempt.
Mrs. Bennet’s voice, when it came, was calm. “Thomas. Toby.”
The boys froze.
“You will attend to your own plates.”
“Yes, Mama,” they said together, though the dog received one final pea before the practice was abandoned.
Elizabeth hid her smile once more.
The meal continued in greater order, though the earlier interruption left behind an undercurrent of amusement that lingered for the rest of the evening.
Mr. Bennet, having finished his dinner, leaned back slightly in his chair. “And what have the rest of you been about today?”
Mary spoke first, recounting her lessons with Miss Porter in careful detail. Kitty followed, her account less structured but no less enthusiastic. Lydia contributed where she could, though her narrative tended toward embellishment.
At last, the attention returned to the boys.
Thomas did not hesitate. “We were pirates.”
“Pirates,” Mr. Bennet repeated.
“With George Lucas,” Toby added.
“Ah. A formidable alliance.”
Thomas nodded gravely. “We had a ship.”
“In the orchard,” Toby clarified.
“And we were attacked.”
“By whom?” Mary asked.
“Other pirates,” Thomas said.
“Who were not real,” Toby added, as though this improved the situation.
Elizabeth tried to keep from laughing.
“And what was the outcome of this engagement?” Mr. Bennet peered over his glasses at his boys.
“We won,” Thomas said proudly. He stabbed at a potato and put it in his mouth.
“Of course,” Mr. Bennet murmured.
“There was a battle,” Toby continued. “We climbed the tree—”
“That was the mast,” Thomas inserted.
“—and we had swords.”
“Sticks,” Mary said.
Thomas shook his head. “Swords.”
“And we made George walk the plank,” Toby concluded.
Elizabeth could not restrain herself. “How unfortunate for George.”
“He was quite content,” Thomas said defensively. “He fell in the grass.”
Mr. Bennet regarded them with a thoughtful expression. “A most satisfactory arrangement.”
Mrs. Bennet’s lips curved slightly, though her tone remained composed. “You will not repeat the exercise tomorrow.”
The boys exchanged a look.
“No, Mama,” they said.
Elizabeth had little doubt the matter would be revisited under a different name.
Dinner concluded soon after, and the family withdrew to the drawing room.
The transition from table to hearth brought with it a change in atmosphere. Candles were rearranged, and chairs drawn closer together. The evening settled into its accustomed pattern.
Mr. Bennet took up a book and seated himself where the light fell most favorably. Thomas and Toby gathered at his feet, their earlier energy still evident but sufficiently contained to permit attention.
Elizabeth resumed her sampler.
The fabric lay across her lap, the pattern already well advanced.
Her needle moved with practiced precision, though enthusiasm played only a small part in the exercise.
Such work was never among her greatest pleasures, although she applied herself with care.
Her mother’s expectations in these matters were quite reasonable and perfectly understood.