Chapter 2 #2
Across from her, Jane occupied herself with a piece of embroidery more delicate in design. Mary had a book open, though she glanced up from time to time to listen. Kitty and Lydia shared a seat, their conversation reduced to occasional whispers.
Mr. Bennet’s voice, reading aloud, filled the room with a steady cadence.
Elizabeth allowed her thoughts to drift.
The mention of Netherfield lingered. A new family—new faces—new possibilities. The idea stirred her curiosity, though without the restless anticipation she might once have felt. Longbourn, in its present state, satisfied her in a way she had not always known.
Her needle paused.
Memory, unbidden, carried her back to earlier years spent in town, where space was limited, movement constrained, and even the air seemed different. She had not been unhappy, precisely, although she had often felt confined.
Here, there was room to breathe. To walk. To think without interruption.
The contrast remained vivid, even after all these years.
The evening wore on. One by one, the candles burned lower. The reading came to an end; the work was set aside.
At last, Mrs. Bennet rose. “It is time.”
There was no protest. The habit of obedience, long established, required no reinforcement.
Elizabeth gathered her things and followed her sisters from the room.
The corridors were quiet as they ascended. Doors opened and closed; goodnights were exchanged.
Elizabeth entered her own chamber. It had been hers from the time of her arrival—a space that, though modest, held a familiarity she had come to value. The window overlooked the grounds; the air, even now, carried a trace of the evening’s coolness.
She crossed to the bed and sat. A moment passed before she moved again. A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in.”
Jane entered, her expression gentle. “May I?”
“Of course.”
She joined Elizabeth upon the bed, settling beside her with easy comfort.
For a few moments, neither spoke.
Then Jane said, “What do you think he will be like?”
Elizabeth considered. “Mr. Bingley?”
Jane nodded.
“I have no notion,” Elizabeth said. “Though if Mrs. Long is to be believed, he is everything that might be desired.”
Jane smiled. “We must allow for some adjustment.”
“As your stepmother has wisely observed.”
Jane’s smile deepened. “Still, it will be something new.”
“That alone recommends it.”
Jane glanced toward the window. “It is so rare, is it not? That anyone new should come to Meryton.”
“Rare enough to be remarked upon at dinner.”
Jane grinned. “I wonder if he will bring sisters,” she said. “Or friends.”
“Or expectations,” Elizabeth added.
Jane tilted her head. “You think so?”
“I think it unlikely that any gentleman should take a house without some purpose in view.”
Jane considered this. “Perhaps his purpose is simply to enjoy the country.”
“Then he will find himself well situated.”
They spoke a little longer—of possibilities, of neighbors, of nothing in particular.
At last, Jane rose.
“Good night, Lizzy.”
“Good night.”
She left as quietly as she had come.
Elizabeth lay back upon the bed, her thoughts settling as the room darkened.
Netherfield. A new master, a new neighbor.
It lingered for a moment longer—and then, gradually, gave way to sleep.
Darcy had not intended to be in Hertfordshire so soon.
Circumstances, however, had a way of rearranging themselves without consulting preference.
Engagements that had once seemed fixed proved unexpectedly flexible; obligations were postponed, invitations declined, and what had been a carefully ordered autumn shifted into something rather less structured.
Bingley, delighted by any alteration that favored his own plans, had required very little persuasion.
“You must come with me without delay,” he had said, with all the warmth of his nature. “There is no sense in waiting for the Hursts and Caroline. The house will be no less agreeable for being seen early, and I should like your opinion before I commit myself to hosting my sisters.”
Darcy, who had already perceived that Bingley was all but committed, agreed with a readiness that surprised him.
Thus, they arrived at Netherfield at Michaelmas, the air sharp with the first suggestion of autumn, the landscape touched with change but not altered beyond recognition.
The house was well appointed. Darcy observed it first from a distance, his eye taking in its proportions, its situation, and the manner in which it sat upon the land.
There was a balance to it that pleased him—neither ostentatious nor neglected, but maintained with a care that suggested attention without extravagance.
“Well?” Bingley said, turning toward him with open expectation. “What do you think?”
Darcy did not answer at once. He allowed himself a moment to consider, to note the symmetry of the front, the approach, the condition of the grounds.
“It is a very good house,” he said at last.
Bingley’s satisfaction was immediate. “I knew you would like it.”
“You have chosen well,” Darcy added. “It suits you.”
“That is precisely what I thought,” Bingley said, with a laugh. “Though I cannot say I had such reasons in mind when I first saw it. It felt right. That is enough for me.”
Darcy bowed his head slightly. It was, he supposed, enough for Bingley.
They spent the next hour in a thorough examination of the interior.
Rooms were opened, inspected, and discussed.
Bingley moved through them with increasing enthusiasm, already imagining their future use, already assigning them a life that had not begun.
Darcy followed at a more moderate pace, noting details that Bingley missed, confirming others that he did not.
The drawing rooms were well proportioned. Despite its limited size, the dining room adequately accommodated a small gathering. The bedchambers varied in size but were generally comfortable. There was nothing to object to, and much to commend.
“I shall be very happy here,” Bingley declared, as they concluded their tour.
“I have no doubt of it,” Darcy said.
“Caroline will have something to say, of course.”
“She always does.” Miss Bingley had never shied away from voicing her opinions.
Bingley laughed. “And Mrs. Hurst will find fault with whatever does not serve her comfort.”
“Which is nearly everything.”
“Precisely.”
Darcy allowed himself the smallest smile.
“They will not arrive for a fortnight,” Bingley continued. “Which leaves us time to settle in without interference. I cannot think of a greater advantage.”
“Nor can I,” Darcy said.
They stepped outside once more, the air fresh after the stillness of the house.
“Shall we see the grounds?” Bingley suggested.
Darcy agreed, and they set off along a path that led from the terrace into the gardens beyond.
The grounds, like the house, were well kept. There was evidence of careful management—borders tended, walks maintained, trees pruned where necessary. It was not a place of grand design, but it possessed a natural ease that required little embellishment.
Darcy found it agreeable.
They walked for some time, speaking intermittently of tenants, of neighboring estates, of the adjustments that would be required to bring Netherfield fully into Bingley’s possession.
Despite its practical nature, the discussion maintained a degree of levity.
Bingley’s spirits, always high, rose further with each step.
At length, they came to a more secluded part of the garden, where a cluster of shrubs and trees provided both shade and privacy.
“I must go back to the house,” Bingley said suddenly. “I have forgotten to speak with the housekeeper about the arrangements for tomorrow.”
Darcy waved his friend away. “I believe I shall continue for a time. Rest assured, I will follow shortly.”
Bingley departed, his steps quick, his purpose already fixed upon the next matter requiring his attention.
Darcy remained. He walked a little farther along the path, his hands clasped behind his back, his thoughts pleasantly unoccupied. The quiet of the place suited him. There was a stillness to it that invited reflection, though he did not immediately surrender himself to it.
A sound broke the calm.
It was no louder than a whisper of movement, a murmur of voices carried just far enough to be heard without revealing their meaning.
Darcy paused.
The sound came again, clearer this time.
“Move your fat head,” said one voice in an urgent whisper. “I cannot see him.”
“My head is nowhere near your way,” another replied. “Your head is precisely the same.”
“That is not the point.”
“It is precisely the point. If my head is fat, then yours must be equally so.”
Darcy’s brow lifted slightly.
“I am speaking of your position,” the first voice insisted. “You are directly in front of me.”
“And you are directly behind me.”
“That is because you would not move.”
“I see no reason to move.”
“Then I shall not see him.”
“Then you shall have to imagine him.”
Darcy stepped forward, drawn as much by curiosity as by amusement.
The voices fell silent.
He moved around the edge of the shrub and, after a moment’s consideration, stepped behind it.
Two small figures crouched there, their backs to him, their attention wholly fixed upon the space beyond.
Darcy cleared his throat.
They turned in tandem.
Had he not already heard them speak, he might have taken them for mirror images of one another. Their resemblance was exact—the same height, the same coloring, and the same expression of startled chagrin now directed toward him.