Chapter 3
The New Neighbors
Mr. Bennet did not always bring news home with him, though when he did, it was seldom without purpose. On the morning following his call at Netherfield, there was in his manner at breakfast a composure that suggested he had something to relate, and that he would do so in his own time.
The family assembled as they always did, the meal proceeding with its usual order.
Mrs. Bennet directed the servants with her customary ease, ensuring each plate was properly attended.
Jane poured the tea. Mary had already set aside a book she had been reading before the others entered.
Kitty and Lydia exchanged glances that spoke of anticipation without having a cause.
Thomas and Toby sat side by side, their attention divided between their meal and whatever mischief might next present itself.
Elizabeth watched her stepfather with mild curiosity. She had long since learned that any attempt to hasten him would only delay matters further.
He allowed them to finish before speaking.
“I have seen our new neighbor.”
The effect was immediate. Lydia nearly set down her cup with unnecessary force; Kitty leaned forward; Mary looked up; Jane’s expression brightened with interest. Even the boys paused.
“And what is he like?” Mrs. Bennet asked.
“A very pleasant young man,” Mr. Bennet said. “Open in his manner, easily pleased, and disposed to think well of everything he encounters.”
“That sounds promising,” Jane said.
“It does,” Mrs. Bennet agreed. “And his circumstances?”
“Much as reported. His income is respectable, though I did not press him for exact figures. He spoke readily of his intention to settle at Netherfield for the present.”
“And his company?” Mary asked. “Is he alone?”
“He has a gentleman staying with him—Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth felt the subtle shift that passed through her sisters at the introduction of a second name.
“And what is he like?” Kitty asked.
“More reserved,” Mr. Bennet said. “A serious man, with less tendency toward immediate familiarity. Civility is certainly among his qualities, though he offers it with deliberation rather than indiscriminately.”
“Then he is less agreeable than his friend,” Lydia said.
Mr. Bennet’s mouth curved mischievously. “He is agreeable in a different way. Whether that quality will recommend him here remains to be seen.”
Elizabeth noted the distinction. It was neither dismissal nor endorsement, but simply an observation, and one she found herself likely to remember.
“Do they intend to visit?” Mrs. Bennet asked.
“They do. In fact, they have expressed a wish to attend the Meryton assembly.”
The words had scarcely been spoken before Lydia exclaimed, “Oh, we must go!”
Kitty joined her. “We must, indeed! It would be intolerable to remain at home when new gentlemen are present.”
Mr. Bennet did not respond forthwith. He took another sip of his tea, his expression unchanged.
Mrs. Bennet set down her cup. “You will remain at home,” she said.
The firmness in her tone admitted no misunderstanding.
Lydia stared at her. “But Mama—”
“You are not out.”
Kitty’s shoulders fell. “It is most unfair.”
“It is altogether proper,” Mrs. Bennet replied.
“We are nearly out,” Lydia insisted.
“You are still not out.” The repetition carried unmistakable weight. Lydia opened her mouth to argue further, then stopped. The look her mother turned upon her was steady, unyielding, and thoroughly familiar.
Kitty sank back in her chair, her disappointment evident.
Elizabeth, watching the exchange, felt no surprise. Her stepmother’s authority in such matters had long been established, and though Kitty and Lydia might test it, they seldom succeeded in overturning it.
Mr. Bennet set down his cup.
“I believe,” he said, “that the matter has been decided.” There was no appeal from that quarter.
The conversation shifted.
Mrs. Bennet turned her attention to her elder daughters. “We must consider your gowns for the assembly.”
Jane’s expression took on a thoughtful cast. “They are in good condition, though perhaps they might benefit from some alteration.”
“Refreshing, at the very least,” Mrs. Bennet said. “A change of trimming, a different arrangement—something to mark the occasion.”
Mary dipped her head slightly. “It would be prudent.”
Elizabeth, though less given to such considerations, recognized their necessity. “I believe mine may be improved.”
Mrs. Bennet regarded her with a smile. “I have no doubt it may.”
The discussion that followed unfolded with increasing animation. Fabrics were considered, colors debated, and possibilities weighed with care.
Elizabeth listened and contributed where she could, though her attention was drawn less to the particulars than to their broader effect. She found herself reflecting upon the changes that had taken place in such matters since her mother’s arrival at Longbourn.
Mary, who had once favored shades that did her few favors, now wore colors chosen with greater discernment—blues, gentle greens, and a warm yellow that suited her complexion far better than the somber tones she had formerly preferred.
The change had come through guidance rather than command, and the improvement was unmistakable.
Jane required very little assistance. Almost every color seemed designed to enhance her beauty.
Even so, Elizabeth recalled with a private smile a particular shade the dressmaker had insisted upon calling Aurora—a deep burnt orange that failed to improve upon Jane’s natural advantages, despite the modiste’s confident assurances.
It had been worn once, with grace that only partly redeemed it, and quietly set aside thereafter.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Bennet’s voice.
“Thomas. Toby.”
The boys turned.
“I believe the ladies are engaged in a discussion that does not require our presence.”
Thomas considered this. “About gowns?”
“Among other things.”
Toby nodded. “Then we should not interrupt.”
“A wise conclusion,” Mr. Bennet said. “Come. We shall see whether either of you can be induced to play a respectable game of chess.”
The boys rose together, their interest shifting without difficulty.
“Will you let us win?” Toby asked.
“No.”
“Then we shall attempt to win regardless,” Thomas said.
Mr. Bennet gave a slight nod. “A commendable strategy.”
They left the room together, the door closing behind them.
The absence of their presence altered the atmosphere, though not absolutely. Kitty and Lydia, though excluded from the assembly itself, remained keenly interested in its preparations.
“We will help,” Kitty said.
“With the trimming,” Lydia added. “It is the only way we may have any share in it at all.”
Mrs. Bennet considered them for a moment, then gave her consent with a nod. “Very well. If you are to assist, you must do so properly.”
“We shall,” Kitty said.
Lydia nodded with equal determination.
The work was brought out—lengths of ribbon, lace, and thread. Needles were threaded; fabrics examined; plans set into motion.
Elizabeth took up her own portion with a degree of resignation that did not prevent her from applying herself to it. The task required attention, and she gave it.
Kitty worked with a degree of care that improved as she proceeded. Lydia’s efforts were more spirited than precise, though they produced results all the same. Jane moved between them, offering suggestions and making corrections when necessary. Mary applied herself with quiet diligence.
Time passed in this manner, marked by conversation that rose and fell, by the sounds of fabric and thread, and by the gradual transformation of what had been into something newly arranged.
At one point, Kitty paused, her hands suddenly still.
“I hope,” she said, with a sigh that carried more feeling than she perhaps intended, “that at least one of the new gentlemen marries Jane.”
Lydia agreed, “So do I.”
“Then we might come out sooner,” Kitty continued.
Jane smiled, though her color rose slightly. “You place a great deal of expectation upon a gentleman we have yet to meet.”
“It is a reasonable hope,” Lydia said.
Mrs. Bennet offered no rebuke. She merely observed, “Hope is no substitute for conduct.”
Kitty returned to her work.
Elizabeth remained silent. She watched, reflected, and continued her task.
The afternoon wore on. By the time the light began to fade, much had been accomplished. The gowns, though still awaiting their final touches, already showed considerable improvement.
Supper was taken. The evening passed much as the one before it had done.
At last, Elizabeth withdrew to her chamber.
The room welcomed her with its familiar stillness. She closed the door behind her and crossed to the window, though beyond the candlelit reflection there was little to see.
She sat upon the edge of the bed, her thoughts turning inward.
The mention of the assembly lingered, though it was something more than the event itself that occupied her mind.
Her position, secure within the family, carried certain complexities.
The distinction between herself and her sisters, rarely discussed, remained nonetheless real.
Her father’s trade—respectable and successful, though trade all the same—placed her in a somewhat different light from those whose connections rested elsewhere.
Her dowry, larger than that of her sisters, might recommend her to some while encouraging greater caution in others.
She considered the matter without dissatisfaction. It was simply a fact to be acknowledged and understood.
A minor country squire, perhaps. A man of moderate means and steady habits. Or a gentleman connected to trade, whose circumstances aligned more closely with her own.
Mr. Bingley, if rumor were to be credited, belonged to that latter category.
Perhaps he would do.
The thought did not carry with it any particular expectation. It was a possibility, no more.
She rose, extinguished the candle, and lay down.
The house settled around her.