Chapter 6
An Invitation from Netherfield
The morning began with the arrival of a note.
It was brought in shortly after the family had taken their places at the breakfast table, the servant presenting it with the quiet efficiency that marked such interruptions at Longbourn. Mrs. Bennet received it, broke the seal, and read.
“From Netherfield,” she said.
That alone was enough to draw general attention.
Jane set down her cup. Mary glanced up from her plate. Kitty and Lydia leaned forward with interest that needed no encouragement. Elizabeth, who had been tracing the edge of her plate with the tip of her fork, lifted her gaze as well.
Mrs. Bennet continued, “Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst request the pleasure of Miss Bennet’s and Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s company to dine with them this afternoon.”
Kitty sighed. Lydia followed with a more audible expression of discontent.
“It is always Jane and Lizzy,” Lydia said. “We are never invited anywhere.”
“You are not out,” Mrs. Bennet replied.
“That does little to relieve the tiresome nature of it.”
“It makes the arrangement quite proper,” Mary said, without looking up.
Kitty leaned back, resigned if far from reconciled. Lydia muttered something under her breath that was best left unrepeated.
Mrs. Bennet folded the note. “The carriage shall be available. You must take it, as the sky strongly suggests rain.”
Jane nodded. “Of course.”
Elizabeth said nothing.
Her attention had wandered.
The note lay upon the table, and its contents were already familiar. Her thoughts, however, were elsewhere, returning without invitation to the events of the previous evening.
Lucas Lodge.
Mr. Darcy.
His attempts—persistent, deliberate—to engage her in conversation.
She had avoided him.
Not by chance.
Not by accident.
With intention.
Why?
Elizabeth set her fork down.
The question had followed her from the moment she returned home, through the quiet of the night, and into the present morning. It did not disturb her peace so much as unsettle it, introducing an uncertainty she had not expected to entertain.
He had sought her out.
More than once.
That alone was remarkable.
A gentleman who had declared her tolerable—no more—had then spent an entire evening attempting to secure her notice.
It was inconsistent.
And inconsistency invited examination.
“What has you so thoughtful, Lizzy?” Jane asked.
Elizabeth glanced at her. “Nothing of consequence.”
Jane’s expression suggested she did not fully believe it, though she did not press.
Mrs. Bennet spoke again. “You will go at two. There is no need to hurry, but neither must you be late.”
Jane nodded. “We shall be ready.”
The matter, for everyone else, was settled.
Elizabeth returned her attention to her plate, though she found she had little appetite for what remained there.
Across the table, Thomas and Toby had already finished their breakfast.
They rose together, their movements coordinated without effort.
“May we go?” Thomas asked.
“You may,” Mrs. Bennet said, “but you will return for your lessons before tea.”
“We shall,” Toby replied.
There was no pause between permission and action. They left the room, their footsteps audible in the passage before fading into the wider house.
Mrs. Bennet watched them go with a look that held both affection and calculation. “They will not remember.”
“They will,” Elizabeth said. “If Miss Porter reminds them.”
Mrs. Bennet’s lips curved slightly. “Then Miss Porter must be vigilant.”
Jane rose as well. “Shall we go, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth followed her.
They left the table together, passing into the hall where the morning light fell more clearly through the windows. The air held a different quality than it had in previous days—heavier, more still.
The promise of rain.
Outside, clouds had begun to gather. They had not obscured the light entirely, but they softened it, lending the landscape a muted quality that suggested change without fully declaring it.
Elizabeth paused near the door.
The gardens stretched before her, still touched by the lingering warmth of the season. The unseasonable mildness had preserved more than might reasonably have been expected. Flowers that ought by rights to have faded remained in bloom, their colors gentler than before but still clearly present.
A few roses lingered, their petals beginning to turn though still clinging to the stem. Other late blossoms stood among them, less delicate perhaps, though equally persistent.
Elizabeth stepped outside.
The air carried a hint of moisture, though no rain had yet fallen. It was enough to alter the scent of the garden, to deepen it, to draw out what might otherwise have passed unnoticed.
She walked without a fixed direction.
The paths were familiar, the arrangement of beds and borders known to her without conscious thought. Her attention turned inward as she moved, her steps guided more by habit than by intention.
Mr. Darcy.
The name rested uneasily in her mind.
He had offended her.
That much was certain.
The manner of it, the effortless way in which he had dismissed her, could not be easily forgotten. Her pride had been wounded, and with good reason.
He had sought her out.
Again and again.
Throughout the evening.
Such persistence was hardly the conduct of a man indifferent to his own words.
Nor had it been careless.
There had been purpose in it.
Elizabeth paused beside a cluster of late-blooming flowers, their color accentuated by the light above.
What had he intended to say?
An apology, perhaps.
The thought presented itself with a degree of reluctance.
If that was his intention, the opportunity had passed.
She had prevented it.
The realization troubled her less than it might have done. She had no desire to hear him. The decision had been her own, and she felt no regret.
Curiosity persisted.
Why such persistence?
Why such determination to correct a fault he had committed with so little apparent concern at the time?
Elizabeth continued along the path.
A gentleman, she reflected, ought to possess good manners and a character worthy of them. One without the other was a deficiency difficult to overlook.
Mr. Darcy possessed the former.
The latter remained uncertain.
He was, she admitted, a handsome man.
The acknowledgment came without enthusiasm, but it was undeniably true. His appearance had not escaped notice, either at the assembly or at Lucas Lodge. Others had remarked upon it, and she herself had observed as much.
Handsome. Reserved.
Proud. Inconsistent.
Elizabeth smothered a sigh.
A gentleman might be handsome and still disagreeable.
He might be attentive one moment and dismissive the next.
He might attempt to repair an offense he had no business committing.
The contradiction did not recommend him.
The first drop of rain fell.
It hit the path before her, leaving a mark that darkened the surface for an instant before being absorbed. Another followed. The clouds had gathered more closely than she had realized. The air, already heavy, shifted as the rain began in earnest—light at first, then steady.
She turned toward the house.
The walk back was brief, though the rain increased before she reached the door. By the time Elizabeth stepped inside, its sound was unmistakable as it fell against the roof, the windows, and the ground beyond.
Mrs. Bennet had been correct.
The carriage would indeed be necessary.
Elizabeth removed her gloves and set them aside, pausing shortly in the hall.
The morning had not settled her thoughts.
It had, however, brought them into sharper focus.
Mr. Darcy remained a subject of consideration, though certainly not of favor.
His recent conduct had not outweighed his earlier words.
Whether time might alter that balance remained uncertain.
Elizabeth turned toward the stairs.
There was still ample time before their departure, and her preparations, though straightforward, required attention.
She would go to Netherfield.
If she encountered him again that day, she would make no effort to avoid him.
Darcy rode out earlier than he had intended. The morning remained unsettled, with rain still threatening though the heaviest shower had already passed. The air carried a freshness that cleared the mind more effectively than any room at Netherfield had managed in recent days.
His horse followed the familiar path with little guidance, and Darcy allowed it, content for the moment to yield to inclination rather than conscious design.
The rise at Oakham Mount came into view.
He had not intended to return there, but he did.
The ground, still damp from the earlier rain, bore unmistakable signs of recent passage—small footprints, light and irregular, that required little imagination to interpret.
Darcy’s mouth shifted, almost against his will. He guided his horse upward.
They were already there. Thomas and Toby stood near the same place as before, their heads bent together in conference that broke the instant they heard his approach.
They turned as one.
“You have come back,” Toby said.
“I have,” Darcy replied, bringing his horse to a halt.
Thomas crossed his arms. “Well?”
Darcy dismounted, securing the reins before answering.
“Well?”
“Have you met with success?” Toby asked.
Darcy considered the question.
“No.”
Both boys frowned.
“None at all?” Thomas pressed.
“Your sister avoids me whenever we are in company.”
Toby’s expression hardened. “As she should.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I am beginning to accept that opinion.”
Thomas stepped closer. “You must try harder.”
“I have tried.”
“Not hard enough,” Toby said.
Darcy regarded them. “You judge quickly.”
“You offended quickly,” Thomas returned.
A brief pause followed.
Darcy allowed it.
“Tell us your plans,” Toby said at last. “For today.”
Darcy glanced toward the horizon before answering. “Bingley and I are to dine with the officers this evening. Mr. Hurst will join us.”
The boys exchanged a look.
It was not a simple look.
Darcy recognized it immediately.
Mischief.
Interest grew.
“And before that?” Thomas asked.
“There is little arranged.”
Another glance passed between them, more deliberate this time.