Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Bingley declared, shortly after the early dinner hour, that the weather was “too fair to waste indoors” and that a call upon Longbourn that afternoon would be the very thing.
Darcy had hoped the morning’s sport might excuse him from further society, but he knew the obligations of a neighbour as well as Bingley did.
Refusal would only excite remark. He therefore submitted to changing coat and cravat once more, as if outward order might secure inward composure.
Miss Bingley elected to accompany them—ostensibly to offer her civilities, though Darcy had observed too often where her attention truly inclined to be deceived on that point. Mrs Hurst joined her, as she always did, and thus the party set out in Bingley’s carriage a little after two.
Darcy took his place opposite the sisters and turned his gaze to the fields beyond the window.
The sky lay clear and pale, the light keen upon the hedgerows and stubbled fields.
Within the carriage, the air seemed thicker than the season warranted.
He attributed it to the closeness of company rather than any defect of ventilation.
His thoughts slid, whenever they were not forcibly engaged, back to Derbyshire—to the steward’s letter folded in his desk, to the second ash along the boundary line whose crown had thinned so notably, to the unpleasant knowledge that no degree of reluctance would excuse him from examining the matter in person when he returned.
Nor, it seemed, from this call.
When Longbourn’s chimneys rose beyond the last turn in the lane, he schooled his features into the neutrality expected of a guest and braced himself for half an hour of noise, colour, and Mrs Bennet’s unchecked satisfaction.
The housekeeper admitted them without delay, and the Bennet parlour rose at once to receive them—warmth and bright upholstery, the flutter of ribbons, the clatter of chairs, and Mrs Bennet advancing with such earnest welcome that Darcy instinctively set his shoulders before she quite reached them.
“You are all so very kind to call,” she cried, hands clasped as if greeting old friends rather than near strangers.
“Pray be seated, do. Mr Bingley, you must sit here—yes, by my Jane. And Mr Darcy, I insist upon your taking the chair nearest the fire. Lizzy, move half a place for Mr Darcy. Miss Bingley, if you please, there by Mary. Mrs Hurst, you will be quite comfortable opposite the fire.”
There was no graceful way to object without drawing more attention than the arrangement deserved.
Darcy took the place indicated. Miss Elizabeth shifted just enough to allow it, the soft rustle of muslin marking the narrow space between them.
He caught the faintest hint of lavender as her gown moved—a mere impression, and gone.
“Such a pleasure to receive you,” Mrs Bennet continued, already reaching for the teapot. “We are quite delighted. Kitty, do not stand gaping. Sit, child, sit.”
Miss Kitty dropped into the nearest chair with a hurried curtsy. Miss Lydia perched at once upon its arm until Mrs Bennet snapped, “On the seat, Miss Lydia Bennet, if you please. We are not in the orchard now.”
Bingley appeared only more gratified by the bustle. “Your house has a very cheerful aspect, Mrs Bennet,” he said. “I cannot conceive a warmer welcome.”
“I always say there is no use in keeping one’s comfort to oneself,” Mrs Bennet replied, glowing at the compliment.
“If a house cannot be cheerful, what is it for? Lizzy, pour for Mr Darcy. Jane, give Mr Bingley a slice of cake. Hill, bring the other plate. Mr Darcy, I trust you do not object to country cake?”
“I do not, madam.”
Miss Elizabeth reached for the teapot. Her hand was steady, her manner unhurried. “Sugar, sir?”
“None, I thank you.”
She passed him the cup. Their fingers did not meet.
Yet as porcelain crossed the narrow distance between them, the air near his sleeve warmed, as if the fire had shifted its breath in that direction alone.
He was no nearer to the grate than before; there was no sensible alteration in the room.
He dismissed the notion, took a cautious sip, and set the cup upon the small table at his elbow.
Bingley accepted his own tea with delight. “Miss Bennet, you must allow me to say how much I enjoyed the Assembly. I can scarce recollect when I last danced so often.”
“I am glad you were pleased, Mr Bingley,” Miss Bennet answered, her voice as gentle as her countenance. “The neighbourhood was very curious to meet you.”
“Curious and excessively kind,” he said. “Every face was new to me, yet I felt as if I had stumbled into a room of acquaintances. Sir William Lucas could not have been more attentive. Mrs Long is all civility.”
Miss Kitty brightened at once. “Mrs Long says we shall certainly have another ball if you stay long enough, Mr Bingley. She told me so herself.”
Miss Lydia kicked her foot against the rung of her chair. “And there will be officers by then, Kitty. Papa heard it from Sir William.”
“Oh, Lydia, do not tease us so!” Mrs Bennet declared—with a full smile at Bingley. “You know how your papa insists on tormenting my nerves with little fancies like that.”
“But it is true, Mama,” the younger girl insisted. “I am sure Maria heard it, too. Imagine a room full of red coats! I declare I shall never sit down.”
Miss Mary cleared her throat with the air of one who introduces a solemn truth. “A young lady who never sits exposes herself to vulgar observation.”
Miss Lydia rolled her eyes. “I would rather be observed than sit in a corner with Fordyce.”
“That is an uncharitable reflection,” Miss Mary said, though she coloured as she spoke.
Miss Bingley, who had been examining the room with polite attention, chose that moment to address their hostess.
“I confess, Mrs Bennet, I had not expected Hertfordshire to be so…” She paused, selecting her word with care.
“…animated. One hears of the country as if it were all hedgerows and turnpikes, yet your Assembly had quite the air of a little town.”
“We do very well,” Mrs Bennet replied, brisk and satisfied. “Meryton may not be London, but we have our share of visitors. Lizzy, my love, pass that plate to Mr Darcy. Mr Darcy, you must try the plums; they are from our own trees.”
Darcy accepted the plate because refusing it would only draw notice.
But as Miss Elizabeth’s hand neared his, the china gave a tiny, unnatural twitch—nothing that ought to be possible, a mere brush of motion beneath his fingertips—yet his stomach lurched as if he had missed a step in the dark.
A sharp prickle raced up his wrist; the air tightened around his skin, too warm, too near.
He pulled back before he meant to, the movement abrupt enough to betray him.
Her eyes jumped to his—quick, sharp, catching far too much—and then dropped again at once. No laugh, no apology. Just the quiet acknowledgement that she had seen something he wished he could explain, or deny, or ignore.
And he could do none of it.
“I assure you,” Bingley was saying, oblivious to everything but his own contentment, “Netherfield could not be better situated. The views toward Oakham Mount are very charming.”
“Oh, are they not?” Mrs Bennet cried. “Our girls walk there often. Lizzy was there only this morning. Lizzy, tell them how fair the prospect is.”
Miss Elizabeth looked as though she would rather bite out her own tongue, but replied dutifully. “The air was remarkably clear, ma’am. One could see as far as Lucas Lodge in one direction and Netherfield in the other.”
“Did you not say, Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley asked, “that Longbourn has some land in that direction?”
“We have a few fields to the east,” she replied. “My father walks there most mornings.”
“Mr Bennet is very fond of his walks,” Mrs Bennet said. “He knows every hedge and gate within three miles. I say he knows them too well; he is never in the house. But men must have their fancies.”
Darcy took another sip of tea. The heat broke across his tongue with a sudden flare, fierce enough to jolt him. He returned the cup to its saucer, fingers pausing there as the sensation settled. A prickle ran up the back of his neck—brief, but unmistakable.
His breath snagged on its next rise—not from pain, but from the unsettling certainty that someone had marked his reaction. The familiar hum of conversation resumed around him, unaltered, yet the instant still hung between his thoughts like a question he could not dismiss.
Miss Bingley turned toward him, her smile arranged with the care she devoted to every social manoeuvre.
“I have often observed Mr Darcy’s fondness for a well-situated estate,” she said brightly.
“He cannot resist a property with fine woods. Pemberley is renowned for them. Netherfield must seem quite modest beside such grandeur.”
Her tone slid neatly into the room, but to Darcy it felt like a hand closing around a thought he had not meant to display.
He had no inclination to discuss Pemberley in a parlour already too full of voices and impressions, nor to entertain comparisons that invited every listener to picture his home.
He straightened slightly in his chair, forcing his attention back into order. “Netherfield possesses its own merits,” he said. “One cannot set two such places side by side as if they were entries in a ledger.”
But even as he spoke, a part of him strained toward the earlier oddness—the twitch of china, the heat of the cup, the feeling that the air itself had shifted without warning. And beneath all of it, the unwelcome thought that Miss Elizabeth Bennet had noticed far too much.
Mrs Hurst nodded. “Quite so. A more modest estate may be very elegant, if properly managed.”