UNDER CONSTRUCTION

My fourth P&P variation novel is going to be about...
Do you recall that before the Netherfield ball, there were four days of rain and nobody could go anywhere? Just after Wickham's sorry tale?
Well, my variation is going to change that.
What if there were four days of good weather before the ball? How would that change things?

Below are my first drafts of the first chapters - any thoughts?
You may contact me at gykinga@yahoo.co.uk

Chapter 1

Preparations and Prejudices

Friday, 22. November

Mrs. Bennet awoke unusually early, for the sun, streaming with uncommon brightness through the chintz curtains, would not allow her the pleasure of slumbering longer. Her husband, Mr. Bennet, was still asleep, though he often had dressed and sat at this desk before she went downstairs.

She lay for a few moments, her mind fluttering between the agreeable remembrance of yesterday's visit and the delightful prospect of the days to come. A real ball, at Netherfield! Her mindquickly reviewed her daughters' wardrobes to see what needed to be done. No mother in the neighbourhood could compete with her when it came to her daughters. Everybody would be at the milliner's before the day was out, she thought. Thankfully, in her mission to advantage her daughters, she had purchased the best her pin money could buy. Besides, she always had a cupboard full of linen, lace and ribbons, pearls, and silk roses that would make the village milliner envious. The collection was as old as her first daughter was born. She kept it under key and used it when needed. Her daughters, in their surprise, never questioned where the treats had come from.

Mr. Bingley, such a charming man! He had stood by his word. Good Heavens! All that expense to fulfil a girl's request. It must be for Jane. What other inducement would do? And to top it all, the Netherfield party, and Mr. Bingley himself no less, had condescended to bring the invitation in person. It was an honour she could not cease to turn over in her thoughts. How many ladies in the neighbourhood could boast the same? None, surely.

Propped upon her pillows, she smiled to herself and began to consider how best such distinction ought to be acknowledged. Mere thanks would never do. No, something more was required, something that might impress upon Mr. Bingley and his sisters the gratitude of the Bennet family – and perhaps confirm to them the wisdom of attaching themselves to it more permanently. A dinner, yes! Everybody praised her table. A handsome dinner at Longbourn, and as soon as possible, before the ball should take up all the conversation. Saturday evening would do exceedingly well.

Already she could picture the table groaning beneath a profusion of dishes, Mr. Bingley seated beside Jane, Caroline Bingley obliged to admire the abundance of the repast and her silver candlesticks from London, and Mr. Darcy – well, she would find a place for him too. However, he need not be her concern.

The vision was so pleasing that she clapped her hands together in the bed, to the astonishment of Mr. Bennet, who muttered from his own pillow that he hoped such early industry would not ruin his breakfast.

Mrs. Bennet paid him no attention. He must be tired after his exertion the previous night, she mused with a smile on her face. Her head was now full of matters more important: menus and invitations, and she determined, the very instant she quitted her chamber, to set Hill upon the business.

Mrs. Bennet dressed with unusual despatch, for her head was so full of dinners and Netherfield that she scarce had patience for cap or kerchief. Before Hill had a chance to gather up the discarded ribbons, she was already descending the stairs into the small parlour she claimed for her own affairs. The great round table stood ready, covered with patterns, stray needles, and scraps of old menus; but she brushed these aside, seized a sheet of paper, and began to write as if all Hertfordshire depended on her pen.

"First, Mr. Bingley," she murmured, speaking half aloud, for she loved an audience even when she had none. "He shall sit by Jane, and no power on earth shall separate them. His sisters, of course, and Mr. Hurst – though he eats more than he speaks. He likes the ragout, Lizzy had said. And Mr. Darcy – well, I cannot do otherwise, however proud he may be. He must be seated close to the head of the table. He must see with his own eyes what good connections we make."

Her pen scratched furiously, blotted, scratched again.

"Then our own household – Mr. Bennet, myself, and all five girls. Lydia will be wild to sit near the officers; well, we shall see the numbers. Now, should I ask Sir William and Lady Lucas? Yes, certainly – it would not do to leave them out, and Charlotte, she will not take away the attention, poor girl. Mr. Collins! Oh, he must be included, for the honour of his noble patroness. That will please him beyond reason, and the Bingley party will see we have clergymen in the family."

She paused, tapping the pen against her teeth. "Mrs. Phillips…perhaps not. She is my sister, to be sure, but she brings too much of Meryton's gossip with her. Better leave her for another time."

She paused, counting on her fingers, frowning at the oddness of the numbers. 'A hostess must be attentive to these things' – she had heard it often said. "Six gentlemen, ten ladies? That will never do." She tapped the pen against her teeth, then brightened suddenly. "The officers! Yes, Lydia and Kitty speak so warmly of Mr. Wickham and Mr. Denny. And if we have the Colonel too, that makes three more gentlemen – and so handsome they will look at the table, the scarlet set against our best damask."

She hastily wrote down the names and then realised that although the balance was better, a gentleman was still missing. She decided on the vicar to fill in the list. There, ten gentlemen and ten ladies – nothing could be more correct. What a sight it will be when they are all arranged about our table, the Bingleys and Darcy, Mr. Bennet and our girls everywhere admired between. The Lucases will die of envy.

Having settled the matter, she leaned back with a satisfied air, the list before her blotched and triumphant, and rang for Hill to carry word to the kitchen that a dinner of true distinction was to be prepared for Saturday evening. She took her wooden box containing her menu cards.

"Hill, Hill! Make haste! Send Mary to wake Kitty and Lydia. How they will like my news. Hill!"

At that very moment, the parlour door opened, and Elizabeth stepped in, her cheeks bright with the freshness of an early walk.

Mrs. Bennet started, then frowned. "Lizzy! Out already? And in the damp morning air! When will you give up this unladylike behaviour? You will catch your death of cold, and what is to become of me if you are in bed sniffing your nose just when I want you most? Go upstairs and get warm at the fire. But before you go, you shall play the piano tomorrow evening. Jane must join you with her sweet voice, and then, oh, then, Mr. Bingley will be quite undone. He will fall in love with her on the spot, if he has not already."

Elizabeth removed her gloves with great composure. "Saturday evening, Mama? What is happening then?"

Mrs. Bennet all but dropped her blotched paper for eagerness. "A dinner, child! A grand dinner at Longbourn, in honour of Mr. Bingley and his dear sisters, and all the Netherfield party, with officers too, and Mr. Collins besides. Ten gentlemen and ten ladies – nothing could be more exact! Charlotte and her family will also be invited. We shall shine, Lizzy, we shall shine as never before, and the Lucases will choke with envy when they hear of it."

Elizabeth bit her lip, half amused, half resigned, while Mrs. Bennet pressed the bell again for Hill, declaring that not a moment was to be lost in giving orders to the kitchen.

Elizabeth left her mother, who was still full of her imagined triumph, and went upstairs, escaping the flurry of orders and menus. In her chamber, the hearth was cold, the small blaze of the night before long extinguished. She stooped to lay a few sticks, coaxing them into flame until a gentle warmth spread once more. Settling in the chair by the fire, she let her thoughts wander over her mother's plan.

A dinner at Longbourn. She could not help but smile at the bustle it would produce – the dishes, the rearrangements, the fluttering of her sisters. Elizabeth was, in essence, a sociable creature. She flourished in society. Yes, she needed her escape sometimes, but she enjoyed gatherings; after all, she loved to laugh.

Her mother was an eager strategist, such as when she made her own daughter leave on horseback, knowing it was going to rain. It was heartwarming, though, to see how Mr. Bingley fretted around her sister the evening she brought her down after dinner. This dinner may be one of her better ideas, she thought. Mr. Bingley was enthusiastic in nature, but a little help to bring him and Jane together could indeed help them fall more in love.

Yet one idea would not leave her: Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy, seated under the same roof, at her father's table. What would it be like? A scene of civility forced and strained, or the cold disregard of two men whose histories were too bitter to be softened by courtesy?

Her heart, still warm with the memory of Mr. Wickham's openness and his account of past wrongs, quickened with indignation at the thought of Mr. Darcy presiding with all his hauteur. How blind must Bingley be, that he could so esteem such a friend! And yet, a dinner at home, with both men before her, might give her eyes the confirmation she needed. She would watch Darcy's countenance; she would see the truth in his very look.

But even as she thought of it, her mind returned with indignation to the story itself. How was it possible that a man of Mr. Darcy's station – of education, fortune, and consequence – could so grievously wrong a friend's son? To deny him the living that had been promised, to cast him adrift without provision or regard, and all out of sheer pride and jealousy! The very contrast struck her: that Wickham, with so much frankness and good humour, should be left dependent upon his own efforts, while Darcy, with every advantage, seemed determined to employ his power only to mortify and oppress. It was enough to make her quite resolved that no amiable exterior could ever atone for such a defect of principle.
Truth be told, she still smarted from his comment at the assembly, and she was equally mortified that he thought him handsome at first.

Drawing her shawl closer about her, Elizabeth leaned back and allowed the flames to dance in her vision, mingling with her own rising curiosity. Saturday evening promised amusement enough, though perhaps not always of the comfortable sort.

Elizabeth's heart was at ease; she doubted nothing and anticipated with perfect confidence the scene to come. How fortunate it is that young ladies are so often possessed of perfect confidence, for without it, they might be robbed of half their entertainment.

***

Elizabeth quickly changed into her morning dress, a more delicate one that was better suited for the indoors, leaving the back open for now. With her usual light step, she ran and tapped at her sister's chamber door. Not waiting for an answer, she slipped in and found Jane still curled beneath the coverlet, the pale November sunshine just beginning to reach across the floor.

"Jane, wake up! There is news to rouse even the soundest of sleepers. Mama is already in a flutter, and it concerns you most particularly."

Jane stirred, pushing back her hair with a sleepy smile. "What is it, Lizzy? Pray, do not make me guess before I am properly awake."

Elizabeth perched on the edge of the bed, eyes alight. "A dinner, tomorrow evening, here at Longbourn. Mama has determined to do so, in gratitude for Mr. Bingley's invitation, and she is already planning how best to shine. And do you know what she decrees? That you must sing – and I must play for you."

Jane sat up at once, colouring. "Oh no, Lizzy. I had much rather not. You know I never like to put myself forward. Besides, my voice…"

"…is lovely," Elizabeth finished firmly, taking her hand. "Do not deny it. You may be shy, but Mama will never be dissuaded once she has made up her mind. Better that we choose the song ourselves, than wait for her to thrust one upon you. I will play the accompaniment, and you shall sing something simple and sweet. We shall practise. It will charm them all, and no one more than Mr. Bingley."

Jane blushed deeper and shook her head, though the smile betrayed her. "Lizzy, you tease me cruelly. Mr. Bingley is civil to everyone."

"Civil?" Elizabeth laughed. "If that is civility, then I wish more men would learn the art. I daresay his eyes hardly leave you when you enter a room. Sing tomorrow, dearest, and you shall see whether he applauds out of mere civility or something more."

Jane pressed her sister's hand with quiet affection. "You will only make me more nervous."

"Then I will sit at the pianoforte and make you laugh with a sour note or two, and all the solemnity will vanish. Between us, Jane, we cannot help but please." She turned her back to her sister. "Could you tie my dress?"

With that done, Elizabeth jumped up, full of mischief, while Jane, still blushing, resigned herself to the certainty that her sister's prediction – and her mother's scheme – would both be fulfilled.

As she fell back on her pillow, she smiled at the prospect of having the Netherfield party for a whole evening. She recalled with affection how he took care of her in the Netherfield parlour when she went down after dinner. He paid attention to her exclusively. And remembered with joy how he looked at her when they brought the invitation. Before they left, he stepped to her side and quietly said.

"I will have to dance the first with my sister as hostess, but can I have your second set?"

To her ears, that meant that his duty notwithstanding, he would have wanted to dance the first dances with her. To be asked for the first dance was a distinction universally felt; it marked, beyond all casual civility, the lady most particularly in a gentleman's favour, and was seldom forgotten by those who witnessed it. She determined to see if he would ask her to dance again, just as he did at the assembly. That would tell her of his preference.

***

By half past nine, the family had gathered in the breakfast-parlour, where the table was laid with fresh bread, cold ham, eggs, and the little dishes of preserves Mrs. Bennet liked to boast of to her neighbours. Mr. Bennet sat with his usual dry composure behind the newspaper, while Mr. Collins, already furnished with a plate piled high, was describing at length how Lady Catherine preferred her toast cut.

Mrs. Bennet, unable to keep her triumph to herself a moment longer, clapped her hands together. "Now, my dears, I have news for you all! We are to have company at Longbourn tomorrow evening. A dinner – a handsome dinner – in honour of our friends from Netherfield. Mr. Bingley himself, his sisters, Mr. Darcy, all the party. And, besides, I plan to invite the Lucases, Colonel Forster, Mr. Wickham, Mr. Denny, and – of course – you, Mr. Collins," she added, as if bestowing a prize.

Mr. Collins felt all the gratitude for being included in such an event. He was about to mention how many times he had dined at Rosings, which experience had totally prepared him for any social event, but Kitty and Lydia cried out together, their voices carrying clearly over the clatter of cups. "Wickham! Denny! The Colonel, too!" They fell into a flutter of anticipation over scarlet coats at the Longbourn table.

Jane blushed at once and bent her eyes upon her teacup. Elizabeth, catching the expression, smiled mischievously. "Only think, Jane. Mama has contrived it so you may not only dance with Mr. Bingley at the ball but sing to him in our very parlour."

"Lizzy, do not tease me," Jane whispered, though her colour deepened prettily.

Mrs. Bennet, however, was delighted. "Yes, indeed! Jane shall sing, and Lizzy will accompany her. Nothing could be more elegant. Mr. Bingley will be transported, I am sure of it."

Mary, who had been waiting with solemn eagerness, now interposed: "If music is required, I shall also be ready to perform. A selection of my hymns would give the occasion a proper dignity."

Mr. Bennet folded his paper at last, his eye glinting with mischief. "Indeed, my dear, nothing could better enliven the spirits of Mr. Bingley than a hymn or two to remind him of eternity. I only hope he will not carry Jane straight to the altar in gratitude."

Elizabeth bit her lip to hide a laugh, while Jane, half-smiling, half-distressed, murmured a protest.

"Mary, why do I not help you choose an uplifting piece. This is going to be a sort of celebration of our neighbours, and a hymn may serve as a counterproductive element." And she smiled at her in such sweetness that Mary could only nod.

Mrs. Bennet would hear none of it. "Now, Mr. Bennet, do not be provoking. We must all do our best. A dinner at Longbourn will show Mr. Bingley the merit of our family, and if I know anything, he shall be quite undone by it. Yes, Mary, play something uplifting."

Mr. Collins, after a solemn pause, declared that such plans were in every way suitable to the honour of the house, and that he would write immediately to Lady Catherine to assure her of the excellence of her relations.

Elizabeth, unable to restrain a laugh, thought only that the following evening promised more than enough amusement, even without Lady Catherine's approbation.

"I suppose you will ask me for funds for this promising event, my dear. I only hope the expense of feeding half the regiment and all of Netherfield will not leave us obliged to sup on cold mutton for the rest of the winter."

Mrs. Bennet, quite unshaken, cried, "Nonsense, Mr. Bennet! It will be the finest dinner Longbourn has ever seen, and it shall pay for itself a hundred times over when Jane is mistress of Netherfield!"

Elizabeth caught her father's eye across the table; the shared look between them was amusement enough to sweeten her tea.

"Kitty, finish your meal and meet me in the backroom. I would like you to write the invitations. John will need the horse, Mr. Bennet, to take them."

Chapter 2

Restless Reflections

The same morning Mr. Darcy set out on horseback, eager to breathe the clear air and rid himself of the disquiet that had troubled his rest. Usually quite a good sleeper, of late, some uneasy current in his thoughts denied him the comfort of undisturbed slumber. It was not the management of Pemberley – that was ever on his mind, but never a torment. His estates were well-ordered, his tenants loyal, his steward capable. Nor was it Georgiana, whose welfare was his first concern, for she was safe at home, tenderly cared for by Mrs. Annesley. Her last letter gave hope that she was letting the past go. No, the source of his unrest was of another sort, and he disliked to own it even to himself.

He had spent too many hours tossing from one side to the other, compelled to revisit scenes that should have held no consequence for him: a crowded assembly room in Meryton, the lively murmur of provincial voices, and among them a lady whose quick wit and unguarded eyes seemed to challenge his every reserve. Elizabeth Bennet had crossed his path but briefly, and yet her presence lingered with a pertinacity that surprised and vexed him. What was she to him, that her laughter should intrude upon his solitude, or her look of indifference trouble his composure? He had endured the weight of public notice all his life, had stood immovable before admiration and censure alike, and yet one country miss had succeeded in shaking his rest.

Darcy urged his horse into a brisker pace, as if motion itself might scatter these thoughts. The fields stretched wide about him, touched with frost and sunlight, but the freedom of the open air did not entirely quiet his mind. He was not a man accustomed to weakness, least of all in the governance of his own reflections, and the novelty of it was almost more offensive than the cause.

The morning air seemed a better cure than any further tossing upon the pillow. The country, bathed in late-autumn sunlight, lay before him in sober beauty, the fields touched with frost, the hedgerows gilded with the season's last leaves. Riding always steadied him; it recalled the long discipline of his youth, the weight of estate and family that had fallen upon him so early, and the solemn promise he had made to himself never to fall short of the expectations bound to his name.

Yet even here, with the rhythm of his horse beneath him, his thoughts strayed where he had least intended. The memory of Miss Elizabeth Bennet rose unbidden – the arch of her brow when she caught his eye, the liveliness in her manner, the very readiness with which she would say something mocking. She would do it with such an innocent expression that nobody caught her.

He recalled when she essentially likened Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, and him as a group of cows on the path. She did not want to ruin the picturesque, she said. The ladies had no idea of the insult. He shook his head. He found it intriguing that she had known about Gilpin's idea of the power of groups of three as desirable for aesthetic purposes. How many young ladies in Hertfordshire even thought of such things? Or elsewhere. He told himself it was no matter: a gentleman of his position ought not to be swayed by a country miss, however fine her eyes. And yet, he had not forgotten them.

It puzzled him more than he cared to admit. He had been admired often enough, courted for his fortune, his name, his consequence. He knew many ladies considered him handsome. It was a new thing to find himself the object of indifference, or worse, of disdain? She had refused to dance with him, not once, but twice. He could not figure her out. Nobody had ever done that. That recollection pricked his pride, though strangely it did not chill his curiosity. Rather, it heightened it.

It did occur to him that Miss Elizabeth had appeared so inappropriately at Netherfield to forward herself in his eyes. But then, he argued inwardly, would she not have made sure she was presented immaculately? Not that her appearance injured her in his eyes. He was a man, and he rather enjoyed her complexion. Her state of dishevelment affected his male awareness. But he was sure she did not intend that. Also, she spent most of her time with her sister instead of downstairs, so the idea that she wanted to impress him did not seem to be the case.

She was quite unpretentious, confident, and witty. He found her person beguiling. There had been that walk at Netherfield – when he had jested, awkwardly enough, that they sought only to display their figures. She had answered him with such a look, half-mocking and half-playful, that for an instant he could not decide whether she teased or encouraged him. It was not the sort of exchange he was accustomed to having with women, nor was he sure what it meant, but that he had been drawn into it at all astonished him still.

Darcy tightened the reins, impatient with his own weakness. He had duties beyond Hertfordshire, duties to Pemberley, to Georgiana, to the generations before him. He was not free to indulge fancies, however appealing. Still, as he turned his horse along the rise, he caught sight, far in the distance, of a slight figure walking across the meadow path. The briskness of her step, the graceful carriage – he knew it instinctively. Miss Elizabeth.

He watched without thought. He could do that. He did not approach; he had no reason, no right. But as he paused upon the crest of the hill and looked down, he felt an unwelcome warmth stir within him – a mixture of curiosity, vexation, and something more tender that he dared not name. He pressed his heels to his horse and moved on, yet the image remained: her figure outlined against the pale November sky, imprinted upon his thoughts with a force that no sense of duty could quite efface.

Darcy submitted himself to his valet with less patience than usual. The scrape of the razor, the rustle of the brush, the faint sting of soap – all these were things he commonly bore without thought, but this morning he found them intolerably slow. The mirror gave back his own features, steady and composed as ever, yet his mind was far from tranquil.

It has been three days since he last saw Miss Elizabeth. Even then, he never spoke to her. A glance, a look into each other's eyes. And then…

Wickham.

Why now, why here? Of all places to cross paths, it must be Meryton's narrow street, and at Elizabeth Bennet's very side. Darcy recalled, with a tightening of his jaw, the moment their eyes had met. The colour had drained from Wickham's face; the coward, on the other hand, had mastered his anger in an instant. Wickham had saluted with insolent ease, from behind the ladies, as if to remind him that the past was not so easily escaped. And Elizabeth – she had been there, watching.

He adjusted his cravat before the glass, his movements precise, as though order in dress might restore order in thought. But the effort was vain. He saw again her astonishment as she looked between them. Of course, she would be curious. She would wonder at the sudden change in their countenances, the coldness of their bow. And Wickham, with his practiced charm, would not fail to offer her some tale. A tale turned to his own advantage, blackening Darcy's name while winning her sympathy.

For a moment, he considered: ought he to warn her? A word of caution might prevent her from being deceived. But no. To speak would be to drag her into a history she had no claim to share, a history painful to himself and mortifying to his family. He could not expose Georgiana, nor would he condescend to defend himself before a young lady whose opinion should mean nothing to him.

And yet it troubled him, more than he would confess, that she might think ill of him. She, with her clear eyes and her lively mind, whose judgement already seemed too quick to condemn him. He pulled on his coat with a sharper motion than was necessary, fastening the buttons as though each were an act of resistance. He would be silent. Wickham might whisper what falsehoods he pleased; Darcy would not descend to contradict them. He did not owe anybody an explanation. Still, the thought of Elizabeth's regard being turned against him lodged like a thorn beneath his composure, small yet inescapably sharp.

***

Darcy descended to the dining-room to find Bingley already at table, cheerful as ever over ham and eggs, and Mr. Hurst comfortably occupied with his plate, speaking little, save to request the claret. Darcy seated himself, offering the ordinary civilities, and took coffee.

"You were out early, Darcy," Bingley said, his face alight. "I never saw such a fellow for riding. Do you find the Hertfordshire air invigorates you?"

Darcy allowed a half-smile. "It is fresh enough."

"That is a recommendation in itself," Bingley replied, cutting his toast with brisk contentment.

Hurst gave no opinion, save a grunt of satisfaction as he applied himself to the dish before him.

It was not long before Miss Bingley swept in, her voice preceding her with its usual music of complaint. "I protest, this country air will be the ruin of my complexion. Louisa, do you not feel the same?"

Mrs. Hurst, who followed in a more languid state, assented with a graceful sigh. "Indeed, Caroline, I should prefer Grosvenor Street to all Hertfordshire combined."

Bingley laughed and welcomed them both to the table. "You are unjust! I find the neighbourhood full of cheer and civility. Why, every day we receive some fresh kindness."

As if to confirm him, a servant entered with a letter. Bingley took it up, broke the seal, and read with visible delight. "An invitation! From Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn. A dinner for tomorrow evening, in gratitude, I suppose, for our own little scheme."

Miss Bingley raised her brows and cast a glance at Darcy. "A dinner at Longbourn. My dear Charles, I cannot imagine Mr. Darcy will think it a suitable amusement. He is not used to such provincial society."

Darcy looked up from his cup with composure. "On the contrary, Miss Bingley. One ought to honour the attentions of one's neighbours, wherever one resides. Hospitality is not measured by fashion."

Bingley beamed at him. "There, you see? We must certainly go. Jane will be pleased…that is, Miss Bennet. It will be most agreeable."

Caroline bit her lip and offered no more, but her glance, first at Darcy and then at her brother, betrayed her vexation that either should think of Longbourn as anything but a bore.

Darcy returned quietly to his breakfast, his face unreadable. Yet inwardly, he was a little astonished at himself. Was it truly a sense of neighbourly duty that had prompted his reply, or the wish to cross Miss Bingley in her officious certainty? Or – and here he would not linger – was it the sudden thought of Elizabeth Bennet, and the prospect of meeting her again? He dismissed the question with impatience, but it would not be so easily silenced.

Chapter 3

Observations and Improprieties

The gentlemen were already assembled in the lower drawing-room at Netherfield and had been so for some minutes before any of the ladies appeared. Mr. Bingley, impatient to be gone and in excellent spirits, stood near the window, looking out upon the drive and declaring, for the third time, that the evening promised to be remarkably fine. Mr. Hurst occupied himself with little more than the hope of dinner, and Mr. Darcy, though outwardly composed, paced once or twice across the room before settling near the fireplace, his gloves laid neatly upon the table beside him.

"Caroline will be but a moment," Louisa Hurst said at last, with a glance toward the door and a tone of habitual indulgence. "She is never ready until she is perfectly satisfied."

Bingley laughed. "She must not keep us waiting too long, or Mrs. Bennet will think us already unpunctual."

Louisa rose with a resigned air. "I will fetch her. Otherwise, we shall never arrive."

She left them, and the gentlemen decided to wait in the hall, ready to go.

Upstairs, Caroline Bingley stood before the glass, adjusting a ribbon which had already been adjusted twice. Her gown had arrived only the previous week; its colour became her exceedingly, and the arrangement of her hair had been studied until no curl appeared accidental. She examined herself with a critical eye, turned slightly to one side, then the other, and allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.

Louisa entered without ceremony.

"Caroline, they are waiting."

"Yes, yes," Caroline replied, without moving. "I am coming."

She gathered her shawl, took a breath as though preparing for an entrance of some consequence, and descended the stairs at a measured pace. Yet she did not go on at once. Instead, she paused at the top, just within view of the gentlemen below, where the light from the chandelier fell most favourably upon her.

She knew very well that they would look up.

And they did.

Mr. Bingley turned first, his face brightening as it always did at the appearance of his sister. Mr. Hurst followed, from habit if not interest. Mr. Darcy looked up too, as civility required, his expression attentive for the briefest instant.

Caroline met his eye – and held it.

But if she expected more, she was disappointed. Darcy's glance, having performed its duty, moved away again at once. He reached for his gloves, drew them on with deliberate care, and turned slightly aside, as though the matter were already concluded.

In that instant – so brief he might have denied it had he been asked – another image intruded upon him: a face animated not by design but by feeling, a look unstudied and therefore far more unsettling. He dismissed the thought at once, with some impatience at himself, and tightened his hold upon the gloves as if order might be restored by so small an act.

Caroline descended the remaining steps with her composure perfectly intact, though a sharper observer might have detected a faint tightening about her mouth.

"Well," she said lightly, "I hope I have not detained you beyond endurance."

"Not at all," Bingley replied cheerfully. "We were only remarking upon the pleasantness of the evening."

"Indeed?" Caroline smiled. "I had not noticed. One becomes so accustomed to fine weather here."

Darcy offered her his arm with polite correctness. "Shall we?"

She accepted it at once.

As they moved toward the door, Caroline cast a final, calculating glance in the mirror opposite the stairs. Her reflection returned her look faithfully: elegant, composed, and very much as she wished to be seen.

What it did not return was the satisfaction she had hoped to feel. They had not admired her gown. Mr. Darcy did not even blink at her appearance.

Darcy, for his part, stepped into the carriage with a mind already turned elsewhere, and a determination – unacknowledged even to himself – that whatever the evening might bring, he would conduct himself with all proper civility, and nothing more.

***

The carriage wheels were scarcely still upon the gravel before Mrs. Bennet was in motion. Mr. Bennet followed at a more deliberate pace, his expression composed into that look of tolerant resignation which long practice had perfected. Together they took their place in the drawing-room, where candles burned brightly, and the air seemed charged with expectation.

Elizabeth stood a little apart with Jane and Charlotte Lucas, her posture easy, her countenance animated by a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Jane, pale but serene, held herself with quiet composure; Charlotte observed everything with a thoughtful seriousness that contrasted with Elizabeth's lively attention.

The door opened.

The Netherfield party was announced.

Mr. Bingley entered first, all warmth and readiness, bowing with unaffected pleasure. His sisters followed, Caroline with studied grace, Louisa with languid civility. Mr. Hurst drifted behind them, already casting a glance toward where refreshment might later appear.

Mr. Darcy entered last.

His eyes moved instinctively across the room – and stopped.

Elizabeth.

She stood just as he remembered at gatherings: animated, unconstrained, engaged in conversation. Her face was bright with expression; her manner entirely at ease. For a moment, he forgot the company, the ceremony, the evening itself.

Then she turned her head, felt his gaze upon her, and met it.

The recognition was immediate. Elizabeth's lips curved – not into a smile precisely, but into something that acknowledged him without invitation. Darcy inclined his head, formal, restrained, and looked away at once, annoyed to find that the image remained with him still.

Mrs. Bennet advanced with effusive delight.

"My dear Mr. Bingley! How excessively good of you to come! And Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, and Mr. Darcy welcome, welcome to Longbourn! I trust you had the pleasantest drive? We are lucky with the weather."

Bingley assured her that nothing could have been finer. Darcy bowed with proper civility. Caroline smiled as if conferring a favour.

Before the introductions could proceed in any orderly fashion, a figure detached itself from the far side of the room, leaving the local parson, Mr. Johnson, and advanced with alarming determination.

Mr. Collins did not wait.

He stopped directly before the two gentlemen, clasped his hands together, and regarded them with solemn eagerness.

"Pray forgive me," said he, "but may I inquire which of you is Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley? I should be mortified beyond expression were I to mistake one gentleman for the other, particularly when one of you is so nearly connected to the illustrious Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whose name…"

There was a moment of absolute stillness.

Bingley blinked, surprised, then smiled, entirely good-humoured. Darcy stiffened almost imperceptibly.

Elizabeth moved at once.

She crossed the room with a speed that left no doubt of intention and placed herself beside her cousin, her smile bright and decisive.

Darcy had not expected her to come to him, and the surprise of it was felt before he could master it. Her approach, so direct and unembarrassed, arrested his attention at once. Her steps were light, and he was conscious of composing himself anew.

"My cousin, Mr. Collins," she said quickly, "allow me to spare you the difficulty. This is Mr. Bingley, of Netherfield, and this gentleman is Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley. Mr. Collins is our relation," she added, turning to the gentlemen, "and the clergyman of the parish of Hunsford."

Darcy recognised at once the skill of her intervention, and he felt his irritation settle where it properly belonged – upon the officiousness that had forced it.

Mr. Collins bowed deeply to both, quite undeterred.

"I am exceedingly obliged to you, cousin. Indeed, exceedingly. I should not have forgiven myself had I failed in my duty to distinguish between gentlemen of such consequence. Mr. Darcy, permit me to express the highest respect for your noble aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whose beneficence toward me…"

Darcy inclined his head, his countenance composed into an expression of grave civility.

"I am acquainted with my aunt's habits," he said.

Bingley bit his lip to suppress a smile.

Elizabeth saw the restraint it took both gentlemen to listen to Mr. Collins with proper civility. She could not blame them. She, satisfied that disaster had at least been contained, was about to step back toward Jane and Charlotte, but Mr. Darcy engaged her.

"It was very kind of your parents to invite us," said Darcy. "Mr. Bingley was particularly happy to accept."

That he did not seem to be offended by her cousin's unsolicited approach, and that he thought it was civil enough to engage her in courtliness, was nothing but the proof that, when he chose, he could be perfectly civil.

"I imagine he would be," Elizabeth replied. "He finds pleasure very accommodating."

Darcy met her look. "I do not make a habit of declaring my pleasures."

"I suppose nothing," said Elizabeth lightly. "I only observe."

Mr. Darcy bowed to her.

Mr. Collins, who had been watching the exchange with an air of grave attentiveness, now stepped forward again, clearly dissatisfied with having remained so long silent. He clasped his hands once more and inclined his head toward Darcy with solemn eagerness.

"Indeed, Mr. Darcy," said he, "it gives me the greatest satisfaction to observe the perfect harmony that subsists between all parties present. Such ease and cordiality are the surest signs of a family – and a connection – founded upon mutual esteem."

Mr. Darcy turned to him, his countenance composed but alert, as one bracing himself against an approaching inconvenience.

Mr. Collins continued, undeterred. "And allow me, sir, to add my congratulations upon your most fortunate prospects. A most beautiful bride, indeed – one universally admired, and so well calculated to grace a gentleman of your consequence. I must say, the alliance reflects equal credit upon both sides."

There was a moment of silence so complete that it seemed to press upon the room.

"Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates."

Elizabeth smiled, for the idea accorded perfectly with what she had lately been told, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley again. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined for another.

Elizabeth felt it at once. She saw Darcy's posture stiffen, not violently, but in that unmistakable way which betrayed an effort of restraint. His colour did not change, yet something in his expression sharpened.

"My bride?" he repeated calmly.

Mr. Collins smiled, entirely pleased with himself. "Yes, indeed, sir. The general expectation is most gratifying. Such unanimity of opinion is rare, and therefore all the more to be prized. My noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, has often remarked that when matters are properly arranged, there is no reason for uncertainty to intrude."

Elizabeth stepped forward at once. "Mr. Collins," said Elizabeth, checking him with a smile that was more decisive than playful, "you mistake the certainty of your information for the propriety of repeating it. Such arrangements, whether real or imagined, are hardly the subject for general discussion."

Mr. Collins looked momentarily disconcerted but quickly recovered himself.

"My dear cousin, I assure you, I repeat only what is universally understood. Lady Catherine herself…"

"…has made no such declaration," said Mr. Darcy.

The interruption was quiet, but it carried weight. The room stilled.

Elizabeth turned toward him at once.

"I beg your pardon," Darcy continued, his manner grave and perfectly civil, "but I cannot allow a supposition to pass uncorrected when it concerns myself. No engagement exists between my cousin and me, nor has any been proposed."

Mr. Collins stared, then bowed hastily.

"Indeed, Mr. Darcy! I meant no offence. It is merely that such a union has long been anticipated, and Lady Catherine's wishes…"

"My aunt's wishes," Darcy replied evenly, "are well known to me. They do not constitute my intentions."

There was a brief silence.

Mr. Collins looked from one to the other, his confidence wavering but not yet extinguished. "Ah, well, of course, of course. I meant no presumption."

Bingley, sensing the awkwardness and determined to banish it, laughed lightly. "Come, come, Mr. Collins. Let us not settle marriages before dinner." He directed him to join his sisters.

"I am sorry," she said quietly, her tone sincere but unembarrassed. "He means no harm."

"I am aware," Darcy replied.

Elizabeth's lips curved, despite herself. "So, the estates are not to be united," she said lightly.

"No," Darcy answered. "They are not."

"I am sorry. I know you value your privacy. Only my cousin cannot say enough good things about his patroness."

"And Mr. Collins is talking about uniting our estates?" he asked askance.

"Oh, that was… Mr. Wickham." She looked at him for his reaction.

"I see," said Darcy, after a moment. "Mr. Wickham is… communicative."

Elizabeth smiled – and then checked herself. It was one thing to listen, in private, to a story related with such confidence and openness; it was quite another to find its conclusions proclaimed aloud, and before those whom they most concerned.

Darcy gestured for Elizabeth to return to her sister, who was now surrounded by the Netherfield party.

Mrs. Bennet rang the bell with brisk authority, and soon a tray was brought in with glasses of sherry for the ladies and a bowl of warm negus[1] for the men. She presided over their distribution with great satisfaction, urging each guest to partake, and protesting that no one must stand empty-handed in her drawing-room.

Next to Elizabeth, Charlotte's eyes danced with restrained amusement. "Well done," she murmured softly. "You have saved us all."

Elizabeth exhaled. "Only for the moment, I fear."

Conversation resumed, if not with its former ease, then at least with sufficient animation to satisfy the company. Mr. Bingley, eager to smooth what had passed, drew Jane into discourse with his usual warmth, speaking of the weather, the roads, and the pleasures of a country evening so agreeably conducted. Charlotte Lucas listened with attentive civility; Miss Bingley, standing near her brother, offered observations of her own, precise and polished, though not without calculation.

Mr. Darcy joined them.

Elizabeth remained at a little distance, near enough to hear, yet taking no part beyond what courtesy required. She answered when addressed, smiled when occasion demanded it, but the liveliness of her manner was subdued, her attention turned inward in a way that was uncommon to her.

Darcy observed it almost at once.

He could not have said when his notice had first been engaged — only that, in the midst of easy conversation, he became sensible that Elizabeth, usually so quick and animated, was unaccountably quiet. The contrast struck him. He watched her for a moment, then another, with an attention he did not attempt to justify.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, was perfectly aware of her own reserve and felt it with increasing unease.

It occurred to her – reluctantly, yet with clarity – that she had been forward in censuring Mr. Darcy for a want of manners, and yet had herself listened, with too little caution, to a free discussion of his conduct; that she had accepted, without sufficient reserve, opinions communicated in confidence, and now found herself exposed, however unintentionally, to the charge of the very impropriety she most disliked.

What troubled her most was not the reflection itself, but the knowledge that he was aware of it.

That Mr. Darcy should know she had spoken of him – spoken freely, and with a man whom he evidently disdained – sat ill with her pride. It was not that she valued his judgement, she told herself; it was that she disliked having given him cause to judge her at all.

She had never feared censure where she believed herself right.

And yet, in this moment, she felt a faint mortification in the thought that she had not been sufficiently guarded.

Darcy, catching her silence and misreading its cause, supposed it merely the natural consequence of her cousin's behaviour, and reproached himself, in some small degree, for having been drawn into its correction. He did not attempt to engage her again; discretion, he thought, required distance rather than insistence.

Elizabeth raised her eyes at last and met his – briefly, composedly. She smiled, as if to assure him that she was perfectly at ease.

But the ease she offered was not the ease she felt.

The company continued to converse, the interval lengthening before the arrival of the officers; yet something had shifted, quietly and irrevocably, in Elizabeth's mind – not her opinion of Mr. Darcy, but her certainty of her own conduct.

[1] A warm beverage made of wine diluted with water, sweetened with sugar, and seasoned with nutmeg (sometimes lemon). Commonly served in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries at evening gatherings, particularly in colder weather, it was considered both sociable and genteel, and was suitable for mixed company.

Other books by Kinga

Dear Sir, - A Jane and Darcy story, after Hunsford. You may say it is a big twist, but give it a try. Elizabeth finds her own Mr. Darcy. I promise.

Passion and Persistence - What if Darcy did not give up after Hunsford?

More Discerning - how clearer insights would change the whole story, starts at the Meryton assembly

Pride and Prejudice - a new edition with footnotes and chapter analysis, and essays - in the making

Illustrations