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, 22nd 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 his 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.

Everyone 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 from time to time. 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 had grown over many years, almost as long as she had been a mother. She kept it under key and used it when needed. Her daughters, in their surprise, never really 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 expressions of 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. And with such fine weather, there could be no objection to an evening engagement; the roads would be perfectly dry, and no one could plead inconvenience. 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 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. They did not always agree on matters, but that never stopped her husband from enjoying her company in the solitude of her chamber.

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 again, 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, 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 Mr. 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? Look at you, your nose and cheeks red as a ripe apple. 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. He was enthusiastic by nature, but a little help in bringing him and Jane together could indeed help them grow more attached.

This dinner may be one of her better ideas, she thought. And yet, even as the thought formed, she checked herself. It was not often that her mother's plans bore such promise, and she could not be certain that she judged fairly.

One idea, however, 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 Mr. Darcy's countenance; she would see the truth in his very look. Or so she believed – though she could not entirely say what that truth must be, nor whether she would recognise it when she saw it.

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 Mr. Darcy, with every advantage, seemed determined to employ his power only to mortify and oppress.

There were moments – brief, and quickly dismissed – when she wondered whether she had heard the whole of the story; but such doubts felt almost a disloyalty to the frankness with which it had been told, and she would not dwell on them.

It was enough to make her quite resolved that no amiable exterior could ever atone for such a defect of principle. She still smarted from Mr. Darcy's comment at the assembly, and she was not a little mortified to remember that she had once thought him handsome.

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.

Her spirits were light, and her expectations lively; yet she did not examine them closely, for had she done so, she might have found more uncertainty in them than she was inclined to admit. She anticipated the scene to come with perfect confidence. How fortunate it is that young ladies are so often possessed of such confidence, for without it, they might be robbed of half their entertainment.

***

Elizabeth quickly changed into her morning dress, a more delicate one better suited for 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 resolved 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."

Elizabeth was about to reply, but something in Jane's manner – so gentle, and so unassuming – made her hesitate. "Civil," she repeated at last, though with less conviction than before. Yet she rallied quickly enough. "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 whether he would ask her to dance again, as he had 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 the fullest 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.

Still, 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. Though even as she laughed, her thoughts returned, unbidden, to the prospect of the following evening – and to the uneasy curiosity it inspired.

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 his relations.

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

Mr. Collins took Elizabeth's mirth as encouragement, and he added, with an air of formal civility. He actually bowed in his seat toward Elizabeth as he spoke. "I should be most exceedingly pleased to hear you sing, too, Miss Elizabeth. Your dear mother has praised your skill at the art."

Mrs. Bennet nodded enthusiastically while she buttered her toast.

Mr. Collins, seeing her ready to protest, continued more solemnly, "I am quite certain you would not wish to deny us the pleasure which your performance must afford, nor to disappoint those who would so justly value such an elegant accomplishment."

Elizabeth opened her mouth, but no reply was forthcoming. Why would her mother praise her singing to Mr. Collins? Had they nothing better to speak of?

"Well, Lizzy, how can you say no to such a request. You must oblige our guest. And I would hear you, too. You do have a nice voice. And you, Jane, I am sure you can oblige your mother; otherwise, you will not have rest until you do." He put down his newspaper and took off his glasses. He turned to his wife. "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 required 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!"

Mr. Collins received this assurance with an air of grave satisfaction and nodded his head as if the matter had thereby been settled beyond dispute. "Indeed, my dear Mrs. Bennet," said he, "I must entirely concur with you. Such an entertainment, when so judiciously planned, may very properly be considered an investment of the most commendable kind. When one reflects upon the advantages likely to accrue to the family from a connection so desirable as that which you so happily anticipate, the expense becomes not only excusable, but positively prudent."

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." Mrs. Bennet was already thinking about execution. 

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. Indeed, he was not certain that it ought to be owned at all; for to give such thoughts consequence was, perhaps, to grant them more importance than they deserved.

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 could assign no sufficient reason for it – nor was he certain that he wished to find one.

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, the ground firm beneath the hooves, the air bright and cold upon his face; it was weather that invited motion, not confinement, and he welcomed it, though the freedom of the open country 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 itself.

The morning air seemed a better cure than any further tossing upon the pillow. The country lay before him in sober late-autumn clarity; frost still silvered the fields, and the hedgerows held the season's last leaves, unmoved by wind or rain. Such mornings had always suited him – honest, bracing, and exacting.

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 no one would catch her.

He recalled when she had likened Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, and himself to a group of three cows upon 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 did not 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.

Nor, he told himself, was there any reason that he should – though he could not entirely approve the persistence of the recollection.

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. No one had ever done so. He could not figure her out. 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 was not without effect upon him, though he was sure she had not intended it. Also, she spent most of her time with her sister rather than downstairs, so the idea that she wanted to impress him did not seem to hold.

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, the clear morning granted him an unimpeded view of the meadow path below, and upon it a slight figure, walking with brisk purpose across the open ground. The vigour 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. He rode on for some distance before he became aware that he had taken no notice of the road before him. Such distraction was unlike him, and he checked it at once; yet the effort cost him more than he cared to own.

***

After his ride, 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 was now three days since he had last seen Miss Elizabeth. Even then, he never spoke to her. A glance, a look into each other's eyes. That was all he was afforded before…

… he saw 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; Darcy, on the other hand, had felt his own redden with unbidden anger. It was the first time he had seen him since he quitted Ramsgate. 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.

What she must have thought of him, he could not determine – nor was he easy under the uncertainty.

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 her astonishment again 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 practised 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. And yet, the reflection did not bring him the ease he expected. The thought of Elizabeth's regard being turned against him lodged like a thorn beneath his composure, small yet inescapably sharp.

***

He 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 invigorating?"

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 was not so easily silenced.

***

By the time the messenger from Netherfield was heard upon the gravel, Longbourn was already in motion.

Mrs. Bennet had not waited for certainty before acting; certainty, she believed, was for those without imagination. Hill had been dispatched twice to the larder, the cook consulted with great seriousness, and the parlour table was once again strewn with papers, menus, and half-sharpened pencils. If Mr. Bingley declined the invitation, it would not be for want of readiness on her part.

Elizabeth, passing the window on her way from the back room, saw the messenger arrive and paused. She smiled to herself.

"So," she said quietly, turning back, "the die is cast."

Jane looked up from the small stack of linen she was folding, her expression composed but attentive. "Do you think it is the answer already?"

"I cannot imagine my mother would allow a messenger from Netherfield to come to our door for anything less," Elizabeth replied. "Come, we may as well be present when the thunder breaks."

They had scarcely reached the parlour when Hill entered, breathless with importance, bearing a sealed note upon a salver.

Mrs. Bennet snatched it up at once. "From Mr. Bingley himself, I see! Very handsome paper, too. I always said they had good taste at Netherfield." She broke the seal with unnecessary force, scanned the contents, then clapped her hands. "Accepted! Accepted. With the greatest pleasure! He says they shall all attend, and that he looks forward to the evening exceedingly. Did I not tell you so?"

Jane felt her colour rise, though she smiled. Elizabeth caught her hand for a moment and squeezed it, saying nothing.

"Well," Mrs. Bennet continued briskly, already moving to her next thought, "Kitty, go tell your father the dinner is on. There is not a moment to be lost. Jane, Elizabeth, you will assist me. Jane, you must help decide what music will be suitable; Elizabeth, you shall oversee the table arrangements and see that nothing is wanting. Kitty and Lydia can help you. Mary, call Lucy and make sure the dining room is all clean and presentable. The picture frames and windowsills, too. Ten gentlemen and ten ladies must not be left to chance."

Mary was about to respond, but Elizabeth shook her head at her. She raised her brows. "Twenty people. A grave responsibility indeed."

Mrs. Bennet waved aside the remark. "You may laugh, Lizzy, but these things are observed. Mr. Bingley observes them, I am sure of it."

Elizabeth smiled, but she obeyed, following Jane into the smaller parlour where the pianoforte stood. For a moment, neither spoke; the stillness was broken only by the distant clatter from the kitchen at the rear of the house.

"At least," Elizabeth said at last, lightly, "everything will be spotless. After all, Netherfield is coming to us in full force."

Jane nodded, smoothing the linen absent-mindedly. "Mr. Bingley wrote very kindly. He thanked Mama most warmly."

"I should be surprised if he did otherwise," Elizabeth replied. "He seems constitutionally incapable of refusing pleasure – or gratitude."

Jane smiled. "I see nothing wrong in it."

"No, you would not. And I did not mention it because I disapprove. His manners are open, and he puts others at ease. He happily discusses any subject with anyone, unlike his friend, Mr. Darcy. I really wonder what makes the two of them so close. It seems an impossible relationship. Mr. Darcy goes out of his way to do the opposite."

"I know what you are saying, but then he behaved rather out of character at Netherfield."

"What do you mean?"

"When I was downstairs, he was easily drawn into conversation with you. I thought he was shockingly honest about ladies walking in front of gentlemen. It made me pause."

"Oh, I do not deny he is capable of conversation, but he seems to find great pleasure in arguing with me." She huffed.

Jane looked at her sister. "I think you are too harsh on him. Maybe, maybe he likes to engage you. Maybe he does not mean unkindness."

"Jane, you think well of anyone."

Jane smiled, but did not answer.

"Elizabeth, do you think it will be very formal?"

Elizabeth considered. "Formal enough to satisfy Caroline Bingley, and comfortable enough to please her brother. As for Mr. Darcy…" She stopped, then laughed softly. "Well. He will endure it."

Jane glanced at her sister. "You think he will come?"

"He accepted the invitation, did he not?"

"Yes, but…"

Elizabeth shook her head. "I know what you mean. Still, he is a man of propriety. He would not absent himself when the rest of the party attends. Besides," she added, with a touch of mischief, "I am curious to see him at our table. It is quite a different thing from meeting at an assembly." Though whether that curiosity would end in satisfaction, she could not be certain.

Jane did not answer at once. "I hope," she said quietly, "that everyone will be at ease."

Elizabeth looked at her, more seriously now. "Do you think that likely?"

Jane smiled faintly. "Perhaps not. But I hope it all the same."

Elizabeth softened. "You always do."

She went to the pianoforte and lifted the lid. "Very well. Let us decide what shall charm Netherfield into perfect contentment. What do you propose to sing?"

Jane hesitated. "Something simple. Nothing that draws too much attention."

Elizabeth laughed. "My dear Jane, that is quite impossible."

And with that, they set to work – Jane selecting, Elizabeth teasing, both of them aware, in their different ways, that the quiet order of the morning was already slipping into something more animated, more uncertain, and far more interesting.

Elizabeth, too, gave some thought to the part she must play the following evening. She had always taken pleasure in amusing others; yet on this occasion, she was not entirely certain for whose satisfaction she was most inclined to shine. 

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 so small an act might restore order.

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 faithfully returned her look: 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 and restrained, and looked away at once – annoyed to find that the impression remained.

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 offended by her cousin's unsolicited approach, and that he now addressed her with such composure, was proof that, when he chose, he could be perfectly civil.

"I imagine he would be," Elizabeth replied. "He finds pleasure wherever it may be had."

Darcy met her look. "I am not in the habit of declaring my enjoyment."

"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 speaks of uniting our estates?" he said, with a slight emphasis that did not escape her.

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

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

Elizabeth smiled – and then checked herself. The smile felt ill-timed the moment it appeared. 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 was sensible, too, that her silence could not pass entirely unnoticed; once or twice, she felt her mother's eye upon her, as if wondering at a composure so unlike her usual spirits.

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.

It struck him as a change, and one not easily explained; he could not determine whether it arose from embarrassment, displeasure – or something in himself.

He could not have said when his attention first fixed itself upon her – 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 – sat ill with her pride. It was not that she valued his judgement, she told herself; only 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.

She spoke when required, and with propriety; yet she was conscious that her usual ease had deserted her, and she could not wholly recover it.

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. It was not defiance, nor quite indifference – but something steadier, and less easily dismissed. 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.

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