A moment later, Mr. Bingley was ushered into the dining room looking exactly as he always did—sunny, affable, entirely unbothered by the rules of decorum he had just trampled.
“Good morning, ladies!” he said cheerfully. “I hope I am not too early? The air was so fine, I thought I should take advantage of it—and then my horse rather insisted we head this direction.”
Elizabeth stared at him. His coat was unwrinkled. His cravat was neatly tied. Not a man out for an idle ride—but one with an agenda. And she was no simple country girl, easily led by such tales—she knew a determined gentleman caller when she saw one.
He greeted them all in turn, his gaze lingering on Jane just long enough to make Mrs. Bennet beam and Jane squirm.
Then he settled in beside Mr. Bennet, who looked up from his eggs only long enough to say, “I see you have been conscripted, Mr. Bingley.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed.
“I—pardon?” Bingley replied, almost too innocently.
Mr. Bennet only gave a small smile and returned to his toast.
Elizabeth did not miss the way Bingley shot a nervous glance at her—then quickly buried himself in conversation with Jane about the garden, the weather, and anything else unlikely to reveal classified intelligence.
Conscripted, indeed. So, this was how Darcy planned to report to the Prince and still keep a close eye on her.
Breakfastendedinduecourse, and the entire family gathered in the drawing room, with Mr. Bingley and Mr. Collins each making a dash for the seat nearest Jane—a contest that was only ended when Elizabeth declared that to beherfavorite seat. Mr. Bingley surrendered cheerfully, Mrs. Bennet frowned, Mr. Bennet chuckled and disappeared into his study for the morning, and that was the end of it.
But then, no one quite knew what to do with themselves. Sunlight spilled through the lace curtains, setting every dust mote aglow and making the faded upholstery look warmer than it deserved. Elizabeth had taken her embroidery in hand—not because she had either the intention or the ability to stitch a single useful thing, but because it offered an excuse to observe Bingley.
He had been perfectly cheerful, of course. Too cheerful.Suspiciouslycheerful, as though he were not just tolerating the Bennets’ company, but was determined to relish it or perish in the attempt. He need say nothing to confirm it for her—Darcy had clearly sent him.
The Bennet household had risen to the occasion. That occasion being Mr. Bingley must not be allowed to leave. Mrs. Bennet simply would not have it, no matter how awkward the conversation or how many hints Collins dropped about wishing to walk into Meryton. Rather, she plied her guest with tittle-tattle and tea and more than one pointed insinuation that Bingley might enjoy the prospect of the room better from the very seat he had surrendered to Elizabeth.
The plan was sound. Elizabeth simply had not anticipated how long a day could be when everyone was playing a role and no one admitted why.
By ten o’clock, Lydia had already suggested two games, demanded one walk, and asked Kitty six times whether officers might call. Kitty had no answers, but this did not stop her from whispering possibilities like a schoolgirl reading tea leaves.
By eleven, Mrs. Bennet had produced a pudding.
“Breakfast is over,” Jane had whispered.
“Then it is a midmorning refreshment,” Mrs. Bennet had declared, plopping the dish down on a little table beside Bingley with such force the table rattled.
Mr. Bingley, undeterred, beamed at her. “How very delightful, ma’am.”
He was going to die here, Elizabeth thought,and he would be smiling as he did it.
By noon, even Mary—usually immune to social tension—had looked up from her sermon notes and remarked to Kitty, “This is quite a lot of effort for one man.”
Mr. Collins had taken grave offense at that. “It is a great deal of effort for thewrongman,” he had muttered.
Elizabeth had not missed it. Nor, apparently, had anyone else, but Mr. Bingley kept smiling, anyway.
Now, seated in a half-circle around the drawing room, with a blazing fire they did not need and conversation they did not enjoy, they all suffered together. Jane poured tea. Lydia whispered. Mr. Collins, seated beside the fire like an unmovable statue of pomposity, cleared his throat with theatrical weight.
“I must observe,” he began, in the tone of a man who had been waiting far too long to speak, “that it is unusual for a gentleman of no landed estate to remain so long in company without a stated purpose.”
Bingley, to his credit, blinked only once. “As to that, Idohave an estate, sir, even if it was not a hereditary one. More to the point, I had understood my company was welcome, sir.”
Mr. Collins sniffed. “It is not my place to determine who is welcome in my esteemed cousins’ home. But I must be vigilant, as I am sure Lady Catherine would expect, when a man of no known connections to the family lingers among its unmarried daughters.”
Elizabeth set her teacup down with a distinct clink.
“I believe,” she said sweetly, “that Mr. Bingley is a favorite neighbor who has often dined under this roof. He is also an old friend of Mr. Darcy, who is a guest of Mr. Bingley’s at Netherfield. And as Mr. Darcy has been a frequent and welcome visitor to Longbourn, and both gentlemen share a particular friendship with my uncle Mr. Bennet, I daresay the matter of connection is quite settled.”
