“And was the dancing good?” Kitty chimed in, close on her heels.
Elizabeth laughed as she stepped down with the help of Jones. “You will survive the suspense, I promise. But I can tell you this—Jane looked exquisite in her new gown, and Mary was very much admired. Both were quite fashionable.”
Jane flushed at the praise, while Mary straightened, pleased. “The green silk was a success, then?”
“An undeniable one,” Elizabeth assured her. “You were perfectly turned out.”
Mrs. Bennet beamed. “I knew those gowns would make an impression.”
“They did,” Elizabeth said sincerely.
Lydia looked faintly disappointed. “And the gentlemen?”
“There were some,” Elizabeth replied diplomatically. “Enough to make the evening lively.”
“Well, you must tell us everything tomorrow,” Kitty insisted.
“We shall,” Elizabeth promised, stifling a yawn.
Soon enough, the household settled; candles were carried upstairs, and Elizabeth found herself once more in her room. As Baker unpinned her hair and loosened her stays, the events of the evening replayed themselves—not with irritation, as she might have expected, but with a surprising lightness.
Mr. Darcy’s words no longer stung. If anything, they had clarified matters neatly. She had been insulted, yes—but also spared.
Elizabeth dismissed her maid and crossed to the window, gazing out at the tranquil grounds. Tomorrow would bring picnics and plans, friends, and familiar comforts. Tonight had been merely the beginning of something new.
She smiled to herself, extinguished the candle, and went to bed content—very certain that whatever else might come of Mr. Darcy’s arrival in Hertfordshire, it would not be boredom.
Chapter Twelve
“What a tedious way to spend the evening.” Mr. Hurst poured himself a glass of port—a singular action, considering it was but ten o’clock in the morning. The decanter caught the light as he lifted it, and the rich liquid glowed a deep garnet before it disappeared into his glass. Darcy was not certain he had ever seen the man sober. “A lot of hustle and bustle, and not a single engaging game of cards in sight.”
The breakfast room at Netherfield was, for all its pleasant proportions and airy windows, heavy with the aftertaste of last night’s discontent. The curtains had been drawn back to admit the pale autumn sun, and a fire crackled with practiced cheer, yet the warmth did nothing to soften the general temper. Silver clinked, porcelain chimed, and servants moved with careful silence—as if any unnecessary sound might provoke the company further.
While Darcy had guarded the wall at the assembly, Hurst had found the card room, abandoning his wife and the rest of his party in search of his own amusements. Hurst liked to play for high stakes—Darcy doubted the gentleman found anything ofthe sort at the country ball. If he had, Hurst would be in a far better humor now, and the port would have been accompanied by a triumphant recounting of winnings rather than complaint.
“I cannot agree more, my dear.” Mrs. Hurst carefully buttered a scone, her expression a mix of superiority and contempt. She took a bite as though performing a duty rather than enjoying a meal. “There was no elegance or refinement in sight.”
The words were delivered with the ease of rehearsal. Louisa Hurst spoke of elegance in the manner of a woman who had studied it as a language and believed herself fluent, though Darcy privately suspected she could not have defined refinement without first thinking of what she wished to exclude.
“It was a country assembly, Louisa. What more did you expect? You have attended many such events when you stay with Hurst’s family. Was it truly so different?” Bingley glowered over his cup of strong tea. The tea was dark enough to rival ink, and he drank it as though willing it to supply backbone. He did not appear to have slept very well—hardly surprising, considering his sisters had spent the better part of an hour haranguing him after they returned to Netherfield. Darcy had wisely made himself scarce.
Bingley’s good nature endured much, but even he had limits. The faint shadows beneath his eyes and the tightness about his mouth suggested his patience had been taxed more than once before breakfast.
Miss Bingley glided into the room, dressed in attire wholly unsuitable for a morning at home. Her gown was of fashionable cut and expensive fabric, her hair arranged as though for a call upon a duchess rather than a quiet breakfast with family. It was an announcement—of energy, of superiority, of intent. Her glance at Darcy, seen out of the corner of his eye, betrayed her purpose. He did not meet her gaze but kept his own firmly on his plate. “We told you last night, Charles, how terribly foolish it wasto expect us to attend such an event. Why, poor Mr. Darcy was exhausted from his travels. Have you no consideration?”
The appeal to Darcy’s comfort was too practiced to be sincere. It was meant to shame Bingley, to flatter Darcy, and—perhaps most importantly—to place herself as Darcy’s defender, as though she might thereby secure his gratitude. Darcy felt only fatigue.
“If you mean to repeat any of what you threw at me last night, you had best save your breath to cool your porridge. I have no intention of being so maligned in my own home again. And, if you lot wish for more refined company, feel free to depart for London as soon as your trunks are packed.” Bingley stabbed a forkful of eggs and put the bite in his mouth.
His tone was sharper than Darcy was accustomed to hearing from him, and it did Darcy a strange kind of good. Bingley had always been too ready to please; it was a relief to see him defend his own choices, even if the effort left him flushed and bristling.
Miss Bingley tittered, as though the reprimand were charming rather than cutting. “We could not possibly leave you alone. Why, you would find yourself engaged to some country mouse the moment we departed.”
“I resent your implication that I cannot care for myself.”
His sisters laughed. “Oh, Charles, you danced two dances with Miss Bennet. She is entirely unsuitable.” Mrs. Hurst shook her head. “There was not a single soul of any particular importance in attendance last evening.”
The disdain was not merely for the company, but for the implication that Bingley’s admiration might be genuine. Darcy watched the exchange with a familiar unease. It was always thus: Bingley’s heart moved quickly, his sisters’ judgment moved quicker, and the truth of a person was treated as less important than the stamp society might place upon them.
