As the carriage came to a stop, a footman stepped forward to open the door. Jones and Weston jumped down to hand the ladies out before following them inside. It was their responsibility to remain vigilant, but Elizabeth scarcely believed herself in any danger here. Netherfield might house disagreeable manners, but it was hardly a den of villains.
She dismissed them with a small nod just outside the parlor where they were being announced. Both men faded discreetly into the background as she followed her aunt and cousins inside, her expression composed and her posture easy.
Elizabeth’s first impression of the parlor was favorable. There were some elements that were out of date and required refreshing, but overall, it was furnished with timeless pieces that needed no replacing—the sort of solid, well-proportioned furniture chosen with care rather than fashion in mind. The mahogany sideboard bore only a few superficial scratches, the sort acquired through years of honest use, and the sofa—though covered in a faded damask—retained excellent lines and a comfort that bespoke quality workmanship. She noted the curtains at once: serviceable, yet heavy, and better suited to a darker room than one so generously supplied with light. Those would need replacing, she decided—perhaps something lighter, in a warmer tone, to soften the space. The carpet, too, had seen better days, its pattern dulled by time rather than neglect; a new one, with a gentler palette, would alter the room considerably. The arrangement pleased her; the chairs were sensibly placed, the tables neither crowded nor sparse, and the mantel—though plainly dressed—would benefit from a few carefully chosen ornaments. None of the deficiencies suggested poverty or indifference—only the gradual settling of a house that had not been altered simply for novelty’s sake. As Elizabeth’s eye moved from corner to corner, she found herself making a quiet inventory of what might be retained and what improved, contentin the knowledge that once the present occupants departed, a judicious hand could restore the room to something both cheerful and refined.
“Welcome to Netherfield.” Miss Bingley stood statuesque beside her shorter sister, chin tilted upward and nose ever so slightly in the air. “Please have a seat.” She gestured with regal languor toward the chairs opposite before seating herself in a high-backed chair that looked rather like a throne.
That will have to go,Elizabeth thought, suppressing a sly smile. It would never do to have such a commanding piece dominating one of the principal rooms. The thought of Miss Bingley’s reaction—were she to learn that the true owner of her brother’s leased estate sat before her—nearly drew a laugh from Elizabeth.
Conversation was stilted at first, circling safely around the weather and the comfort of the roads, until Jane remarked upon Miss Bingley’s gown. The fabric was remarkably similar to what Elizabeth had brought from town; she recognized it at once and knew it must have come from Bond Street—likely from the same establishment Aunt Caroline had taken her to before her departure.
“Yes, it is very fine indeed,” Miss Bingley said, preening. “Madame Clarice made the gown—do you know her? She is one of the premier modistes in London. Her clientele is very exclusive.”
“I prefer Madame Dubois,” Elizabeth said before she could stop herself.
The words hung in the air.
Madame Clarice was talented, but Madame Dubois catered to an even more discerning—and far more exclusive—circle. Miss Bingley’s eyes widened.
“You have had a gown made by Madame Dubois?” Her tone carried disbelief, shading quickly into insult.
“I have. Several, in fact.” Elizabeth kept her expression neutral. There was power in information, and she had no wish to reveal more than necessary—indeed, she had already said too much.
“Did Aunt Caroline take you?” Mary asked softly, glancing nervously between Elizabeth and Miss Bingley.
“She did,” Elizabeth replied evenly. “The fabric for your gowns was purchased on the same trip.”
That, she thought firmly, was enough. Mrs. Bennet hastened to fill the silence, speaking enthusiastically of her brother’s warehouses and the quality of fabric he supplied to merchants on Bond Street. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst exchanged a look that passed swiftly from incredulity to judgment.
“Your brother lives in London, Mrs. Bennet?” Mrs. Hurst raised a brow. “And has warehouses?”
“Yes, near Gracechurch Street. We are very fortunate in our connections.”
Miss Bingley covered what could only be called a laugh with a delicate cough.
If only you knew,Elizabeth thought, smothering a smile.
“Hello!” The gentlemen entered then, breaking the tension. Mr. Bingley came first, greeting the room warmly before seating himself beside Jane. Mr. Darcy followed, taking up a position by the fire, where he leaned against the mantel with a familiar air of aloof scrutiny. Mr. Hurst came last, making straight for the settee where a decanter and glasses awaited him. He poured himself a drink without ceremony.
Conversation resumed, more easily now, and Elizabeth noted when the polite quarter-hour came and went. She spoke amiably with Mr. Bingley and Jane, while Mrs. Bennet and Mary engaged the ladies. Soon, Jane and Mr. Bingley were conversing almost exclusively, and Elizabeth turned her attention elsewhere.
It was then she realized that Mr. Darcy was watching her.
She did not meet his gaze directly, but she could see him studying her from the corner of his eye—an intent, assessing look that irritated her more than last week’s open disdain.
It was not enough to find fault in a crowded assembly hall—now he must continue his silent examination. Elizabeth resolutely ignored him, turning instead to the more pleasant business of conversation, determined that whatever conclusions Mr. Darcy drew would be made entirely without her assistance.
Darcy watched the call with disinterest at first, and then guarded interest. He had taken his accustomed position near the mantel, adopting the air of detached observation that had served him well in a thousand drawing rooms. His posture was relaxed but closed, one shoulder angled toward the fire, gaze unfocused enough to suggest indifference. It was a habit born of long practice: appear disengaged, reveal nothing, invite no one to presume familiarity.
And yet—against his will—his attention kept returning to Miss Elizabeth.
Her entire being radiated happiness and something undefinable, a quality he could not immediately name and therefore did not like. It was not gaiety, precisely, nor was it mere good spirits. It was as though someone had lit a fire within her—contained, steady, warming everything around it without flaring into excess. She spoke with animation, her hands moving occasionally to emphasize a point, her expressions lively but never exaggerated. She listened as readily as she spoke, responding with interest rather than impatience, and somehow managed to be fully present without commanding the room.
When Miss Bennet and Bingley began speaking exclusively, Miss Elizabeth did not attempt to insert herself into their discussion, nor did she display the faintest trace of pique or wounded pride. Darcy, accustomed to observing women maneuver for attention—particularly when a wealthy, agreeable gentleman was involved—found the absence notable. Instead, she leaned back slightly and began to watch others, her gaze thoughtful, perceptive, as though the room itself were a source of amusement.
This, Darcy realized, was the first truly good look he had of the young lady.
Her hair was a rich brown, darker than he had first noticed, and he suspected it had a natural curl that resisted strict obedience. Even now, dressed plainly by London standards, a few strands escaped their pins, softening her features. Her gown, though simply trimmed, was of fine make—finer than he would expect a country lass to possess. The cut was fashionable without being gaudy, the fabric clearly of quality, and worn with an ease that suggested familiarity rather than novelty.Perhaps the family as a whole spends frivolously on their wardrobe.
