Certainly, it was to find fault, or so she told herself. Men like Mr. Darcy did not look at women such as she with admiration. They looked for deficiencies, for proof that their earlier assumptions were justified.
Elizabeth shifted in her seat, displeased with the direction of her thoughts.Do not be foolish,she cautioned herself.Interest and scrutiny are not the same thing.
Still, the matter troubled her enough that a familiar solution suggested itself.
I shall write to my aunt directly,she decided, her mind already composing the opening lines.And see if she has any information about Mr. Darcy of Pemberley.
It was unlikely Aunt Caroline knew him personally. The princess did not move comfortably in the first circles; her place had long been on the periphery of polite society, invited rarely, observed often, welcomed almost never. Yet she remained remarkably well-informed. People spoke freely in her presence, mistaking exclusion for insignificance, and news traveled swiftly to those who listened carefully.
Perhaps Aunt Caroline had heard something—some scrap of gossip, some half-formed opinion that might illuminate Mr. Darcy’s character. Elizabeth smiled faintly at the thought of her aunt’s reaction. If the princess knew of him, she would not hesitate to speak plainly.
The carriage jolted slightly as it turned onto the familiar road to Longbourn, and Elizabeth allowed the motion to ground her. Speculation was a dangerous indulgence. She had lived too long under careful constraint to forget that.
As for Mr. Darcy’s intense stares—she resolved to dismiss them as nothing more than curiosity. He was new to the neighborhood, she was an unfamiliar figure, and novelty alone could explain his interest. There was no reason to assign meaning where none was required.
Still, caution would be wise.
It would not do to upset the delicate balance in which she lived her life—a balance maintained through discretion, restraint, and the careful avoidance of notice. Attention could be as perilous as neglect, and Elizabeth had learned, through long experience, that even the smallest misstep could echo far beyond its origin.
She folded her hands in her lap and breathed out slowly. Whatever Mr. Darcy thought of her—whatever conclusions he drew—Elizabeth de Bourgh, called Bennet when it suited, would give him no encouragement, no leverage, and no reason to linger longer than courtesy required.
Some fires, she knew well, were best left unlit.
Chapter Fourteen
By the evening of Lady Lucas’s gathering, the novelty of Netherfield’s arrival had settled into something approaching familiarity. In the time since the Bennet ladies’ first call, they had been in company with the Netherfield party on three further occasions—brief, formal encounters marked by politeness rather than warmth. Mr. Bingley, however, required no encouragement to seek them out. His visits were frequent, his manners unfailingly attentive, and his interest—particularly where Jane was concerned—both evident and unguarded.
Indeed, it was no longer possible to pretend ignorance of his preference.
Whenever Jane and Mr. Bingley were in the same room, conversation narrowed naturally between them, as though the world beyond their small sphere had dimmed. He listened to her with a sincerity that bordered on reverence; she responded with a gentle openness that made even the most ordinary observations feel like confidences. Elizabeth observed them often with quiet satisfaction. There was no artifice in their exchange, no studied display—only ease.
The same could not be said of the rest for the Netherfield party.
Miss Bingley’s approval was notably absent, her civility sharpened by restraint rather than softened by familiarity. Mrs. Hurst followed her sister’s lead with indolent disdain, and Mr. Darcy—if he noticed Jane at all—did so only to note her attachment as a matter of fact, not sentiment. Their disapproval was unmistakable, though never voiced aloud.
Jane noticed it, of course. She noticed everything.
“I like him very much,” she confessed to Elizabeth that afternoon as they prepared for Lady Lucas’s gathering, her voice low and earnest. “I know it is foolish to speak so soon—but I cannot help it. He is kind, and good, and seems to take pleasure in making others easy. I believe he is exactly as he appears.”
Elizabeth smiled at her cousin, affection warming her chest. “Then I am very happy for you. And I shall reserve my skepticism for others.”
Jane laughed softly. “You never reserve it for long.”
“No—but I will try.”
Mary, seated near the window with a book of essays open upon her lap, glanced up at them. “Affection founded upon mutual esteem is far preferable to admiration alone,” she offered gravely. “Mr. Bingley appears to possess both.”
Elizabeth grinned. “High praise, indeed.”
The subject was abandoned then, for it was time to dress.
Lady Lucas’s gathering, though modest in scale, was meant to impress. Colonel Forster and several officers of the militia were expected, and Mrs. Bennet had insisted upon appearances suitable not merely for Hertfordshire, but for any drawing room in London.
Jane dressed first. Her gown was of pale ivory muslin, the fabric fine and softly translucent, embroidered delicately along the hem and sleeves with a thread scarcely darker than thecloth itself. The bodice was cut simply, with a modest neckline and short sleeves edged in narrow lace. A sash of soft gold ribbon rested beneath her bust, lending warmth to the ensemble without ostentation. Her hair was arranged in loose curls, pinned neatly at the back, with a single tendril escaping to brush her cheek. The effect was effortless elegance—unassuming and quietly arresting.
Mary’s gown was darker and more distinctive: a deep forest green silk, chosen to complement her complexion as Elizabeth had once advised. The cut was fashionable but restrained, the skirt falling in graceful folds, the sleeves longer than Jane’s, lending her an air of seriousness that suited her temperament. She wore little ornament, save a narrow gold chain at her throat and a small brooch fastening her fichu. Her hair was smoothed back more tightly than Jane’s, but the severity softened her features rather than hardening them.
Elizabeth dressed last.
