Elizabeth inclined her head, understanding far more than the words alone conveyed. This was not merely warning—it was trust.
With that, Mr. Bennet turned and left the room, citing a need to see to estate business. The door closed softly behind him, leaving Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet in the quiet aftermath of truths long suspected and now confirmed.
Elizabeth sat very still, her thoughts turning not to Mr. Collins, but to Lady Catherine—and to the curious way old resentments could stretch their fingers across generations, shaping lives with cold precision.
“Now, Lizzy, let us talk of other subjects. You have had a chance to see some of Netherfield’s public rooms. What do you think of the decor?”
Mrs. Bennet seemed eager to hear Elizabeth’s thoughts, and so she obliged her aunt.
Darcy and Bingley stepped through Longbourn’s door, having been admitted by Mr. Hill. Their greatcoats were relieved of them with practiced efficiency, gloves and hats handed off to awaiting footman, and they followed the housekeeper down the familiar corridor toward the parlor. Darcy could hear voices from within and, for reasons he could not have articulated, slowed his step. His presence was for Bingley, or so he told himself, though he had thought to avoid Miss Elizabeth as much as possible.
“I agree—the drapes in the front parlor need to be replaced. That garish green has seen better days and is faded now from the sunlight. It is a shame that parlor faces full west. Lizzy, perhaps it can be used for something else. Netherfield has plenty of parlors.”
Darcy stopped outright.
Netherfield? Why would Miss Elizabeth be involved in choices about that estate? Perhaps she plotted for her sister. Darcy had believed Miss Elizabeth devoid of scheming characteristics.Perhaps I was incorrect.
The thought sat poorly with him. It was not jealousy that pricked him—at least, he would not name it so—but a sharp, unfamiliar irritation. Miss Elizabeth did not strike him as a young woman who arranged futures by calculation. Her manner lacked the studied artifice he had come to associate with ambition. And yet, here she was, speaking as though Netherfield were a place within her purview.
The housekeeper announced them, and the gentlemen entered the room.
“Good day, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley.” Mrs. Bennet greeted them graciously, as if they had not just been plotting her daughter’s future as mistress of Netherfield Park. “Hill has gone to fetch Jane and Mary.”
It is nothing other ladies have not done before. His thoughts worked to justify Miss Elizabeth’s behavior. It was presumptuous, but hardly extraordinary. Of greater concern was the mystery surrounding Elizabeth’s circumstances. There wasan ease to her authority that did not align with her supposed position. She spoke not as one grasping upward, but as one accustomed to being heard.
Miss Bennet and her sister joined them, and soon all were speaking amiably—except Darcy. He took a chair slightly apart from the others and listened, saying nothing at all. His gaze, despite his best efforts, continually drifted to Miss Elizabeth. He admired the curve of her neck, the way her dark curls brushed her cheeks when she turned her head. Her expression was animated, her eyes bright with good humor and intelligence.
At one point, she and Miss Mary began speaking French. The latter’s accent was careful and correct, though a touch too deliberate, while Miss Elizabeth’s flowed with an ease that startled him. It was not merely competence—it was fluency. Darcy struggled not to eavesdrop but found it impossible to do otherwise.
They spoke of mundane things, and Elizabeth mentioned a letter Mr. Bennet had received. Elizabeth said there was nothing worth repeating in the missive, and that she would tell her cousin more later. At this point, she glanced at Darcy and raised her brows. Darcy assumed she wished to convey the message that they ought to be attending to their guests.
“She is aware of everything,”he thought with some surprise.“And she manages it without making anyone feel managed.”
“How is your stay at Netherfield, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Elizabeth asked, turning fully towards him.
The directness of the question left him momentarily off balance.
“It is typical of a country stay, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied after a pause. “There are shooting, riding, and other amusements. Though the society is more confined and unvarying than I would find around Pemberley, there seems to be a plethora of social events.”
“Confined and unvarying?” Mrs. Bennet sounded somewhat put out. “I will admit that our society is not so large as one might find in Town, but we dine with four-and-twenty families. That is hardly a lack of variety.”
Darcy nodded in acknowledgement but kept his disagreement to himself. Numbers did not equate to breadth of mind, and he suspected Mrs. Bennet would not welcome the distinction.
“Broader society does not necessarily mean better quality companionship.”
Miss Elizabeth’s words returned his full attention to her.
“I find I am much happier spending my time amongst a small group of intimate friends rather than having a large group of acquaintances.”
Her tone was mild, but the conviction beneath it was unmistakable.
“Would the company of a small group not grow wearisome?” he asked, unable to restrain the question. “Routine has a way of dulling even the sharpest minds.”
“There is always something to be discussed amongst true friends, Mr. Darcy. Some topics can always be reexamined. True friends show interest even in the most mundane parts of another’s life. So, you see, it is quite impossible that it would ever become wearisome.”
She spoke as though stating a simple truth, one learned by experience rather than theory.
He had the impression—again—that she was drawing from a life he did not fully understand. How could she know, though, if she had never moved in London’s society?I would have met her long ago if she had.
