“Well! That was unexpected.”
“Unexpected?” Mrs. Hurst echoed. “Charles, how could you propose a ball without consulting us?”
Bingley looked genuinely puzzled. “Why should I not? Netherfield is my house.”
“Yes,” Miss Bingley replied coldly, “and you mean to fill it with country rustics who will neither appreciate the expense nor understand the distinction of the occasion.”
“That is unfair,” Bingley protested. “Dancing is a mark of polite society.”
Miss Bingley laughed lightly. “Every savage can dance. The ability to move about a floor does not make society polite.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly.
“If you believe,” she continued, “that the company we are keeping constitutes polite society, then you do not understand the phrase.”
Bingley flushed. “The Bennets are well-bred and perfectly respectable.”
“They are provincial,” she replied sharply. “And grateful for any attention paid to them.”
Darcy turned toward the window, jaw tightening.
Once again, I am trapped in a family quarrel I neither invited nor can escape.
Weariness settled over him—not merely at Miss Bingley’s sharp judgments or Mrs. Hurst’s agreement, but at the endless insistence that worth could only be measured by birth and polish.
And most dangerously, he found himself thinking of Elizabeth Bennet.
She would raise one brow and answer all this with a single clever remark.
Which was precisely why he must be cautious.
Because if there is a ball at Netherfield,he thought grimly,I am not at all certain I will be able to keep my distance.
“A ball, Jane! That is surely a credit to you.” Mrs. Bennet beamed, her eyes shining with unrestrained pleasure. “He is a good man. You will be very happy.”
“He has not requested a formal courtship, Mama,” Jane reminded her mother gently. “As of this moment, Mr. Bingley is nothing more than a friend.” Jane’s cheeks turned pink,betraying her true sentiments far more clearly than her carefully chosen words.
Elizabeth watched her family bantering lightly over the supper table, the easy rhythm of Longbourn settling about her like a familiar shawl. Mr. Bennet expressed his usual sardonic amusement, teasing his wife about the upcoming ball and warning her—tongue firmly in cheek—not to exhaust herself planning entertainments she would then fret over endlessly. Elizabeth knew her uncle did not enjoy social endeavors in the least, but he humored his wife nonetheless, content to sit back and observe the drama with wry detachment.
Kitty and Lydia asked eagerly if they would be allowed to attend. Mrs. Bennet firmly but kindly told them no. “Perhaps if Jane was married, my dears. Lydia, you are still very young—only fifteen!”
To their credit, neither protested too loudly, though Lydia’s sigh was theatrical enough to make Elizabeth hide a smile behind her napkin. Supper commenced in relative peace, a rare and precious occurrence in a household so full of youthful energy.
Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted back to the call that afternoon. It had been clear—painfully so—that Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were not in favor of having a ball. Their polite expressions had concealed sharp displeasure, and Elizabeth had little doubt the ladies would press their brother to abandon the idea once they were alone with him. Whether Mr. Bingley would yield to such pressure remained to be seen.
Her mind wandered, as it so often did of late, to the conundrum that was Mr. Darcy.
His disdain for their society had been evident from the first, yet his interest in her contradicted it at every turn. Their debates were stimulating—she would not deny that—and Elizabeth found she relished matching him point for point. Still, she couldnot help but wonder at their purpose. Did he seek to find fault in her understanding? In her education? In her very right to hold opinions so firmly? Elizabeth knew she could hold her own and felt she had even triumphed several times over the course of their discussions, though she suspected Mr. Darcy would never concede such a thing aloud.
That afternoon, he had briefly mentioned his cousin, Anne. Elizabeth had asked a few questions about the lady, curious about the cousin she had never known. Mr. Darcy had been tight-lipped, sharing the barest of information, as though anything more might betray some private understanding.
I wonder if he knows the depth of Lady Catherine’s expectations.Surely, he was aware of his aunt’s desire that he marry her daughter—but did he know the lady believed it only a matter of time before he accepted his “duty” as inevitable? Elizabeth doubted it. Men so accustomed to authority rarely grasped the full weight of others’ expectations until they became impossible to ignore.
Later that evening, Jane came to Elizabeth’s chamber. They sat together on the bed, speaking softly, the candlelight casting soft shadows upon the walls.
“Jane, surely you know Mr. Bingley cares for you.” Elizabeth took the first opportunity to raise the subject that had occupied her thoughts all evening.
“He has behaved no differently with me than any other with whom he associates.” Jane shook her head, her expression thoughtful rather than distressed. “I cannot be sure he feels even a modicum of affection for me.”
