Mary’s gown, though simpler in design, was no less tasteful. She had chosen a pale lavender muslin, finely woven and neatly pressed, with long sleeves gathered at the wrist and a clean, unadorned hem. The cut was precise, lending her an air of composed dignity, and the faint sheen of the fabric softened her sharper features. A single ornament—a modest cameo pinned at her bodice—served as her only embellishment, chosen not from economy but from discernment. There was an assurance in Mary’s appearance that evening, a quiet confidence born of knowing she was suitably, even elegantly, dressed without excess.
Mrs. Bennet surveyed her daughters with a measured expression of approval, her own appearance reflecting the same careful restraint. Her gown, a warm shade of cream with subtle gold detailing along the sleeves, was fashionably current without verging on extravagance. The fit was impeccable, the result of thoughtful selection rather than impulsive indulgence, and her accessories—pearls of modest size and a neatly reticulated bag—were chosen with care. There was a composure about her that evening, a gentleness in her manner that spoke of self-awareness hard-won and deliberately maintained. Pride warmed her features, but it was tempered with propriety, and when she spoke, her words were calm, encouraging, and entirely appropriate to the occasion.
Elizabeth, observing them all, felt a quiet satisfaction settle over her. There was harmony in their appearances, a reflection of the balance they had each learned to strike between personalinclination and social expectation. Tonight, they would enter Netherfield not merely as guests, but as a family entirely at ease with themselves—and that, she thought, was its own kind of triumph.
Never had Darcy been so impatient for an evening to begin. After many days of wrestling with his own desires, he had made the decision to leave Netherfield Park after the ball. He could not remain and be tempted by Miss Elizabeth.
The resolve had come not in a moment of clarity, but through exhaustion. Each day had brought new reasons to stay—her wit, her warmth, the ease with which she unsettled him—and each night had ended with the same stern conclusion. Distance was required. Habit must be broken. Hope must be extinguished before it took deeper root.
How his heart had argued!She is a gentleman’s daughter—you are a gentleman, so in that, you are equal.That, along with protestations about her standing and the question of her fortune, went around in his head for far longer than he liked.
The arguments rarely arrived singly. They came in waves, reason contending with desire, pride marshaling its defenses only to falter beneath the memory of her smile. He had paced the room more than once, hands clasped behind his back, rehearsing objections as though they were lines in a well-worn debate—each one persuasive, each one insufficient.
He had to admit that he knew not the true nature of her fortune. Was she wealthy or not? Brisby had been unable to discover any additional information. The cousins, however,did have some little dowry—but nothing worth flaunting, apparently, or it would be well known.
That uncertainty troubled him more than the lack itself. Mystery implied intention, and intention suggested independence—qualities he admired far more than prudence allowed. If there were secrets, they were well kept, and Darcy respected discretion even as it thwarted him.
The behavior of the family was above reproach, but would they survive when placed among the harpies that inhabited theton? He did not believe they would.Bingley deserves someone better than a country miss—someone who can elevate him beyond her sphere—and his—and who paves the way for future generations.
The thought came unbidden, yet he clung to it, sharpening it into a weapon against his own inclinations. London was not Hertfordshire. Polite civility would not suffice there; the Bennets’ quiet virtues would be measured and found wanting by those who delighted in cruelty dressed as wit. He would not see his friend wounded by society’s judgments.
But he would be honest with himself. Bingley’s attachment to Jane Bennet was only part of his struggle. No, Darcy would run from the cousin and pray the distance would allow him to forget her.
That admission settled heavily upon him. He did notwishto forget her—only to survive the attempt. Memory, however, was a traitor, and he feared hers would prove indelible.
He would give himself one last gift, however. Tonight, he would ask Miss Elizabeth for a set. He would bask in her company one last time before he departed the next day. Brisby already had his trunks packed.
The knowledge lent a strange finality to his anticipation. Every moment would be precious, sharpened by the certainty that it must end.
“Darcy!” Bingley clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Are you as eager for the night as I?”
Darcy startled slightly, dragged back from his thoughts, and turned to face his friend.
“Eager for it to end, to be sure.” Darcy smiled awkwardly. “You know how much I abhor dancing.”
The familiar jest tasted thin upon his tongue.
“I am pleased you will attend.”
Bingley’s expression was open, sincere—too sincere. Darcy felt an unexpected pang.
Darcy hesitated. “Bingley, I am for town tomorrow.”
His friend looked surprised. “As am I! My man of business has an urgent matter I must see to at once. Shall we go together?”
The coincidence struck Darcy at once, though he kept his expression neutral.
“Yes, if you like. I plan to leave after breakfast—the ball will go into the early hours of the morning and I must have some sleep.” The jest fell flat, but Bingley chuckled anyway.
“I plan to return by the week’s end. Will you stay in London?” There was something strange about Bingley’s manner. Overly nonchalant. He would not meet Darcy’s gaze.
“Yes. At least for a week or two. My aunt, Lady Catherine, has demanded my presence at Rosings Park for the festive season.”Demandwas the correct word. Her letter had been less an invitation than a summons. “No doubt she will again tell me I must marry my cousin.” That had gone on long enough. Darcy intended to inform his aunt once and for all that he would not be pressed into such an arrangement.If I cannot have Elizabeth, I will at least have my choice of suitable brides.
The thought carried no comfort.
“I wish you well in the dragon’s den. You have told me enough of your aunt to believe she can breathe fire.” Bingley laughed again, but it sounded hollow. “Shall we go down?”
Both men were ready for the evening and departed for the large drawing room together. They would stay there until guests began to arrive.
