Elizabeth reached her with relief.
“This is worse than I imagined,” she murmured once Charlotte had excused herself with an easy smile.
Charlotte’s eyes flicked over the room, then returned to Elizabeth with a faintly amused resignation. “Worse? I fear it is precisely what I imagined.”
“There are more guests than I have ever seen here,” Elizabeth said, lowering her voice, though it scarcely mattered. The crowd supplied enough cover ; no one could attend to every word.
“That is because there are,” Charlotte replied. “My father very often sends out more invitations than the Lodge can adequately accommodate.”
Elizabeth stared at her. “On purpose?”
Charlotte’s mouth curved. “Yes, quite deliberately. He knows several will decline. Illness, weather, distance, a preference for their own hearth—there are always excuses. The number who arrive is usually manageable.”
Elizabeth glanced about again. Mrs. Bennet was already held captive in a cluster of matrons, her hands fluttering as she delivered what was likely a retelling of some recent intelligence. Lydia and Kitty had drifted toward the center of the room with predatory intent, as if hunting officers. Mary stood with the Misses Long near the pianoforte, searching the music as she listened to the ladies’ chatter. Jane smiled at a neighbor, making the lady feel, no doubt, as if she were the most important person in Hertfordshire.
“And yet no one declined this time,” Elizabeth said.
Charlotte’s eyes softened with dry humor. “No one wished to decline. My father assumed they would. He is—how shall I put it—an optimist in matters of hospitality.”
Elizabeth gave a short laugh. “And what do you assume is the cause of this unexpected devotion to Lucas Lodge?”
Charlotte tilted her head the smallest amount. “I can only assume they wish to speak of treasure.”
It was said without fuss or excitement, as one might discuss the weather. Elizabeth envied her for it. She, too, tried to treat the subject as a fleeting curiosity, but it had spread through the neighborhood with such speed that even indifference felt like effort.
“Do you believe anyone will find gold?” Elizabeth asked, because it was clearly the question demanded of all sensible people, whether they wished to ask it or not.
Charlotte’s laughter was quiet, practical, and entirely unromantic. “Gold? No, I believe people will find mud, and lost buttons, and perhaps the occasional broken pot. Anything more is a fanciful notion.”
“A fanciful notion supported by an alarming number of shovels,” Elizabeth said, thinking of the common earlier.
“They will tire,” Charlotte replied. “Or the weather will defeat them. And if they find nothing to justify their excitement, they will grow embarrassed and pretend they never cared at all.”
Elizabeth smiled at that, because it was so very like her dear friend—accurate, unsparing, and somehow still kind. Charlotte knew how to see the world as it was, without any dramatic despair at the fact.
Before Elizabeth could respond, a ripple passed through the room, as distinct as if someone had dropped a stone into water. Heads turned. Conversations shifted, rising and then lowering. A pause, a quickening.
Elizabeth knew the feeling now. The Netherfield party had arrived. Her attention caught, as it always did, almost by instinct. He was composed, even in a crowded room, but his composure did not feel aloof that evening. Not when his gaze moved—briefly, quickly, as if by habit—toward her corner of the room.
But it was not Darcy alone. Beside him walked an unknown gentleman.
Elizabeth’s brows rose a fraction before she remembered herself and schooled her expression. She had heard nothing of another guest at Netherfield. But there he was—taller than Bingley by an inch or two perhaps, with a build more athletic than elegant, a confident carriage, and a face that—though not striking—held an openness that invited easy conclusions. He wore a dark blue coat that set off the fairer tone of his hair, and a waistcoat of gold so rich it seemed meant to catch candlelight. The ensemble was handsome without being foppish, suggesting a man who dressed well but did not dress to be admired.
Charlotte leaned closer, her voice pitched low. “That must be Mr. Darcy’s cousin.”
Elizabeth turned her eyes toward her friend, grateful for the explanation. “Cousin?”
“My father received a note,” Charlotte said. “From Mr. Darcy. He asked if his cousin might be included this evening.”
Elizabeth’s surprise sharpened. Mr. Darcy, writing to Sir William—soliciting an invitation—was not what the neighborhood’s gossip would have predicted of him.He is more determined than he appears,she thought, and found that the notion both warmed and unsettled her.
Charlotte’s lips twitched. “Yes. And my father was delighted to oblige—though I think he would have obliged without a note, if the gentleman had arrived at the door with a title of any description.”
Elizabeth’s gaze returned to the newcomer. Cousin. Could it be Colonel Fitzwilliam, of whom Darcy had spoken once or twice in passing?
He could not be called handsome—not like his cousin, whose features compelled attention even when his expression discouraged it. But this gentleman’s amiable countenance spoke of good humor and friendliness. His eyes—quick, light, observant—moved over the room in a way that suggested interest rather than judgment.
Sir William moved forward at once, practically glowing. He welcomed the Netherfield party as though they were visiting royalty, bowing and smiling with such enthusiasm that Elizabeth wondered he did not exhaust himself before the evening truly began.
