“I have known titled people completely and utterly lacking in character,” he continued, “and tradesmen possessing integrity, intelligence, and generosity in abundance. Birth may shape opportunity. It does not determine worth.”
Elizabeth stared at him seriously. No performance existed there. No fashionable broad-mindedness intended merely to charm. He believed it. That realization reached somewhere unguarded inside her.
They returned to Longbourn shortly afterward where Mrs. Bennet insisted both gentlemen remain for tea.
Mr. Wilson arrived only moments later, still somewhat irritated by his missing boots, though determined, it seemed, to recover both dignity and conversational command before the afternoon concluded.
Tea commenced pleasantly enough at first.
Mrs. Bennet poured with practiced grace while Bingley devoted himself happily to Jane’s comfort, insisting she take another cushion despite her assurances that she required none. Darcy sat near Elizabeth but not so near as to invite notice, contributing occasional remarks to the general conversation while watching the room with that steady attentiveness she had begun to recognize in him.
Mr. Wilson, meanwhile, appeared determined to reclaim the ground lost earlier in the day.
He positioned himself opposite Elizabeth and resumed speaking regarding the expansion of northern roads and the advantages improved transport would bring to trade. Lydia listened with exaggerated seriousness that convinced Elizabeth of her guilt in something long before proof arrived.
Mr. Wilson reached for the sugar bowl while continuing his observations. “The difficulty with progress,” he declared, adding a generous spoonful to his tea, “is that most people resist it merely because it is unfamiliar.”
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair. “An argument applicable to many areas of life.”
“Precisely.” Mr. Wilson stirred his tea, took a hearty sip—And nearly choked. The sound startled everyone.
Jane looked up in alarm. Bingley half rose from his chair. Mary, who had just lifted the sugar spoon toward her own cup, froze mid-motion.
Wilson coughed violently into his handkerchief.
“Good heavens,” he gasped. “What on earth—”
Mary frowned and lowered the spoon without using it.
Mrs. Bennet extended her hand. “Mary, allow me.”
The room fell strangely still.
Grace Bennet took the spoon from her daughter, examined the contents briefly, then reached calmly for the sugar bowl itself. Her expression altered almost imperceptibly.
Elizabeth saw it at once. Not surprise. Recognition.
Mrs. Bennet rose. “I beg your pardon,” she said smoothly. “There appears to have been some confusion.” She crossed toward the door carrying the bowl with measured composure while an awkward silence fell behind her.
Mr. Wilson drank hurriedly from his water glass with the expression of a man personally attacked by refreshments.
Mr. Bennet’s mouth twitched dangerously.
Darcy lowered his eyes toward his untouched tea.
Bingley appeared deeply concerned. “Are you unwell?”
Wilson coughed once more. “Perfectly well. Though I confess I have never before encountered salted tea.”
Lydia made a suspicious choking sound that she disguised badly as a cough.
Elizabeth turned toward her sister at once.
The younger girl stared fixedly at the carpet with enormous concentration.
Thomas and Toby had not been seen since just before tea began. That fact now appeared deeply significant.
Mrs. Bennet returned several moments later carrying a different sugar bowl.
