He offered his arm to his wife.
“Shall we?”
The carriage was brought around. The evening air, cool and still, carried a sense of expectation Elizabeth found impossible to ignore.
They entered together—Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Bennet, Jane, Mary, and Elizabeth—leaving Kitty and Lydia at the door with expressions that combined admiration and regret.
“You must tell us everything,” Lydia called as the carriage door closed.
Jane smiled. “We shall.”
The carriage set off.
Elizabeth settled into her seat, her hands resting lightly in her lap.
The road to Meryton was familiar; the knowledge of what awaited lent it a different character.
Beside her, Jane sat in composed anticipation. Mary, though more restrained, conveyed a similar readiness. Mrs. Bennet’s attention seemed directed toward the passing landscape, though Elizabeth suspected her thoughts encompassed far more.
Mr. Bennet appeared content to observe.
At length, the lights of the assembly rooms came into view.
Elizabeth felt a distinct sharpening of awareness.
The evening had begun.
The Assembly at Meryton
Darcy’s early days at Netherfield had passed with a degree of satisfaction he had never anticipated. The house suited Bingley exceedingly well. Its proportions were generous without pretension, its situation pleasant, and its distance from London sufficient to justify a temporary retreat from obligations that too often pressed upon his time. The surrounding grounds, though far from remarkable, were orderly and well maintained, offering ample opportunity for walking and reflection.
More importantly, the house had remained nearly empty.
Bingley’s enthusiasm filled any silence that might otherwise have become tedious, but he never overwhelmed it. Their conversations were easy and unforced. Mornings passed in plans for improvement. Afternoons were spent exploring the estate or riding through the neighboring fields. Evenings required little more than a fire, a book, and the occasional exchange of opinion.
Darcy had never expected to enjoy it.
He found, to his surprise, that he did.
That agreeable state of affairs ended the moment the carriage arrived. Its approach announced itself before it came into view—the grind of wheels upon gravel, the increased activity among the servants, and the unmistakable change in atmosphere accompanying the arrival of company fully prepared to make its presence known.
Darcy, standing at the library window, continued to watch as the carriage drew up before the entrance, the door opened, and Miss Caroline Bingley descended.
She did more than arrive; she made an entrance. Her manner conveyed such certainty of position that acknowledgment from others was almost superfluous. Her posture, her step, and the inclination of her head all suggested familiarity with surroundings of this kind, together with the expectation that they would accommodate her with equal ease.
Behind her came Mrs. Hurst, whose expression already inclined toward fatigue, and Mr. Hurst, who appeared to have brought little beyond his appetite and a willingness to indulge it.
Darcy closed the book he had been holding and set it aside.
He had no intention of avoiding them. At the same time, he entertained no illusions about what their arrival would entail. By the time he entered the drawing room, Miss Bingley had already positioned herself near its center, as though it were a stage upon which she had long been accustomed to appear.
“My dear brother,” she was saying, extending her hands to Bingley, “you have quite outdone yourself.”
Bingley received her with effortless warmth. “You like it, then?”
“It is very well chosen,” she replied, her gaze moving over the room with approval. “Though I cannot say it would have been my first selection.”
Darcy braced himself as he approached. “Miss Bingley.”
