No—the discomfort lay elsewhere.
In the increasingly undeniable fact that she herself no longer knew precisely what she wished regarding Mr. Darcy.
That uncertainty lingered long after dinner concluded and the family withdrew to the drawing room.
While Mary played at the pianoforte and Lydia attempted unsuccessfully to coax the twins into a game of cards despite their punishment, Elizabeth sat near the fire with her embroidery untouched in her lap.
Her thoughts wandered.
To Netherfield.
To Darcy.
To the warmth in his voice when he spoke of her father.
To the unmistakable sincerity in his apology.
And most dangerously of all—to the possibility that beneath the reserve and pride she first encountered existed a man very different from the one she had believed him to be.
Elizabeth stared into the fire a moment longer before forcing her attention back to the room around her.
Alfred Barnett Wilson would arrive in a matter of days.
The prospect introduced a fresh element of uncertainty into Longbourn, though whether it would bring amusement, irritation, or genuine trouble remained impossible to guess.
Brief though the visit might prove, Elizabeth suspected their household would not remain unchanged by it.
And somewhere across Hertfordshire, at Netherfield Park, lived a gentleman whose opinion now mattered far more to her than it ought.
Mr. Alfred Barnett Wilson arrived at Longbourn precisely as promised.
At four o’clock on the twentieth of November, the sound of carriage wheels upon the gravel announced his approach with such punctuality that Mr. Bennet, who had spent part of the afternoon doubting whether any man so confidently certain of his welcome could also prove equally reliable in his timing, lowered his book and remarked that perhaps arrogance and efficiency occasionally traveled together after all.
Elizabeth, seated near the window with Jane and Kitty, peered out in time to see the carriage draw to a halt before the house. It was a respectable vehicle without pretension, well maintained though not especially elegant. A servant descended first, followed shortly by the gentleman himself.
Her first impression was one of solidity.
Mr. Wilson stood somewhat above middling height, broad through the shoulders in the manner of a man accustomed to movement and work rather than fashionable idleness. Sandy blond hair, with subtle darker accents at the temples, bordered a face that might have been considered attractive if it hadexhibited greater self-control. His hazel eyes moved quickly, taking in the house, the grounds, and the waiting servants with open curiosity before settling upon the door as though he anticipated conquering Longbourn by sheer enthusiasm.
“Well,” Mr. Bennet murmured from his chair, “he approaches like a man storming a city.”
Mrs. Bennet cast him a look. “Be kind.”
“I intend every kindness short of surrender.”
The door opened moments later.
Mr. Wilson entered with an energy that filled the hall before his voice had properly done so. He removed his gloves while apologizing for the weather, praising the roads, admiring the approach to Longbourn, and greeting Mrs. Bennet all within the span of half a minute.
“Mrs. Bennet!” he exclaimed warmly. “It has been far too many years.”
Grace Bennet smiled with genuine civility, though Elizabeth noticed a slight hesitancy before she offered her hand. “Mr. Wilson. We are pleased to receive you.”
“And Bennet!” Mr. Wilson crossed toward Mr. Bennet, extending his hand with hearty confidence. “You look exactly as I imagined you.”
“That is alarming,” Mr. Bennet replied mildly as they shook hands. “I scarcely know how to defend myself against such accuracy.”
Mr. Wilson laughed loudly and without reserve.
