Mr. Bennet nodded. “So they are.”
Before he could say more, Mr. Wilson leaned forward with eager interest.
“The Netherfield party! Pray, tell me who these people are.”
Elizabeth felt something small and sharp tighten unexpectedly within her chest at the mention of Netherfield. She listened silently as Jane described their new neighbors and how their addition to the neighborhood was very welcome.
Mr. Darcy. The thought arrived so quickly and naturally now that it unsettled her afresh. Ridiculous. Perfectly ridiculous. Mr. Darcy was merely a gentleman who had behaved badly, repented sincerely, and worked hard to repair the offense. That did not signify anything beyond good character and proper conduct.
Certainly not the dangerous warmth
she now associated with the sound of his name.
“I am eager to meet them,” Mr. Wilson continued. “Especially this Mr. Bingley. Any man who acquires an estate at his age interests me greatly.”
“He is very amiable,” Jane offered.
“And his friend Mr. Darcy?” Mr. Wilson asked. “What sort of fellow is he?”
Elizabeth reached for her wineglass before realizing too late that the motion itself probably betrayed more attention than she intended.
Mr. Bennet answered. “Reserved.”
Elizabeth kept her eyes firmly upon her plate.
Mrs. Bennet’s mouth twitched.
Mr. Wilson cheered. “Excellent. Already the company you keep sounds entertaining.”
The conversation shifted again after that, though not permanently away from Elizabeth. Mr. Wilson repeatedly directed remarks toward her throughout the remainder of dinner, asking her opinions, inviting her responses, and leaning forward with visible attentiveness whenever she spoke.
By the time the ladies withdrew afterward, Elizabeth had become acutely aware of it.
So had everyone else.
In the drawing room, matters improved little. Mr. Wilson deliberately selected the chair beside hers and continued speaking with cheerful persistence regarding books, trade, travel, and the changes overtaking northern manufacturing towns.
Elizabeth answered politely while increasingly aware of how seldom he permitted silence to exist naturally.
Conversation with Mr. Darcy, she thought suddenly, required effort because one must draw him outward. Conversation with Mr. Wilson required effort because one could scarcely find room to enter it at all.
The comparison arose unbidden and remained at the fore of her thoughts. At last, the evening concluded.
Jane, still recovering, retired early. Elizabeth accompanied her upstairs under the perfectly reasonable pretense of ensuring her sister had everything she required for the night.
Once alone together, Jane leaned back against the pillows with visible relief.
“Our cousin possesses considerable energy.”
Elizabeth snorted. “That is a charitable description.”
Jane smiled. “You disagree?”
“I believe Mr. Wilson could successfully conduct a conversation utterly alone if given sufficient time.”
“He is enthusiastic.”
“He is exhausting.”
