“Your good lady has been telling me about her family, Bingley. Good evening, Mrs. Hurst, Mr. Hurst. I hope you have been well?”
Courtesies were exchanged, after which Mr. Hurst grumbled, “Wait until you have met all the Bennets, Mr. Darcy. You will think you are at Astley’s Amphitheatre.”
Mrs. Bingley blushed unhappily as Mr. Bingley took his brother-in-law to task. “Hurst, you are welcome to return to your townhouse in London if you are unhappy here.”
Mr. Hurst muttered an apology, which Mrs. Bingley acknowledged only by a nod of her golden head.
Just then, Netherfield’s butler announced, “Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Bennet, Miss Bennet, Miss Mary Bennet, Miss Catherine Bennet and Miss Lydia Bennet.”
A multitude of people crowded the drawing room – Astley’s Amphitheatre indeed! – but Mr. Darcy heard and saw none of it, as his eyes fastened immediately upon Miss Bennet. No, he had not imagined her beauty, her lithe figure, her graceful movements! When her eyes met his and then widened, he knew he had not imagined their chocolate colour, her long lashes, or the intelligence that shown like twin lanterns! He had imagined none of it, it was all real, she was real, and she was here with him in this very room. It was better than he had ever dared dream of! His pulse quickened, he took a step toward her…
He returned to himself with a shock when he heard his name. “…Mr. Darcy, my good friend.”
Mr. Darcy tore his eyes away from Miss Bennet’s and bowed politely to Bingley’s guests.
Mr. Bennet addressed him. “I believe you met my daughter Elizabeth not long ago in Kent, Mr. Darcy.” The words were pleasant enough, but the tone was steely. Mrs. Bingley had told him that Elizabeth’s father knew the truth of the Kent disaster and he clearly was not pleased.
“I had that pleasure, yes, Mr. Bennet. I also had the pleasure of playing your literary game with her.”
“Literary game? Oh, the First Line Game. Yes, she mentioned that you and your cousin were worthy opponents.”
As they spoke, Mr. Darcy’s eyes followed Miss Bennet as she sat beside Mrs. Bingley and engaged her in earnest conversation.
“Mr. Darcy, you must come to dinner at Longbourn while you are here in Meryton,” Mrs. Bennet’s voice snapped him to attention.
“I would be delighted to do so, Madam, and I thank you.”
Mr. Darcy could now see that Mrs. Bingley had gotten her blue eyes and blonde curls from her mother; the two youngest girls had also inherited Mrs. Bennet’s colouring. Miss Bennet had inherited her dark hair and dark eyes from her father. The middle girl, Miss Mary, was also brown-haired and brown-eyed, but she had not Miss Bennet’s playful demeanor and lively eyes. Nor was she well-turned out, as her gown was a muddy brown and her hair was pulled back too tightly.
They were soon called in to dinner, and Mr. Darcy had the great pleasure of discovering that he had Mrs. Bingley on his left and Miss Bennet on his right. He wasted no time. “I am delighted to see you again, Miss Bennet.”
She was silent for a moment. Was she angry at him? Did she blame him? He was suddenly awash in fear. Finally she spoke, softly, “And I you, Mr. Darcy.”
His relief was enormous. “I was afraid that you blamed me for what occurred in Kent.”
“I did blame you, a bit,” she confessed.
“A bit?”
“Well, I did ask you to ignore me, so as not to draw Lady Catherine’s attention to me.”
“I know, but you recall that I told you I couldnotignore you!”
She blushed as she replied, “I should have told you not to call upon me at the parsonage, but I enjoyed our conversations too much to do so. So I finally realised that I was equally culpable.”
“No, Miss Bennet, we are neither of us to blame. The responsibility for the unpleasantness must be placed squarely on the shoulders of my Aunt Catherine. I would never have believed her capable of such bad manners.”
“A mother will do much to ensure the happiness of her child,” Elizabeth mused.
“Indeed, but to the extent of causing misery to others?” As he spoke, Mr. Darcy thought of his own mother, and her apparent willingness to place her happiness above his own.
His thoughts were interrupted by an unhappy voice on the other side of the table. One of the young ladies – Miss Lydia, was it? – was complaining in a loud voice to her mother, who was sitting opposite her. “I do not think it right that Maria Lucas should have a new bonnet and I not have one as well!”
Mrs. Bingley, on his left, now commanded his attention. The second course had begun and she likely wanted to divert him from her sister’s tantrum. “I hope your room is comfortable, Mr. Darcy?”
“Very, Mrs. Bingley, I thank you. And I must compliment you on your cook, as the mackerel with fennel and mint was excellent.”
She blushed, charmingly. “I will pass your kind words on to our cook and her assistant, as well as to our gardener, who grows the mint.”
