“I should go in and tell Mama,” Elizabeth said.
Lydia squealed.
Jane slipped her arm through Elizabeth’s, steadying her with the same gentle love she always gave.
Elizabeth drew one long breath, felt the warmth of Darcy’s embrace still lingering about her, and smiled.
Then she walked toward the house to set the storm in motion.
Chapter 28
Darcy had never enjoyed a dinner more.
He knew it would be noisy. He had expected Mrs. Bennet’s raptures, Lydia’s laughter, Kitty’s echoes, Miss Bingley’s sharpened civility, Hurst’s devotion to his plate, and Richard’s unholy delight in observing all of it. He expected Bingley to look at Jane too often, Miss Bingley and the Hursts to be passively bored, and Mr. Bennet to amuse himself by saying very little while noticing far too much.
But what he had not expected was to be so happy.
Miss Bingley presided as hostess with a politeness that would have satisfied anyone who did not know her. Her smiles were well placed, her compliments correct, and her arrangements beyond reproach. Yet Darcy could see the effort in her face, and more than once he caught Elizabeth’s eye when Miss Bingley spoke with especial sweetness. Elizabeth’s expression never betrayed open amusement, but there was a spark there, a little bright intelligence that told him she had noticed everything and forgiven nearly all of it for the sake of the evening.
That, too, made him happy.
Mrs. Bennet was in triumph. Her delight could not be contained by propriety, though she made occasional attempts at it whenever Jane blushed or Elizabeth caught her eye. Shehad already complimented Netherfield’s table three times before the second course. The five Bennet daughters filled the room with varying degrees of animation, from Jane’s gentle radiance to Lydia’s scarcely checked exuberance. Georgiana sat near Elizabeth and watched the younger girls with wide, astonished eyes, as though trying to understand how any young ladies could speak so boldly and with so little fear.
Darcy found her surprise both touching and instructive. Georgiana had been too much among quiet rooms, careful elders, and people who spoke as though feeling must first be examined for propriety before allowed into the air. Kitty and Lydia were not models he would wish her to imitate, but their sheer innocent noisiness did not offend him as it might once have done.
“Mr. Bingley,” Lydia cried from farther down the table, “you must give a ball now Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy are engaged. You have not yet held one here, which is very remiss of you, but you may repair the fault by promising it this moment.”
Kitty leaned forward eagerly. “Yes, do. Netherfield is quite made for a ball.”
“A ball?” Bingley said, looking as if the idea had just been presented to him wrapped in gold. “Upon my word, I see no objection.”
Jane’s cheeks turned pink. “Mr. Bingley, pray do not let my sisters coerce you into anything.”
“Coerce? Never. I am most willingly persuaded.” He glanced at her, and the pleasure in his face became softer. “Indeed, I should be delighted to host a ball at Netherfield.”
Lydia clapped her hands. “There! I knew he would be obliging. Lizzy, did I not say Mr. Bingley would give the best ball in Hertfordshire?”
“You have said so at least four times this week,” Elizabeth replied.
“And now I am proved right.”
“Is there society enough in Meryton to hold one?” Miss Bennet asked.
“Of course!” Mrs. Bennet protested. “We dine with four and twenty families!”
After dinner, the separation of the sexes was mercifully brief.
Darcy had never found port less interesting. The gentlemen remained in the dining room only long enough for the servants to withdraw and Bingley to gather his courage. He stood with a glass in his hand, turned it once, then set it down untouched.
“Mr. Bennet,” he said, with a look toward the older gentleman, “might I speak with you for a moment?”
Mr. Bennet’s mouth curved. “Another gentleman requesting a private interview? I shall begin charging admission to my paternal authority.”
Bingley flushed, but did not retreat. “I have not yet spoken to Miss Bennet. I would not presume before doing so. But I hope to ask her permission to court her, if she is willing, and I wished first to know whether I might have yours.”
Mr. Bennet regarded him for several seconds. Darcy saw the teasing impulse gather. It had worked upon him—or at least Mr. Bennet had enjoyed attempting it. But Bingley stood before him so open, so earnest, so entirely without strategy, that sarcasm seemed to find no proper place to land.
At last Mr. Bennet sighed. “You are a very disarming young man, Mr. Bingley.”
