Page 109 of A Question of Character

Miss Bingley entered just in time to hear the last remark and looked from one gentleman to the other with suspicion. “What is to astonish you, Charles?”

“My independence.”

“How novel.”

Darcy rose before the conversation could become a family exercise. “If you will excuse me.”

Miss Bingley’s eyes sharpened. “You are going out, Mr. Darcy?”

“Yes.”

“Riding?”

“Calling.”

Her fan, which had no possible use at breakfast, opened with remarkable force. “How very attentive of you to the neighborhood.”

Bingley coughed into his cup.

Darcy bowed and left.

The ride to Longbourn was not long enough to arrange his thoughts to his satisfaction. He had met Mrs. Bennet briefly the previous evening, but even that had been enough to make him suspect her welcome would be enthusiastic. He did not dislike enthusiasm in the abstract. Bingley had forced him into tolerance of it over many years. Maternal enthusiasm, however, particularly when directed toward unmarried daughters and gentlemen of fortune, required a constitution better prepared than his own.

Longbourn came into view with less grandeur than many houses he knew and more consequence than most. Elizabeth belonged here. That alone recommended every irregular hedge, every sun-warmed brick, every sign of comfortable neglect about the place. The house stood without pretension, its windows open to the mild morning, a dog sleeping in a patch of sunlight near the steps, and a basket of cut flowers abandoned upon a bench as if someone had been called away mid-task.

A servant admitted him with proper surprise and ushered him into a drawing room bright with late-summer light.

“Mr. Darcy, ma’am.”

Mrs. Bennet rose so swiftly that her work fell to the carpet. “Mr. Darcy! How very obliging of you to call. We are honored, most honored. Hill, tea. No, perhaps chocolate. Jane, my dear, did we not say the seed cake was very good? Mr. Darcy, you must sit. Lizzy, here is Mr. Darcy. Though you know that, of course, for he asked you twice last night, which was very particular, though I am sure we are all delighted by particularity when it is so well directed.”

Darcy bowed, first to Mrs. Bennet and then to the ladies assembled. Miss Bennet stood near the window, as lovely in morning simplicity as she had been beneath assembly candles. Miss Elizabeth was beside a small table with a basket of sewing, her eyes bright with amusement and something warmer that eased the last of his uneasiness.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said.

“Mrs. Bennet.” He addressed her elder sister. “Miss Bennet. I hope I do not intrude.”

“Not at all,” Mrs. Bennet cried. “Never. That is, not when a gentleman has danced twice with my daughter and comes so early to inquire after us. Such attentions are always welcome. Are they not, Jane?”

Jane moved forward with calm grace and retrieved her mother’s fallen work. “Mama means that we are pleased to receive any friend of Elizabeth’s. Please do sit, Mr. Darcy.”

Mrs. Bennet blinked, appeared to realize she had been redirected, and accepted the work from Jane with a little offense. “Yes. Exactly. A friend of Lizzy’s.”

Darcy took the chair indicated, privately grateful for Miss Bennet’s intervention. Elizabeth resumed her seat opposite him, though she did not take up her sewing directly.

“I hope Netherfield has not disappointed you after Pemberley,” she said.

“It would be unreasonable to expect any house to rival Pemberley within its first week of acquaintance.”

“Then you are allowing Netherfield time to recommend itself.”

“I am. Bingley is already in love with it.”

“That must be convenient for Netherfield.”

“Very. He is easily pleased where he has decided to be happy.”

Jane smiled. “That is an enviable disposition.”