Page 125 of A Question of Character

Darcy opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Bingley grinned. “Come. Let me be useful.”

They found Miss Bingley in the breakfast room, where she had apparently been waiting to object to anything that might occur.

“You are both going out?” she asked.

“Yes,” Bingley replied. “We mean to call at Longbourn.”

“So early in the acquaintance?”

“It is a morning call, Caroline. They are often made in the morning.”

Mrs. Hurst hid a smile in her coffee.

Miss Bingley addressed to Darcy. “I hope you do not find the society there too fatiguing, Mr. Darcy. Country families can be excessively eager when honored by attention.”

Darcy took up his gloves. “I have found the Bennets very hospitable.”

“Indeed?”

“Very.”

Hurst, who had been examining a dish of ham with greater seriousness than he gave most matters, said, “If they feed you, Bingley, ask whether they have a decent cook.”

“Thank you, Hurst. I shall conduct inquiries for your peace of mind.”

Miss Bingley’s lips thinned. “I suppose we are to be left all morning.”

“You have Louisa, Hurst, the house, the grounds, and every servant in it,” Bingley said cheerfully. “I trust you will endure.”

“Your confidence is touching.”

Darcy bowed and escaped before politeness demanded more of him.

The ride to Longbourn restored some of his composure. Bingley talked for the first mile, chiefly of Miss Bennet’s sweetness, then fell into a happier silence as they approached the house. Longbourn’s windows stood open to the pleasant morning, and the garden showed signs of industry recently abandoned: a basket near the path, pruning shears upon a low wall, two young ladies’ bonnets visible through the shrubbery before they vanished with a burst of laughter.

The servant admitted them.

Mrs. Bennet received Bingley with enough pleasure to satisfy even his appetite for approval. He was carried into the parlor, where Miss Bennet rose with that gentle smile which explained his friend’s sudden devotion better than any description could have done. Darcy bowed to the ladies, exchanged one brief glance with Elizabeth, and then requested an audience with Mr. Bennet.

Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened. Elizabeth’s color rose. Bingley, bless him, began speaking about Netherfield’s shrubbery with admirable energy.

Mr. Bennet was in his library. The housekeeper led the way.

The room suited him: books in use rather than display, a desk bearing papers in irregular order, a window open toward a patch of lawn, and one comfortable chair placed where a man could read while remaining unavailable to household disturbances.

“Mr. Darcy,” he said, rising. “To what do I owe the honor of a private call? I hope you have not come to complain of my daughters. I have found it best to endure them in groups.”

Darcy bowed. “I have come to speak of one daughter in particular.”

“Ah.” Mr. Bennet’s brows rose, though his eyes remained kind. “Then sit, sir. Such conversations are best conducted with furniture beneath us.”

Darcy sat.

He had faced tenants in distress, solicitors with bad news, men who wanted money, men who had lost money, and Lady Catherine when contradicted. None had produced quite this peculiar tightening in his chest.

“I became acquainted with Miss Elizabeth Bennet while she was in town with Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner,” he said. “My sister and I had the honor of receiving them several times. During that acquaintance, my admiration for Miss Elizabeth grew into a serious attachment.”