Page 52 of The Longbourn Bloodline

He is not near.

Elizabeth played on, though her fingers trembled on the keys.

Yet him I lov’d so well

Still in my heart shall dwell;

O! I can ne’er forget…

He is not near.

The final note hung in the air, then faded. Elizabeth lifted her hands from the keys and folded them in her lap, not trusting herself to speak.

“Well,” Mrs. Bennet said after a moment, her voice unusually subdued. “That was… very pretty, Lizzy. Very… feeling.”

“It was beautiful,” Charlotte said, and her eyes met Elizabeth’s with an understanding that required no words.

“I believe,” Mr. Bennet announced, rising from his chair with his glass in hand, “that we might toast our heir apparent before Cook sends word that the goose has rested long enough. To Jane—the future mistress of Longbourn, and the best of us all.”

“To Jane!” the room echoed, and the moment passed, covered by clinking glasses and Mrs. Bennet’s immediate return to triumph.

But Elizabeth sat at the pianoforte with her hand in her pocket, touching the letter that had changed everything, and knew that she had sung the truth aloud without him hearing it.

Still in my heart shall dwell.

She had only to tell him so.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A SURPRISING VISITOR

The days between Christmas and New Year’s Day passed slowly for Elizabeth, who carried Darcy’s scrap in her pocket, sharing the secret with no one—not even Jane, who sensed the quiet turmoil in her sister’s demeanor and wisely left her to weather it alone.

And so, Elizabeth spent the days with her family, distributing gifts on Boxing Day, calling on neighbors and visiting the town where all talk whirled around Jane’s good fortune. And she stayed in the background with Mary and Kitty, content to make notes in her improvement journal—notes she could not quite explain. She had copied three of her great-great-grandmother Philippa’s receipts along with her marginal notes: instructions for a foaming clotted-cream syllabub, delicate tart de Borage, and a violently pungent unguent for the winter chilblains made of mutton tallow and bruised elderberries. And now she was sketching the arrangement of the drawing room, noting where each sister preferred to sit, which chair her father claimed as his own, and where Cleo had established her territory near the fire.

The music master, Mr. Moretti, had appeared on New Year’s Day, and Elizabeth suspected her mother was planning another social event. Every day had been thus, with the Lucases, the Longs, the Gouldings, and of course, their aunt and uncle with a procession of card games, mock theatre, etc.

Mary and Lydia sat at the piano, a four-handed duet with Mary valiantly attempting all four hands while Lydia missed all her notes to Mr. Moretti’s displeasure, his butter knife slicing the air in emphatic arcs. Mr. Cecil stood over easels where Jane painted with delicate strokes, capturing the winter light through the window with serene watercolors, and Kitty created an abstract rendition of their cat Cleo, a grey tabby with a torn ear rendered against a grey background, with Mr. Cecil gently suggesting a hint of color to bring the otherwise monochromatic sketch to life.

And then, the sound of carriage wheels drew eyes to the window. Mrs. Bennet, predictably, was the first to react.

“Jane! Jane, look out the window! Mr. Bingley is returned! Oh, my poor heart! Where is the seed cake? Hill, bring the port and the Wedgwood—not the common blue set, the good one with the gold leaf! Jane, stand by the window where the light strikes your hair. Kitty, hide that monstrosity of a cat at once.”

Elizabeth suspected this visit was not exactly unplanned, as there had been whispers among the servants that Netherfield Park was being opened for the New Year, and Mrs. Bennet had been all aflutter, sending notes and pushing Mr. Bennet to call, but of course, after Bingley’s abrupt departure, it was determined not to raise Jane’s hopes. However, Mamma would not be thwarted, and Elizabeth strongly suspected that Mr. Bennet, under relentless wifely siege, had quietly dispatched an inquiry.

Pride, after all, is a luxury easily relinquished when a newly-minted heiress graces the parlor.

Elizabeth caught Charlotte’s eye across the drawing room. Charlotte, who had arrived an hour earlier and was quietly hemming a pillowcase, raised an eyebrow and returned to her needlework. Her quiet presence had been a balm for Elizabeth, whose heart was as unsteady as the weather, which could not decide between snowing and thawing, and hence the Bingleys must have arrived when the roads were tolerable enough.

Mrs. Bennet bustled around the drawing room, pushing Jane to the window, and closing the pianoforte on Mary while Lydia pressed her nose against the window. “Lizzy, put away that book. Mr. Moretti, you may stay, but please do not speak. Oh, where is your father? Mr. Bennet! Mr. Bennet! Mr. Bingley is here to renew his addresses, I am certain of it—why else would he return when the roads are barely passable?”

Mr. Bennet emerged from his study with a wry expression. “I heard you, my dear. I believe they heard you in Meryton. What is the commotion?”

“Mr. Bingley has arrived! And he is calling on us this very moment!”

“Then I suppose we must receive him.” Mr. Bennet caught Elizabeth’s eye and raised an eyebrow. She shrugged—I know nothing—and he settled into his chair with the air of a man preparing for an entertaining spectacle.

The door opened, and Hill announced, with admirable composure: “Mr. Bingley, Mr. Hurst, and Mrs. Hurst.”