Page 11 of A November to Remember

And if the insufferable gentleman had indeed returned, well. She would be more than ready.

Chapter Three: Pheasants and Polite Retribution

October 26th, 1811

The journey from Netherfield Park to Lucas Lodge required twenty minutes, affording Fitzwilliam Darcy ample time to catalogue his regrets. He sat in the carriage, guarding a secret so profound it threatened to fracture his ribs. He was forced to attend a card party he abhorred, while consumed by a longing to see a woman who despised him. He had confided this lunacy to no one. Instead, he stared at the rain lashing against the glass, bracing himself for the exact moment Miss Elizabeth Bennet would direct her spectacular eyes his way. He surrendered to a long, hollow sigh.

“If you sigh one more time, Darcy, I shall be forced to toss you from the carriage window,” Viscount Keathley said, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his knee. “Your misery is ruining the atmosphere.”

“The atmosphere comprises humidity and Richard’s stomach rumbling. I do not understand why we could not remain at the estate. Bingley is perfectly capable of surviving an evening with Sir William without our supervision.”

“Bingley is capable of proposing marriage to the poor angel and bestowing his fortune on her the moment she curtsies in his direction. I am here because I am escaping Lord Pembroke’s clutches. Also, I require amusement, and watching you suffer provincial society is a rare treat.”

“I am here for the buffet.” Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam leaned forward from the opposite bench, occupying half the carriage space. “Bingley assured me Sir William’s cook excels at roasting meats. If there is no pork loin waiting for me, I shall hold you personally responsible, Darcy.”

“I fail to see how the catering is my responsibility,” Darcy said.

“You are the master of Pemberley. You exude authority.” Richard patted his own waist. “Command the driver to hasten his pace. I refuse to perish from starvation in a carriage.”

The vehicle halted, and the gentlemen disembarked into the damp Hertfordshire night, followed closely by a second carriage, conveying Hurst, Bingley, and his two sisters.

They were welcomed by a somewhat rumpled servant who might equally have been a stable groom. Darcy flinched at the aggressive strains of a piece in C minor coming from within the main parlour.

Robert glanced at Darcy. “What in the blazes...?”

Darcy shrugged and followed the ambiguous servant.

As the Netherfield party crossed the hallway, the bespectacled girl on the pianoforte bench stopped, and the music died a merciful death. The few dancers halted mid-step. Silence descended on the parlour and every head pivoted towards the doorway.

Darcy stiffened. He hated attracting notice. He retreated into his armour, lifting his chin and adopting a stare of utter boredom. He surveyed the crowd, noting the outdated fashions and the wide, calculating eyes of the local matrons.

He considered turning back, feigning a headache or a fatal illness. He would gladly accept a minor injury if it meant returning to the quiet library at Netherfield.

“Move, Darcy.” Keathley pressed a hand against his cousin’s back, propelling him forward. “Your destiny awaits. I anticipate at least three desperate mothers attempting to secure your fortune and my title before midnight. It shall be magnificent sport.”

Charles Bingley, oblivious to the oppressive silence, beamed at everyone. He rocked on his heels, full of excitement. He headed to Sir William to greet him.

Miss Bingley stepped forward to fill the gap Bingley had left. Her smile was fixed, sharp, and predatory. She surveyed the room in a single sweep, dismissing the attendees. She then calculated her own social prospects. She hooked her right arm firmly through Darcy’s left. Before he could politely disengage, she leaned and threaded her left arm through Robert’s right.

“We must present a united front, gentlemen.” Miss Bingley gripped their sleeves. “We must not let the locals overwhelm us.”

Darcy disliked physical entanglement in public; therefore he decided to employ a pace best described as glacial. He took a slow, majestic step forward, intending to convey his immense reluctance to participate in the evening. He planted one polished boot on the floorboards, pausing to ensure his disdain registered among the gaping locals before lifting the other foot.

Robert had no such restraint. His attention had snagged on a construction of feathers perched on the head of a woman across the room.

“Good heavens, Darcy, is that a stuffed pheasant?” Robert tilted his head, his eyes alight. “I must investigate the matter.”

“Is it edible?” asked Richard with interest and a subtle stomach rumble.

Robert accelerated into a brisk stride.

Darcy maintained his crawl.

Miss Bingley remained trapped between them.

“Gentlemen, please.” Miss Bingley’s voice pitched up half an octave, while her shoulders snapped backward.

Darcy took another measured step. Robert marched further ahead. Miss Bingley stretched across the widening gap, her silk gown pulling taut over her chest, her smile transforming into a grimace of physical agony.