Page 17 of A November to Remember

She smiled to herself, utterly unrepentant. It had been a flawless execution. She had refused his request for a dance, and then delivered her evisceration clearly enough for his aristocratic ears to catch every syllable. A perfect strike. Let him return to his grand estate with the knowledge that country misses were not put on this earth to tolerate his disdain. She was still seething at his audacity—to insult her at one gathering and expect her hand in a dance the next!—but the anger was now laced with the rush of the verbal spar. She had faced the beast in his finely tailored waistcoat, and she had won.

Feeling lighter, Elizabeth made her descent, anticipating a quiet morning. Her mother would likely be nursing a headache or rhapsodising about Lord Keathley, her father would be entrenched in his study, and Jane would be working at her embroidery.

She walked through the front door of Longbourn, untying the ribbons of her bonnet with a contented sigh. She handed her pelisse to a passing maid, smoothed her skirts, and opened the door to the drawing-room.

She halted on the threshold, because the scene before her had been ripped directly from the pages of a grotesque nightmare. The room was occupied by the gentlemen from Netherfield, and the absurdity of it left Elizabeth temporarily devoid of breath.

On the settee, sitting too close to Mrs Bennet, was Viscount Keathley. The heir to an earldom, a man whose coat probably cost more than the Longbourn carriage, was leaning in, his face a portrait of dramatic intensity, regaling Mrs Bennet with a tale.

“—and then, my dear Mrs Bennet, what did the fox cub say?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a loud whisper. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing, despite having chased me for three miles. My mother, however, had a lot to say, unfortunately, and none of it in favour of the cub or me...”

Mrs Bennet gasped, clutching her chest as if she had just been handed the most scandalous gossip in the kingdom. “No! Oh, Lord Keathley, your poor mother!”

Elizabeth blinked, attempting to process the impossibility of the viscount being willingly drawn into her mother’s orbit. The man was engrossed in the conversation, his body turned towards her, one leg crossed over the other, in a way that brought his backside squarely into the view of Jane and Mr Bingley. She forced her attention to the couple, seeking sanity, but she did not find it.

Mr Bingley was seated beside Jane on the smaller sofa. He leaned in with earnest devotion, making spectacular sheep’s eyes at her sister.

“...a grey gelding,” Mr Bingley was saying, his tone imbued with the gravity of reciting scripture. “Then my father bought me a stallion. Very tall. It had a white spot behind the ear.”

Jane was looking back at him, amused. She appeared captivated, as if Mr Bingley were reciting the Iliad from memory, rather than listing livestock.

“A practical marking, Bingley,” Viscount Keathley remarked drily, not bothering to turn around. “It ensures the groom can distinguish the front of the beast from the rear in low light.”

Jane laughed delightedly. “Indeed, my lord,” she countered. “Though one hopes the direction in which the animal is walking might also serve as a clue.”

Elizabeth watched, expecting the viscount to pivot and deliver a witty riposte. Instead, Lord Keathley remained focused on Mrs Bennet, his broad back an impenetrable wall of silence. He did not twitch a muscle to indicate he had heard Jane speak.

Jane’s smile tightened. She did not utter a single word, but she turned her eyes heavenwards, an expression Elizabeth knew translated as extreme irritation.

Bingley, however, beamed. “Oh, he walked perfectly straight! Never pulled to the left, which is rare for a horse of that height.”

Desperate for a rational anchor, Elizabeth faced the fireplace. In the deepest armchair sat Colonel Fitzwilliam. Beside him stood poor Hill, holding a tray of sandwiches before him, trapped in a silent vigil of continuous catering.

At the pianoforte a vicious war was taking place. Mary had wedged herself onto the bench, determined to play by sheer force of will. Kitty and Lydia hovered behind her, their faces contorted into outrage, hissing loudly at their sister under the delusion they could not be heard over the general din.

“Mary, do not,” Lydia ground out, attempting to pinch Mary’s elbow. “The gentlemen will hear and think we are dull!”

“The gentlemen are conversing, Lydia,” Mary retorted stiffly. “And music elevates the soul.”

Lydia seized Mary’s music and held it firmly out of reach.

“It elevates my desire to scream,” Kitty countered.

Colonel Fitzwilliam stood, gently but firmly relieved the housekeeper of the tray she was holding, and walked to the pianoforte.

The moment the imposing officer approached, Lydia and Kitty fell miraculously silent, their outrage evaporating into wide-eyed awe.

The colonel pulled up a chair beside the bench, balancing the tray on his knees. “Miss Mary, I am in need of musical accompaniment. Would you be so kind as to play the most mournful dirge in your repertoire? I find it helps with digestion.”

A radiant smile transformed Mary’s face. “Certainly, Colonel.”

She snatched the sheet music from Lydia’s hands, slammed it onto the pianoforte, and brought her hands down on the keys. The instrument groaned. Mary began to play a dirge so mournful that it sounded as though someone had died in the cellar.

“Good God,” Keathley murmured, wincing.

Lydia gasped in revulsion, backing away slowly. Kitty covered her ears.

The colonel, however, was content. He leaned back in his chair, kept on chewing, and lifted his sandwich to gently conduct the tempo of the dirge.