Page 48 of A November to Remember

“Yes, dearest. But I fear our mother has found an ally, many targets, and I have no idea what that means for us. Though I suspect it involves a great deal of planning and possibly a special licence. Or two. Or three.”

Chapter Eleven: Loo and the Perfect Woman

November 4th, 1811

The Netherfield parlour was a study in forced conviviality, the fire crackling in the grate offering no comfort whatsoever. Bingley lounged near the window, his usual cheer somewhat dimmed because Jane Bennet’s illness kept her upstairs rather than in the parlour. Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst sat on a settee, their heads bent together in what appeared to be a conference of great importance. Robert had claimed an armchair, examining the ceiling with intensity. Richard stood by the fireplace, a glass of wine in hand, a plate of cucumber sandwiches on the mantel, his large frame blocking half the heat.

Darcy sat at the writing desk in the corner attempting to compose a letter to Georgiana. The words refused to align. How could he possibly explain the past week?

He dipped his quill and began.

My dear Georgiana, I hope this letter finds you well. Netherfield is...

He hesitated. Netherfield is a bedlam. But he could not write that. Georgiana would worry. Netherfield is... interesting. No, that would invite questions he had no wish to answer.

“I thought,” Miss Bingley announced to the room at large, “that we might have music this evening. Something civilised. I shall play, and Mr Darcy shall turn my pages, for he alone truly appreciates the Italian composers—”

“A capital notion,” Robert agreed warmly, never averting his eyes from the ceiling. “Miss Elizabeth must sing. I have it on excellent authority that she performs delightfully.”

Miss Bingley’s smile froze. “Miss Eliza will surely wish to sit with her sister—”

“Oh, no. I believe she is joining us before dinner.” Robert finally lowered his gaze, turning to Bingley. “You will lend your voice too, Bingley. Nothing woos an angel through the floorboards more effectively than an Italian love song sung flat.”

“Do you think so?” Bingley brightened, stepping away from the window.

“I have never once been wrong.”

Miss Bingley recovered, snapping her fan open. “Perhaps, then, cards. A quiet table. Loo. Mr Darcy, will you play?”

“Loo!” Robert exclaimed with delight. “The very thing. But we shall want a sixth for a proper table—Miss Elizabeth will be just perfect. She will not refuse to rescue us from an uneven game. I shall tell her that the colonel cannot be trusted with the pool.”

“I can be trusted with the pool,” Richard objected, his hand stretched towards the pile of sandwiches.

“You ate the stakes at Matlock, Brother.”

“They were candied almonds,” Richard defended himself. “Using them as counters was reckless. You should have known better.”

Darcy pressed his lips together and returned to the letter.

Netherfield is... more interesting than I had anticipated.

An understatement so vast it was visible from London. It would have to do.

Richard abandoned the wine and the sandwiches, and was conducting a review of the biscuits the footman procured. He had positioned himself, as always, on a direct line between the food and the door—a habit he called ‘common sense’ and everyone else called ‘post-battle behaviour’.

“Tell Georgiana,” he said, pointing a finger at Darcy, “that her favourite cousin sends his love, and that her other cousin is also present.”

“I am the favourite,” Robert bristled.

“You are the eldest. It is not the same thing. It is frequently the opposite thing.”

On the settee, Mr Hurst slept on, upright and complete, his hands folded on his waistcoat. He had achieved the state shortly after tea and maintained it through two conversations and one dropped fire poker.

And then Darcy’s pen stopped writing English.

Miss Elizabeth came in without fanfare. She wore a plain gown of dove grey—no ornament, no jewellery, her hair pinned simply and staging its rebellion at the temples. Darcy looked at her and forgot how to spell his own sister’s name.

Georgianna, the letter now read.