Page 53 of A November to Remember

The breakfast room held its collective breath. Mary looked up from her book and Lydia forgot to chew.

Mrs Bennet turned her head slowly to look at her husband.

It was not a glare. It was a Look. It was a Look that transcended the bounds of ordinary matrimony. It was a Look that communicated, with chilling clarity, that if he spoke another word, she would personally see to it that his beloved study was redecorated in pink chintz and populated by barn cats.

Mr Bennet blinked, absorbing the full weight of the unspoken threat. He raised his hands in a gesture of concession.

“The farm,” Mrs Bennet said, her voice dropping to a hissing register that demanded total obedience, “will manage well without them this morning, Mr Bennet. I am going to Meryton. Hill! Fetch my cloak!”

In a matter of minutes, Mrs Bennet was in the carriage, which rattled over the rutted Hertfordshire roads, tossing her against the faded velvet squabs like a loosely packed parcel. She did not care in the slightest. The springs shrieked, the wheels plunged into a rut of magnificent depth, and her bonnet tipped dangerously over one eye, yet she remained a woman of destiny, travelling to a summit of the highest importance.

She burst through the entrance of her sister’s house, swept past a startled Betsy, and threw open the parlour door with the dramatic flair of a monarch arriving at Parliament. The rich scent of beeswax and cinnamon greeted her, but the triumphant greeting froze in her throat.

Sitting in Mr Philips’s second-best chair, opposite Mrs Philips, wearing a white cap with mallow ribbons, was Mrs Long.

Mrs Bennet and Mrs Long had been sworn enemies since an incident involving a heavily contested Christmas ham in the winter of 1794, though neither woman would ever publicly admit to remembering the ham.

“Mrs Long,” Mrs Bennet said, her smile stretching so wide her jaw gave an audible pop. “How very... stationary you are today.”

“Mrs Bennet,” Mrs Long replied, her eyes narrowing beneath the mallow fabric. “I came for your sister’s cinnamon cake. I heard you sent poor Jane out into a hurricane. How unfortunate for her footwear.”

Before Mrs Bennet could unleash a blistering response regarding the weather as an instrument of divine providence, Betsy burst into the parlour, tripped over the frayed edge of the rug, launched a pair of silver sugar tongs into the air, and shrieked, “The lords!”

Viscount Keathley and Colonel Fitzwilliam filled the doorway.

“My dear ladies!” The viscount swept into the room, catching the flying sugar tongs with his left hand and bowing gracefully in a single, fluid motion.

The colonel forfeited the pleasantries, took the sugar tongs from his brother’s hand, and moved to the tea cart.

Lord Keathley saw Mrs Long and stopped, his eyes darting to Mrs Bennet, then to Mrs Philips, who was pressing a hand to her chest. The Alliance faced an obstacle.

“Mrs Long,” he purred, stepping forward and kissing her hand with exquisite charm. “The very blossom of Meryton. How delightful to find you here again.” He shot Mrs Bennet a meaningful glance. “Ladies, I have come to discuss a matter of urgent... horticulture.”

“Horticulture?” Mrs Long blinked, clutching the hand which had been kissed by the viscount.

“Indeed,” Lord Keathley said, seating himself on the sofa. “I am concerned with the gardens at Netherfield. Particularly the young sunflower with the golden petals.”

Mrs Bennet gasped, her fan snapping open with a sharp crack. “Oh! The golden sunflower! Yes! How is his... bloom?”

“Flourishing,” Keathley replied, steepling his fingers. “He is devoted to the white snowdrop planted in the yellow field. He paces the greenhouse constantly. He wishes to transplant the snowdrop into his own garden permanently.”

“The snowdrop was overwatered,” the colonel offered, chewing a slice of cinnamon cake. “But she is recovering. Good thing I prescribed the beef broth.”

Mrs Long frowned, her cap tilting in deep confusion. “You prescribed beef for a snowdrop? And Mr Bingley is a gardener now? I was told he acquired his wealth from trade in the north.”

“It is a very modern London metaphor, Mrs Long,” the viscount said, waving a dismissive hand, “do not trouble yourself.”

Mrs Bennet saw her opening. She leaned forward, adopting a tone of practised innocence. “And what of the other flora in the garden, my lord? Does the snowdrop not attract the attention of... taller, more noble trees? Perhaps a tree that offers a grander canopy?”

Lord Keathley’s smile faltered. For a fraction of a second, the aristocratic frivolity vanished, revealing a deep ache beneath it, which validated Mrs Bennet’s suspicions and made her want to spring up and dance a jig. The viscount looked down at his polished boots.

“The snowdrop deserves the bright, uncomplicated sun, Mrs Bennet,” he said, measuring his words. “Those trees you mentioned are far too frivolous, too hollow at the core, to offer proper shelter to such a perfect bloom. A tree that only knows how to be handsome and make jests would only bring a delicate flower to despair. The sunflower has a good, honourable heart. He is exactly what she requires.”

Mrs Bennet stared at him, utterly astounded. The fool was in love with her daughter, and he was stepping aside out of some ridiculous, honourable notion of his own unworthiness! She would not have that; that was certain!

She snapped her fan shut, her mind racing. She would secure Bingley, of course, because a woman of true vision always kept a secondary carriage in reserve. But she was certainly not finished with the viscount.

“But Mrs Bennet,” Lord Keathley continued, his spirits bouncing back with a brilliant smile, “there is a second, far more shocking development in the flowerbeds.”