Page 7 of A November to Remember

Darcy dared to glance at Robert. The viscount was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, observing Miss Bingley as though she were a fascinatingly deranged species of bird. He was clearly enjoying himself immensely.

Richard, however, had abandoned the social theatre. Richard ate; if he was not eating, he was searching for sustenance. While Miss Bingley was busy complimenting Robert’s waistcoat and buttons, the colonel had silently approached the tea table and secured a plate of cucumber sandwiches. He was on his third, observing Miss Bingley’s pivoting with mild interest, as if watching a play from the cheap seats.

“Are those egg and cress?” Richard asked, pointing his half-eaten sandwich to another plate.

Mrs Hurst did not answer. She was pressing a lace handkerchief to her nose, her face turning a distinct shade of bilious green. Being with child had granted her a preternaturally acute sense of smell, and she seemed thoroughly miserable.

“Charles,” Mrs Hurst groaned from behind her handkerchief. “Did you ride with the windows down? You smell of damp horses, leather, and... is that fruit?”

“I had an apple, Mrs Hurst,” Robert offered mildly. “I do apologise if the scent offends. I find it wards off the smell of provincial desperation.”

Darcy coughed loudly into his fist to disguise the sound that escaped his throat. Bingley, bless his eager heart, was confused.

“Desperation? Where?” he asked, searching around the room as if expecting to see a physical entity hiding behind the curtains.

“Nowhere, Charles!” Miss Bingley huffed, her composure unravelling at the seams. She shot her brother a venomous glare before turning a blinding smile back onto the three cousins. “You must all be parched. And tired. And hungry! Though I see the colonel has found the sandwiches. Excellent.”

She lunged for the bell pull, yanking it with enough force to summon the fire engines.

“We must get your chambers prepared,” she babbled, her brain darting between Darcy’s wealth, Robert’s title, and Richard’s military prestige. “The best chambers. Only the best. I shall have Mrs Nicholls air the linens. Mr Darcy, you shall return to your usual room, of course. Lord Keathley, the suite with the eastern exposure. Colonel, the blue room next to Charles. Yes, that will do perfectly.”

Mrs Nicholls, the long-suffering Netherfield housekeeper, appeared in the doorway, unbothered by the mayhem.

“Mrs Nicholls!” Miss Bingley cried, pointing a trembling finger at the guests. “Chambers! Immediately! The grand suite for the viscount, the blue room for the colonel. Move, woman!”

“We keep these chambers always prepared, miss,” Mrs Nicholls said, dropping a perfunctory curtsy. “If the gentlemen will follow me.”

Robert bowed crisply to Miss Bingley. “You are too kind, Miss Bingley. It is a true privilege to be the recipient of such... manifold hospitality.”

Miss Bingley blushed, misinterpreting the viscount’s dry mockery as genuine admiration. Darcy fled the drawing-room, unable to contain himself a second longer. Mrs Nicholls led them up the grand staircase, and Richard reached over and offered Darcy a battered, half-squashed sandwich.

“Eat up, Cousin,” he whispered around a mouthful of cucumber. “You are going to need your strength.”

Chapter Two: Mrs Bennet Plans a Wedding and Elizabeth Plans a War

October 24th, 1811

The breakfast table at Longbourn had become a theatre of a very particular kind. The audience was captive, the leading actress needed no script, and the subject had not varied by so much as a syllable since the morning of the seventeenth of October, when Mrs Bennet had woken up convinced that Jane was engaged.

She was not. Mr Bingley had danced with her twice, trodden on her hem once, and declared her the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. It was a statement that had travelled the county of Hertfordshire via Mrs Goulding, Mrs Long, and Aunt Philips in under twenty-four hours, arriving with embellishments. That was the extent of the formal record. It was, however, sufficient for Mrs Bennet’s purposes.

By the time Elizabeth entered the breakfast parlour, her mother had already married Jane to Mr Bingley, ordered the wedding breakfast, quarrelled with an imaginary confectioner, and fallen into a state of nervous agitation over the calendar.

It was impressive, even for Mrs Bennet.

The parlour was never a scene of philosophical repose. Mr Bennet believed mornings were best survived behind a newspaper. Lydia believed mornings were an outrageous imposition unless they contained officers, ribbons, or cold ham. Kitty believed whatever Lydia believed, with more coughing. Mary believed breakfast offered an excellent opportunity for moral reflection, which was one of the many reasons no one trusted her near toast.

Elizabeth had accepted this; she had accepted it the way one accepts the English rain—philosophically, and with a hat.

What she had rather less accepted was the tolerable comment.

She sat at breakfast now, her cup of warm tea between both hands, and observed the morning’s proceedings unfold with practised inevitability, as though watching a fire she had already decided not to put out.

“A Christmas wedding.” Mrs Bennet set down her toast. “I have decided. The church appears very well in winter—all that holly—and Jane’s complexion is quite at its best in candlelight. We shall have the orange blossom. And white silk, not ivory. Ivory washes her out.”

Jane, who was buttering a crumpet, kept her eyes down. “Mamma. Mr Bingley has not proposed.”

“Not yet.” Mrs Bennet reached for the marmalade with a serenity that bordered on the preternatural. “But he danced with you twice.”