Page 87 of A November to Remember

Mrs Philips sat bolt upright, her eyes gleaming with hope. “And?”

Mrs Bennet’s triumphant smile faltered. She crossed her arms over her chest, a pout forming on her lips.

“He did not.”

“He did not?”

“No.” She glared at the bedpost. “He did not.”

Mrs Philips stood up, her brow furrowing in deep concern.

“He bowed, handed her over the threshold, sat through the whole of luncheon talking of Cowper, and went back to Netherfield with the other two.” Mrs Bennet tapped her foot on the floorboards. “Not a single word to Mr Bennet, not a single hint of an understanding. Jane claims they have formed a friendship.”

Mrs Philips scoffed loudly. “A friendship! A viscount does not form a friendship with a girl who looks like Jane unless he intends to put a ring on her finger. Or ruin her, which he cannot do, for she has two future brothers-in-law who are honourable enough to shoot a relative.”

“Exactly!” Mrs Bennet threw her hands in the air. “I do not understand these modern aristocrats. He hovers around her constantly, yet he refuses to land! We must remedy that tonight, Sister. The ball is our greatest chance.”

Mrs Philips nodded firmly, adjusting the lace sleeves of her gown. “I agree. We shall push them together at the supper table. We shall ensure they dance the first two sets. If he leaves Hertfordshire without an understanding, he will be surrounded by scheming society matrons within a week.”

“I know, Sister.” Mrs Bennet pressed her fingers to her temples. “I have thought of nothing else. I have a plan. I have three plans. One of them involves the punch.” She straightened, drew a breath, and swept a hand to her dressing table. “But I cannot follow any of them until I am dressed, and I cannot be dressed without my pearls, and I have not—”

She lifted the lid of the jewel box, then searched inside frantically.

“They are gone!”

“What is gone?”

“My pearls. My mother’s pearls.” Mrs Bennet turned on her heel.

Mrs Philips began checking the drawers of the dressing table. “Are you certain? You wore them to church on Sunday.”

“I placed them right here!” Mrs Bennet lifted a stack of handkerchiefs, tossing them aside. Her voice began to rise in pitch, the bubble of elation popping under the strain of the impending ball. “They are gone! Someone has stolen them! It was Lydia. I know it was Lydia. That wicked, ungrateful girl has pilfered my jewellery box to impress that ridiculous Captain Carter!”

She stamped to the door, reaching for the latch. “I shall wring her neck! I shall tear them from her throat! Lydia! LYDIA!”

The door burst open. Lydia stood in it, the curling tongs held aloft in one fist, her morning wrapper half-fastened.

“I have the tongs, Mamma, Kitty can use the—”

“Where are my pearls?”

“What pearls, Mamma?”

“My mother’s pearls, you wicked, thieving—”

“I have not touched your—”

Mrs Philips caught her sister’s arm, pointing a trembling finger to Mrs Bennet’s own chest.

“Franny.”

Mrs Bennet paused, her hand resting on the latch. “What?”

Mrs Philips sighed, dropping her hand. “You are wearing them.”

Mrs Bennet looked down. Resting on her collarbone, obscured by the ruffled lace of her morning wrapper, lay the double strand of pearls.

She blinked, touching the smooth beads with her fingertips. She cleared her throat and adjusted the lapels of her wrapper to display them more prominently.