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Working in her uncle’s outer office, Elizabeth looked up in the middle of the day when a well-dressed man entered and requested Mr Gardiner. Elizabeth was arrested by this man’s appearance. Although the quality of his garments bespoke the gentleman, their severe colour—almost entirely black with only a dark green silk cravat for relief—piqued her interest. There was also something about his spare frame that suggested he might jump forward at any moment to grab her, and Elizabeth could not entirely rid herself of this notion, though she deemed it completely ridiculous. She judged him to be only slightly older than her uncle, despite the deeply etched lines around his mouth.

“May I help you?”

“I have a meeting with Mr Gardiner at twelve.”

Hearing the stranger’s deep and resonant voice in the vestibule, Mr Gardiner jumped up and came to his open office door.

“Ah! Mr Thorne! Come in!” he said in hearty accents.

As Mr Gardiner shut the door to his office, Lizzy’s mind was in tumult. She stared sightlessly at the ledger while the ink dried on the tip of her pen, So, this is Jane’s erstwhile suitor! Why, what is my sister thinking? Mr Thorne was quite handsome, in a dashing, piratical kind of way, and certainly looked like a man of reason and intelligence. To her credit, Elizabeth immediately realised that while she found Mr Thorne quite attractive, he was poles apart from Mr Bingley. His close-cropped black hair was in stark contrast to Mr Bingley’s angelic blond locks. In fact, reasoned Lizzy, the two could easily be cast as Lucifer and Gabriel in a pantomime. Their complexions added to the effect. Mr Bingley had a pale northern complexion while Mr Thorne had a deep tan burnt upon his face.

Recalling herself, Lizzy tried to focus on her invoices but occasional exclamations from Mr Gardiner’s office continued to distract her until her uncle emerged fifteen minutes later.

“Lizzy, Mr Thorne has proposed that he and I have lunch together. There is a French café down the road where a woman would not look too out of place! Would you care to join us?”

Elizabeth was not sure what her aunt would make of this proposal. She considered declining, taking her lunch at her desk instead from the hamper Cook packed every day for her uncle. But she accepted, impelled by the idea that she might help forward the match between Mr Thorne and her sister if her initial favourable impressions were sustained.

Mr Gardiner then performed the introductions. “Mr Thorne, you already know my eldest niece, Jane. This is her sister, Elizabeth, the second of Mr Bennet’s daughters.”

Elizabeth saw Mr Thorne’s eyebrow raise a fraction. His eyes glanced down at the ledgers and just when she expected to see a disapproving look form on his face, he smiled and held his hand out for her to shake. Used to gentlemen bending over her hand or even kissing the back of it, Elizabeth was momentarily at a loss. As she had been writing, Elizabeth was not wearing gloves, but when she saw to her relief that Mr Thorne was, she took his hand in a firm grip and performed what she hoped was an appropriately business-like handshake.

During lunch, while the men happily nattered away about the import/export business, Lizzy listened with polite interest while subjecting Mr Thorne’s every word and expression to scrutiny. Her impressions were not unfavourable; intelligence and ambition were softened by a general knowledge that showed him not to be entirely focused on business. His occasional glances at Elizabeth were interpreted as a wish to include her in the conversation, although a more disinterested observer might have classified them as frankly admiring. Lizzy added her mite when encouraged but was so wholly engrossed with the study of Mr Thorne’s character to not feel it necessary to contribute more. On the whole, Lizzy silently agreed with her uncle that Mr Thorne was most eligible. She could only attribute her sister’s prejudice against him to her infatuation with Mr Bingley... until the dessert arrived.

Mr Gardiner had ordered three chantilly creams with their coffee under the mistaken impression he was indulging his niece—all women, in his opinion, had a sweet tooth. As they ate, Mr Thorne managed to smear a little of the cream on his enormous mutton chop whiskers. With a deprecating grin, he wiped it away, but not before a likely source of Jane’s prejudice against Mr Thorne flashed into Lizzy’s mind.

Having drunk the dregs from his coffee cup, Mr Gardiner consulted his watch. As he was expecting some buyers at the warehouse in a quarter of an hour, he wound up the conversation with Mr Thorne and they tentatively agreed to meet on the Bristol trader’s next visit to The City in a fortnight. As Mr Thorne had yet an hour until his next appointment in Cornhill, he elected to stay at the table to work and merely rose from his chair to say goodbye as they departed.

As Lizzy and her uncle walked back towards the warehouse, she could not help thinking that her sister was making a mistake in spurning Mr Thorne. She was about to raise the topic with her uncle when she saw Mick running towards them.

“Mr Gardiner, your buyers have come early.”

When Mr Gardiner set off at a trot, advising Mick to follow with Miss Elizabeth, a bold idea entered Elizabeth’s head.

As her uncle disappeared around the corner of the street, Elizabeth stopped as the footman approached her. “Mick, I think I have left my shawl behind,” she said, turning back towards the café.

Mick faithfully dogged her footsteps back to the entrance.

Stepping inside, Elizabeth saw with relief that Mr Thorne was still in situ, being served tea. He looked up in surprise when she approached the table.

“Forgive me, Mr Thorne, I believe I left my shawl behind.”

They both looked at her empty chair.

“It does not appear to be here,” he said, “and I’m sure the waitress didn’t remove it.”

“Oh!” said Elizabeth, “perhaps, I did not bring it after all...”

Then, taking a deep breath:

“Mr Thorne, forgive my impertinence, but if you are serious in your intention to win my sister, I would advise you to shave off your sideburns.”

“What?” asked Mr Thorne, looking startled. “Excuse me. I mean, I beg your pardon?”

“Let me tell you a story about my sister,” Elizabeth said hurriedly. “My father used to be a fellow at Oxford before he inherited Longbourn. Once, when my sister and I were very small—I believe I was four and she, five—he returned to Oxford to congratulate a fellow, a best friend, who had gained the chair in Classics. My father originally intended to be away for a week, but somehow his stay extended to several months—I suppose he found the atmosphere in Oxford conducive. When he finally returned, he had grown a beard. I remember racing out to the front portico with my sister when a carriage pulled up. I watched in disappointment as a stranger descended from it. Then he stretched out his hands to greet us, and my sister ran screaming inside to our mother’s protection. I hesitated and recognised him immediately when he smiled and declared: “A fine welcome!”

“I see,” said Mr Thorne quietly. “I have grown rather fond of my mutton chop sideburns. Indeed, I believe some people might even have trouble recognising me without them. May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”