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Lord Northover stood alongside her, solicitously turning the sheet music. At the conclusion of her performance, he congratulated her.
“I fear I made rather a mess of it,” Elizabeth confessed. “I’m not so diligent in my practice as I ought to be, as Lady Catherine has often pointed out.”
“Nonsense!” said Lady Catherine. “Miss Bennet, you sing and play most well, as I’ve always said and I do not believe that there is anyone in the whole of England more endowed with musical taste than me. Had I ever learned to play, I should have been a true proficient. As such, I am uniquely able to appreciate musical ability.
“Lord Northover,” Lady Catherine continued. “Did I not tell you that Miss Bennet is a most accomplished young lady? Next to my daughter Anne, I’m sure I do not know of another so prepossessing.”
Lord Northover bowed slightly to indicate his acquiescence in this assessment of Elizabeth, who did not know whether to feel flattered or confused by Lady Catherine’s attention. In the past, she always felt that Lady Catherine disapproved of her.
“Lizzy has always been Mr. Bennet’s favorite,” interjected Mrs. Bennet. “He’s always held her to be the cleverest of his daughters,” she continued, then added quickly, “don’t hold that against her, your Lordship, she can be very agreeable when it suits her.”
“I should like to meet your father,” said Lord Northover. “It sounds as though he is a gentleman of some discernment.”
“He thinks all of his daughters are silly,” Elizabeth said with a small laugh. “And only that I have a little more sense than the others.”
It was Mary’s turn to play the pianoforte and, Mr. Bennet being safely ensconced at Longbourn, and Lydia away in the North, she was able to play a succession of solemn dirges without interruption.
Elizabeth noticed that Kitty and Anne were again engaged in private conversation. She would have to remember to ask Kitty what they were so earnestly discussing.
During Mary’s musical interlude, Charlotte managed to disengage herself from her husband’s side, and when Lord Northover withdrew to speak to Mr. Pettigrew, she approached Elizabeth.
“I had meant to visit you earlier,” Charlotte said apologetically. “But Mr. Collins and I had parish duties to attend to.”
Elizabeth understood that Mr. Collins was attempting to raise his income by increasing the tithes paid to him by parishioners, and that he had been obliged to exert himself in this regard by circulating among them, although it seemed to her that Christmas was an odd time to be engaged in such an activity.
“I quite understand, Charlotte,” she said, taking her friend by the arm. “A wife must put her husband first. It is so good to see you.”
Charlotte regaled her with news of her domestic activities—she was making great strides in the raising of chickens, the money earned being hers to keep outside of the household budget—and the vagaries of married life, only some of which could be described as blessings. She was careful not to criticize Mr. Collins, and Elizabeth followed suit, although there were times she was sorely tempted.
“And did you know, Elizabeth, that Mr. Darcy is to come tomorrow?” Charlotte said, as though she just remembered. “He was not going to come at Christmas, and apparently, according to Mr. Collins, Lady Catherine is quite perplexed as to his reasons.”
“Has his visit anything to do with you?”
Charlotte was one of the few persons to whom she had confided that Mr. Darcy had proposed to her, so she was not surprised by the question. “Lady Catherine told me he was coming, but I’m sure that it has nothing to do with me.”
“You know, Elizabeth, that you could do worse than Mr. Darcy. Indeed, it could be argued that you could hardly do better.”
“That is a matter of opinion,” Elizabeth said with mock solemnity. “If you’ll argue the case for, I’ll be pleased to argue the case against.”
“It is not a matter for levity,” Charlotte said. “Our choices are constrained by circumstance, and we ought not to place perfection in opposition to the merely good.”
“Well,” Elizabeth gently, “you will remember that our philosophies are different in that regard.”
“And your sister Jane’s too, as I recall,” Charlotte said pensively. “Perhaps she has had a chance to reconsider her position, and will assert herself in an attempt to secure the gentleman.”
“How do you mean?”
“Did you not know?” Charlotte asked. “Mr. Darcy’s friend Mr. Bingley is coming too.”
Chapter 8, Mr. Darcy
December 21, 1812
“Aye, Mr. Darcy, it’s all to be fenced,” Tom Biddle said, twisting his felt cap in his hands. “Mr. McGinty says we’ve till spring to be off. I’m sure I don’t know where we’re to go.”
They were in Biddle’s stone cottage. It was thatch-roofed with an earthen floor. Wooden shelves with the old couple’s worldly goods lined one wall, and a fire sputtered in the grate. Mrs. Biddle was on a rocking chair in the corner with an infant—likely a grandson, Darcy surmised—in her lap.
“The bairn won’t know his own home,” she said, bouncing him on her knee. “Can you imagine that, not knowing his own home?”
