“Lady Elizabeth! Lady Jane!”
They turned to see Charlotte Lucas approaching with her younger sister Maria trailing behind. Charlotte executed a proper curtsey, her practical brown walking dress a stark contrast to the sisters’ fine muslins.
“Miss Lucas,” Elizabeth replied, offering a warm smile despite the formal address that always made her feel rather silly. When alone, they were simply Lizzy and Charlie, but propriety demanded these little performances in public.
“Good afternoon, Miss Lucas, Miss Maria,” Jane added with her characteristic gentleness.
Maria’s eyes sparkled with curiosity as she fell into step beside them. “We saw you leaving Longbourn. Was Mr Bingley at home? What a fine man he is. They say he is worth five thousand a year!”
“Maria,” Charlotte warned, though she looked equally interested in the answer.
“He was indeed at home,” Elizabeth replied. “Along with his sisters, who seem quite taken with the notion of becoming our dearest friends.”
Charlotte’s eyebrows rose. “Despite the… difference in circumstances?”
“Perhaps because of it,” Elizabeth said. “Nothing elevates one’s social standing quite like intimate friendship with an earl’sdaughters. Or a knight’s. I am surprised they have not yet attempted to befriend you.”
“Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst called on me,” Charlotte admitted. “But I was not home.”
“I do not care for the sisters,” Maria said. “But Mr Bingley is so very handsome! And rich! Though I suppose such things matter little to ladies of your rank.”
“They matter to hearts,” Elizabeth replied. “And hearts, I have observed, pay little attention to bloodlines.”
They had reached the church now, its ancient stones warm in the afternoon sun. Charlotte adjusted her bonnet, considering. “Will you attend the assembly next week? The entire neighbourhood will be there, and I dare say Mr Bingley will ask you to dance, Lady Jane.”
Jane’s colour rose again. “If he asks, I suppose I shall accept.”
“Mama will not like it because of propriety,” Charlotte observed practically.
“Hang propriety,” Maria declared with the boldness of sixteen years.
“Maria Lucas!” Charlotte gasped, looking genuinely shocked.
They burst into delighted laughter. “I could not agree more, Miss Maria. Hang propriety indeed!”
Jane shook her head at them both, but her smile was fond. “You are both quite terrible, you know.”
They walked on in companionable silence until Netherfield’s grand facade came into view—their home. Unlike Longbourn, the original Tudor manor where the Bingleys now resided, Netherfield proclaimed wealth and status in every classical line. Lord Hartford had spared no expense when he purchased and renovated this estate as their family seat.
But as they approached the main entrance, Elizabeth noticed something amiss. Voices carried from the open windows of the main hall—raised voices that spoke of crisis rather than casual conversation.
“What on earth?” Jane murmured, quickening her pace.
They found their mother in the study, wringing her hands whilst pacing before the massive oak desk where their father sat reviewing correspondence. Her ladyship’s morning dress of yellow silk was already wrinkled from her agitated movements, and her dark hair had begun to escape its arrangement.
“—the rent collection must be completed before Michaelmas, and the harvest requires constant oversight, and half the cottages need their roofs mended before winter, and now Percival tells us he cannot manage any of it!” Lady Hartford’s voice rose to near hysteria. “Whatever shall we do? We cannot possibly manage the estate ourselves!”
Lady Mary Bennet looked up from her corner chair where she had been reading, her plain features marked by mild interest rather than alarm. “Lord Matlock made an offer when he dined with us last month. Some young man looking for an estate to manage. A Mr Darcy, I believe—son of his steward or some such person.”
“What has happened to Percival?” Elizabeth interrupted, settling into a chair beside Mary.
“Fallen and broken his leg,” their father replied, glancing up from his papers. “Poor man has announced he plans to retire. Takes the injury as a sign from Providence.”
“It seems Lord Matlock has the solution for us,” Jane pointed out.
Lady Hartford whirled around, her expression shifting from panic to wariness. “And what, pray tell, does Lord Matlock want in return for this generous recommendation? Nothing comes without a price in these circles.”
Lord Hartford’s weathered face remained calm despite his wife’s dramatics. “Matlock seeks nothing beyond the favour of helping a promising young man find suitable employment. This Mr Darcy was trained under his own steward and under another gentleman before that. He comes with considerable experience, though he has never managed his own estate.”
