THE INVITATION
When all the men, Jem, John, and Joe,
Cry, “What good luck has sent ye?”
And kiss beneath the mistletoe
The girl not turn’d of twenty.
— Samuel Arnold,Two to One: A Comic Opera(1784)
Mrs. Bennet'svoice carried through the breakfast room with the force of a cannon salute.
“And did you see the way Mr. Bingley smiled at our Jane? Four times! I counted four distinct smiles, each one more particular than the last!”
Elizabeth lifted her teacup to hide her expression. The morning after the Netherfield ball had dawned crisp and bright, but inside Longbourn, the atmosphere crackled with her mother's relentless enthusiasm. Lydia and Kitty had already rehashed every dance, every partner, every ribbon worn by every lady present. Mary had pronounced three separate opinions on themoral perils of late-night entertainments. Though, if pressed, she admitted to enjoying the music.
And Jane sat with her hands folded and her cheeks the color of summer roses.
“I believe Mr. Bingley smiled at everyone, Mama,” Jane murmured. “He has such an agreeable nature.”
“Agreeable!” Mrs. Bennet waved her fork like a scepter. “He is besotted. Mark my words, we shall have a proposal before Twelfth Night.”
From behind his newspaper, Mr. Bennet spoke with the measured calm of a man long accustomed to domestic storms. “If Mr. Bingley proposes before Twelfth Night, Mrs. Bennet, I shall eat my hat. The good one. With the buckle.”
“You mock me, Mr. Bennet, but I am never wrong about these things.”
Elizabeth caught her father's eye over the edge of the paper. He gave her the barest hint of a wink.
She smiled into her tea. The ball had been lovely, truly. She had danced every set, laughed with Charlotte Lucas, and watched Jane glow under Mr. Bingley's open admiration.
And Elizabethhaddanced with Mr. Darcy.
The thought arrived uninvited. She shoved it aside. There was nothing remarkable about a dance. People danced at balls. It was the entire point of the exercise.
Still, she could not quite shake the memory of his dark eyes, the way he had studied her as though she were a riddle he could not solve. His hand at her waist, formal and correct, yet somehow?—
“Lizzy, you are woolgathering.”
Elizabeth startled. Jane watched her with a knowing look Elizabeth did not care for at all.
“I was merely contemplating the excellence of Cook's scones,” Elizabeth said. “They are particularly fluffy this morning.”
“Mmm.” Jane's smile was serene and entirely unconvinced.
That afternoon,in the drawing room, Hill stepped through the doorway, a folded note in her hand.
Mrs. Bennet sat bolt upright. Her cap tilted dangerously. “A letter! Is it from Netherfield? I am sure it must be from Netherfield. Give it here at once, Hill!”
The housekeeper surrendered the missive with the resignation of long practice.
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, half amusement, half dread. The pale blue wax seal gleamed like a small coin of fate.
Mrs. Bennet broke the seal with trembling fingers. Her eyes raced across the elegant script. “A tea! Tomorrow afternoon! The invitation is addressed to all my girls. Well, to Jane and Lizzy especially—oh, my sweetest Jane!”
Kitty snatched the letter from her mother's grasp and read aloud, stumbling over Miss Bingley's elaborate flourishes. Lydia hung over her shoulder, squealing at every other word.
“We are to take tea with the Bingleys!” Lydia crowed. “La, what shall I wear? My pink muslin, do you think, or the sprigged cotton?”
