Mary cleared her throat with the gravity of a minister mounting a pulpit. “A tea is harmless enough, I suppose, though I should hope young ladies will conduct themselves with dignity rather than frivolity.”
Lydia dissolved into giggles. “Oh, Mary, you speak as though tea were a mortal sin! Shall we tumble into ruin over a biscuit?”
“Rudeness,” Mary pronounced, “is the hallmark of an undisciplined mind.”
“And pompousness,” Lydia shot back, “is the hallmark of a dull one.”
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Her stomach, however, had begun an uncomfortable waltz of its own.
A tea at Netherfield meant Mr. Bingley's continued devotion to Jane.
It also meant Mr. Darcy.
Jane leaned close, touched Elizabeth's arm, and in a whisper said, “You seem troubled. Are you well?”
“Of course.” Elizabeth kept her voice light. “Though I confess I anticipate the company with mixed sentiments.”
Jane's brow furrowed. “You speak of Mr. Darcy.”
“I speak of Miss Bingley's insistence upon discussing the fashions of town and the deficiencies of country society. But yes, him as well.”
“He was not so disagreeable at the ball, Lizzy.” Jane's tone was gentle, reproachful. “He danced with you. And I think he would have danced with you again and again, had propriety allowed.”
“Hardly that! Mr. Darcy danced with all the enthusiasm of a man submitting to the surgeon's blade.” Elizabeth set down her teacup with more force than necessary. “I believe the effort nearly killed him. His face bore the expression of a condemned prisoner throughout.”
“Perhaps he is merely shy.”
“Shy?” Elizabeth laughed. “Jane, the man looks upon every person in the room as though calculating the precise degree to which they disappoint him. That is not shyness. That is pride in a well-starched cravat.”
“I think,” Jane said carefully, “that you judge him harshly.”
“And I think you see the good in everyone, even when they offer precious little evidence of it.”
Before Jane could reply, Kitty interjected, “I think Jane has some right of it. Mr. Darcy kept staring at you whenever he thought no one was looking. I saw him.”
“He was not staring, he was—” Elizabeth stopped. What had he been doing? Scowling, certainly. Brooding, absolutely. But staring?
Her pulse gave an irritating skip.
“You are both being ridiculous,” she said firmly. “Mr. Darcy considers me tolerable at best. He said so himself at the assembly.”
“People change their minds.” Kitty wiggled her eyebrows. “Especially when confronted with pretty eyes and a sharp tongue.”
“My tongue,” Elizabeth said with dignity, “is none of Mr. Darcy's concern.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had been conferring urgently with Hill about refreshments and carriage arrangements, whirled round at the mention of Mr. Darcy's name.
“Mr. Darcy!” She pressed a hand to her bosom. “Oh, imagine it! Lizzy, you could turn his head yet. What a fine thing that would be—Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley!”
Elizabeth set down her teacup with exaggerated care. “Mama, I assure you, no one in this house, myself included, has ever wished for that outcome.”
“Ten thousand a year, Lizzy!” Mrs. Bennet's eyes had gone misty with visions of carriages and silks. “And such a handsome face—though somewhat gloomy, I grant you. But gloom can be fixed with a cheerful wife!”
“If you believe I am capable of curing Mr. Darcy of gloom, Mama, you vastly overestimate my abilities.”
“Nonsense! You have the liveliest wit in Hertfordshire. He cannot help but be charmed.”
“He is not charmed. He is affronted. There is a significant difference.”
