The doors of Netherfield opened before they had fully descended from the carriage, and Miss Caroline Bingley swept forward with the air of a queen greeting supplicants. Her smile was wide, her welcome effusive—at least toward Jane. Elizabeth received a nod so cool it might have chilled the December air further.
“Miss Bennet! How delighted we are to have you. And Miss Elizabeth.” Caroline's gaze swept over Elizabeth's pelisse with the practiced assessment of a woman cataloguing deficiencies.“How well you look! That fabric must be remarkably sturdy to show no ill effects from travel.”
“It is indeed,” Elizabeth replied pleasantly. “I find quality endures what flimsier things cannot.”
Mrs. Hurst stepped up behind her sister, her smile faint but acceptable. Mary alighted from the carriage next, followed by Lydia and Kitty in a flurry of ribbons and chatter. The entrance hall dissolved into the organized chaos of coats removed and pleasantries exchanged.
And then Elizabeth saw him.
Mr. Darcy stood at the foot of the stairs, tall and composed, his expression so carefully neutral it might have been carved from marble. He bowed as the ladies entered—correct, formal, utterly proper.
But his eyes found Elizabeth's across the crowded hall, and something flickered in their depths. Surprise, perhaps. Or recognition. Or something else entirely that Elizabeth refused to name.
She dropped a curtsy. He inclined his head.
Both looked away too quickly.
Lydia, observant for once, exchanged a quizzical glance with Kitty. Elizabeth pretended not to notice.
Caroline ushered them into the drawing room with the determined cheer of a hostess who would rather be anywhere else, and the tea commenced in earnest. The room was warm, the fire crackling, the refreshments arranged with geometric precision on silver trays. Caroline had clearly spared no expense in demonstrating her superior taste.
Elizabeth accepted a cup of tea and settled into a chair near Jane, surveying the battlefield before her.
Jane sat beside Mr. Bingley on a settee clearly designed for intimate conversation, while Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy were seated where Caroline could easily intrude upon any exchange. Mr. Darcy sat with a rigid posture, his teacup untouched, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance.
Though not, Elizabeth noticed, so fixed that it did not occasionally drift in her direction.
She ignored this. She was ignoring him entirely. The fact that she was aware of his every movement was merely a consequence of heightened vigilance. One must always know where the enemy was positioned.
Caroline launched into a detailed account of London's holiday entertainments—the soirées, the guest lists, the fashions that would certainly never reach Hertfordshire's provincial shores. Mrs. Hurst offered supporting commentary. Jane listened with patient courtesy. Lydia and Kitty whispered behind their hands. Mary sat with her teacup balanced precisely on her knee, her expression one of stoic endurance, though Elizabeth suspected she was composing mental sermons on the dangers of excessive refinement.
Elizabeth sipped her tea and watched Mr. Darcy watch her pretending not to watch him.
It was exhausting.
“And of course,” Caroline was saying, “the assemblies in town are of quite a different caliber. One meets only the most refined company. Not a tradesman's daughter in sight.”
“How restful that must be,” Elizabeth murmured. “To be surrounded only by those who share one's elevated sensibilities.”
Caroline's smile tightened. “Indeed. Though I suppose country assemblies have their own... charms.”
“We are charming,” Lydia announced from across the room. “Everyone says so.”
“Everyone with questionable judgment,” Kitty added, then dissolved into giggles at her own wit.
Caroline's eye twitched.
Elizabeth hid her smile behind her teacup and caught Mr. Darcy's gaze again. His lips pressed together in what might have been suppressed amusement.
She looked away before she could be certain.
The conversation meandered through topics of decreasing interest—the weather, the roads, the lamentable scarcity of good servants in the country—until Mr. Bingley, who had been gazing at Jane with the devoted attention of a spaniel, suddenly sat forward.
“I have had an idea,” he announced. “A capital idea, in fact. I mean to host a holiday entertainment here at Netherfield. Music, games, dancing—the whole neighborhood shall come.”
Jane's blush was instantaneous and lovely.
Elizabeth's heart warmed toward her sister. Mr. Bingley's affection was as plain as daybreak, and twice as welcome.
