Mr. Bingley offered a small smile, but his thoughts had deepened. Darcy’s letter surfaced in his memory with unexpected clarity:“If ever you should come across this man—George Wickham—do not trust his appearance. Write to me at once.”
There had been no urgency then, only caution. Bingley had thought little of it at the time—Wickham was but a name. A shadow in a story Darcy never fully told. But now, hearing the name aloud again, watching Elizabeth’s subtle stillness—he began to wonder.
Could it be the same man? His brow furrowed briefly. Had Darcy confided anything more to Elizabeth?
But he said nothing. His countenance resumed its usual warmth as Mrs. Bennet launched into an enthusiastic account of Meryton’s ribbon shops. He resumed his cheerful tone with ease. “And how does Miss Lydia? You must have enjoyed your outing to Meryton.”
“Oh, exceedingly!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “And Kitty, too—such fine pelisses on display! But I am forgetting myself—do sit, Mr. Bingley, and let us hear how Netherfield fares in this weather.Though I suppose a gentleman may endure a little damp without much complaint.”
He accepted the offered seat, and as the talk shifted toward local matters and neighbouring acquaintances, the name Wickham settled uneasily in his thoughts—no longer a casual introduction, but a tether to something unresolved. The good news was that the Netherfield ball was to be held, and if he had any influence in the matter—and he did—Wickham’s name would not appear among the guests.
Mr. Bingley continued speaking cheerfully of partridges and parsonages, yet beneath the surface, one thread remained taut—drawn back to a tale Darcy had never quite finished telling.
***
After the front door had closed behind Lady Lucas and Mr. Bingley, Mr. Bennet rose slowly from his armchair and cleared his throat with more than his usual gravity. He remained by the hearth, waiting in composed silence for Jane and his wife to return from the front hall, where they had seen their guests to the door.
Mrs. Bennet swept back into the parlour in high spirits. “Well, I declare, that was a most pleasant visit. Mr. Bingley is ever so agreeable—and so attentive to our Jane. I am sure—”
“I believe, my dears,” Mr. Bennet interrupted, “that we must attend to matters of greater urgency than lace trims and pleasant company.”
The tone of his voice silenced the room. Elizabeth, seated near the hearth, exchanged a glance with Jane, while Lydia and Kitty paused at once in their whispering. Mary, who had been quietly annotating a volume of Fordyce’s Sermons, looked up with interest.
Mr. Bennet folded his hands behind his back and regarded his assembled daughters with a severity they did not often see.
“I have, until now, permitted a certain degree of liberty,” he began. “A misunderstood liberty, I must admit, which has not been answered with prudence. I refer, of course, to the repeated visits to Meryton and the increasing familiarity with officers of the militia—some of whom, it seems, are scarcely known to us.”
Mrs. Bennet huffed. “Oh, Mr. Bennet, surely the girls must enjoy themselves a little while they are young! How else shall they find husbands, if not—”
“Husbands?” he cut in, lifting a brow. “Are we now to auction off our daughters for crimson coats and borrowed epaulettes?”
Lydia opened her mouth, but his raised hand forestalled her.
“More to the point,” he continued, “I have learned that certain liberties have included falsehoods. I refer, Miss Lydia, to your careless boast of possessing a dowry of five thousand pounds—a fiction which, I imagine, you believed would impress the young officers.”
Lydia flushed scarlet. “It was only in jest, Papa! Kitty said—”
“I said no such thing!” Kitty interjected. “You were the one who—”
“Enough,” Mr. Bennet said—not raising his voice, but commanding the room. “I will not have squabbling where honesty ought to reign. That was a lie. There is no excuse for it. Let me be plain: this household shall observe new rules.”
He turned his gaze to all five daughters in turn, his expression firm yet not unkind.
“Until the ball at Netherfield, at month’s end, no further visits to Meryton shall occur unless I accompany you myself. That includes shopping, calling, or sauntering about for ribbons and news.”
A gasp escaped Lydia. “But Papa—!”
“You will not visit the regiment,” he said firmly. “Not unless I extend an invitation to one of their number—and such invitations shall be exceedingly rare.”
Mrs. Bennet opened her mouth to protest, but he went on, unbothered.
“There shall be no additional spending for new gowns. Mary,” he added, turning with a gentler tone, “you shall have the funds for those books you requested. But the rest of you will make do with what you have. Even the finest muslin will not mend a damaged reputation. Kitty, Lydia—this reproof is addressed to you.”
Mary inclined her head with modest satisfaction. Lydia looked as though she might weep, and Kitty gave a sulky sigh.
Elizabeth, who had listened in silence, now spoke with measured calm. “Your terms are just, sir. It is no shame to observe more careful conduct—indeed, it would be to our advantage.”
Mr. Bennet’s features softened slightly. “Thank you, Lizzy. I knew I might count on one sensible voice in this house.”
