“It has always been difficult for me to learn by discussion alone. Might we ride to the spot in question and discuss the matter there where I can see everything?” He needed a ride anyway.
“That is an excellent idea. I shall bring the map so that you can reference it.” Darcy scooped up the rolled paper. “Thirty minutes?”
Grinning broadly, Bingley nodded. He asked a footman to send a note to the stables to prepare their horses. They left the study for their respective chambers and changed into riding clothes. The crisp air prompted Charles to fetch his great coat. It was an old garment, which had once belonged to his father. Though it had long ago lost the late Mr. Bingley’s characteristic cologne smell, Bingley still felt close to the man whenever he wore it.
Darcy awaited him in the entrance hall, and they went out to the stables. Hercules neighed upon noting his master, stomping his hooves impatiently. His coat glistened in the afternoon light and he tossed his mane as Bingley approached, palm open, with an apple in the middle. His mount accepted the morsel, snorting as he chewed.
“If you have finished pampering your horse, we can go.” Darcy grinned, his expression betraying no risk of giving offense at his words.
“Very well.” He patted his horse and mounted him. “Let us go to it.”
Chapter Eleven
November 5, 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Elizabethstuckthered-threadedneedle into her handkerchief. Yesterday she had edged it with lace, and today she meant to embroider a trio of roses into the corner. Green vines would trail along the edge of the cloth, and her initials and more roses would be in the corner opposite the trio of blooms.
She had always liked flowers. Roses, especially, called to her. There were so many colors and varieties—enough to satisfy even the most particular taste. Mama grew at least a dozen varieties in Longbourn’s gardens. Elizabeth’s favorites were the orange ones with the deep pink edges. When she placed them in a vase in her window, the sun made them look as if they were on fire.
Jane sat at a nearby table with Lydia, with a disassembled bonnet before them. Lydia picked up flowers and ribbons, moving them here and there to create something new. “This color is all wrong for you, Jane,” she said, holding up a bright green ribbon. “Your hair is much too fair. This green makes you look positively ill.”
“You have the same coloring, sister mine,” Jane said, chuckling. “You simply wish to purloin the ribbon.”
“Not so!” Lydia placed a hand on her chest in affected innocence. “How could you think such a thing?” They giggled, and Jane offered to let her younger sister keep the ribbon. In gratitude, Lydia offered Jane with a deep blue ribbon that made her eyes stand out.
“If we add some ribbon roses here and maybe a feather or two…”
At the pianoforte, Kitty sat beside Mary. The former had been convinced to turn pages for Mary and the latter focused on the music before her, brow wrinkling in concentration.
Elizabeth smiled to herself. The overall domesticity of the scene pleased her. All that was wantedwas Mrs. Bennet seated in her chair, work basket in her lap, to complete the picture. Mama was in Hill’s office going over menus.
The front bell rang, and the ladies turned to the door. Mr. Hill appeared, stepping aside to announce their visitors.
“Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Hurst, and Mrs. Hurst,” he said.
Four people came into the room. “Good day, ladies,” Mr. Bingley said cheerfully. “I have brought my sister and her husband to meet you all.”
Kitty and Lydia stood and were introduced before leaving the room without complaint. Elizabeth felt a quiet pride that they had not even attempted to linger, though she knew both girls wished to remain.They have matured,she mused.
“May I present Mr. Reginald Hurst and Mrs. Louisa Hurst. Mrs. Hurst is my sister.” Mr. Bingley spoke mostly to Jane, but Elizabeth did not feel slighted in the least.
She examined the newcomers. Mrs. Hurst was about as tall as Jane. Her dark blond hair had hints of red in it. She was dressed fashionably in a gown far too fine for a morning call, and though her outward expression seemed pleasant, there was something of disdain in her gaze as she regarded Jane.
Her husband, Mr. Hurst, moved directly to Mama’s favorite chair and sat in it. He yawned widely and leaned back, closing his eyes and promptly ignoring everyone in the room.
Mr. Darcy came toward her, stopping beside the settee where Elizabeth sat. “May I?” he asked.
At her nod, he sat beside her. “What are you working on?” he asked.
“It is only a handkerchief. Charlotte—Miss Lucas—taught me a new stitch, but I am finding it difficult to master. See? My roses look misshapen.”
“They look lovely,” he protested.
“That is because you do not know what they are supposed to look like,” she chuckled. “Tell me, does Miss Darcy carry linens so poorly embroidered?” She smoothed a hand over the cloth, fingertips lingering on her poor attempts.
