Mary, sipping her tea with deliberate precision, remarked, “Or perhaps she is simply trying to distract herself from the fact that there is a madman inside the house.”
Mrs. Bennet dropped her spoon with a clatter. “Mary! What athing to say!”
But Mr. Bennet only grunted, folding his paper. “It may be, Mary, that you are correct. In any event, I find myself agreeing that I ought to take the matter more seriously. I shall pen a note to Sir William after breakfast.”
He rose and muttered under his breath, “I ought to have done it sooner.” Elizabeth, catching the words, sighed. Whether her father’s delay was born of skepticism or stubbornness, she could not say, but she was glad at least to see him move towards action.
The day passed in a flurry of small excitements. Servants hurried up and down the stairs with buckets of steaming water, their arms reddened from the heat. The sharp, clean scent of lavender water hung in the upstairs corridor, mingling with the beeswax polish from the morning’s dusting.
Lydia and Kitty bickered over a length of pearl trim, Lydia insisting it would be “wasted” on Kitty’s gown when it could “elevate” her own. Kitty snapped that Lydia already had the newer gown, entirely reconstructed after its mysterious destruction, and should leave her be. Jane sat with quiet industry by the window, finishing a hem in her pale pink muslin, her needle flashing in the sunlight. Mary polished her shoes until they gleamed and rehearsed under her breath a set of minuets she might play if prevailed upon.
Elizabeth, alone in her chamber, laid out her own gown across the bed. It was a soft ivory silk, the skirts falling in a graceful drape, the bodice modest but well-fitted. She had trimmed it herself with the narrow ribbon of silver and blue she had purchased in Meryton—a delicate touch that caught the light like frost on water and pleased her for its understated elegance.
Her hair she dressed in an arrangement of soft curls gathered high, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face. Sarah, her maid, wove the same silver-blue ribbon through the coiffure and fastened it with pearl-tipped pins, her fingers deft and sure. Elizabeth fastened her mother’s small pearl drops in her ears—simple, but dear—and clasped around her wrist a slender silver bracelet, a gift from Jane on her eighteenth birthday.
The glass reflected her with more than its usual honesty. She saw not only the ivory gown and the careful curls, but the faint flush of anticipation in her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes that came, she suspected, less from the prospect of the ball itself than from the thought of a certain gentleman’s company. She smoothed her skirts with deliberate care, telling herself it was merely to check for stray threads and not to steady her own pulse.
By the time the family gathered in the front hall to depart, Mrs. Bennet was in a state of high agitation,fussing with gloves and reticules and exclaiming over imagined delays. “Where is my shawl? Oh, this will never do—Jane, stand nearer the light so I may see if that ribbon is straight—Lydia, stop tugging at your bodice!”
Elizabeth lingered for a moment on the threshold of her chamber. She let her gaze drift over the familiar space—the small escritoire by the window, the neatly folded shawl upon the chair, the shadowed corners where unease had lately made its home. The fire in the grate burned low, casting warm light on the silver-blue ribbon ends peeking from her sewing box. For all her affection for Longbourn, she could not deny the relief that washed over her at the thought of leaving it behind, if only for an evening.
The carriage awaited, lanterns glowing in the deepening twilight. As she stepped into the night air, a faint chill curled around her, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and wood-smoke. She glanced back once, the tall windows of Longbourn glimmering faintly behind her like watchful eyes, and then turned away towards the promise of music, light, and the company she most wished to keep.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
November 26, 1811
Netherfield Ball
Elizabeth
NetherfieldHallwasablazewith lights, every window a glowing panel against the November night. Candles gleamed from within, their flames magnified in the tall panes so that the whole façade seemed to shimmer like a jewel. The Bennet carriage crunched up the gravel drive, the rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves softened by the thick autumn air.
Inside, the six Bennet ladies sat snugly, skirts pressed together in a confusion of silks, muslins, and woolen cloaks. The jostling of elbows and the sway of the conveyance made it impossible to sit entirely still, but there was acurrent of anticipation running through them that kept spirits from souring. Mr. Bennet and Mr. Collins followed in a small covered gig, its wheels rattling unevenly behind them.
They were among the first to arrive—Mrs. Bennet’s careful orchestration, of course. She had declared it their due, given Mr. Darcy’s courtship of Elizabeth and Jane’s impending—though as yet unofficial—engagement. Never mind that Mr. Bingley had not spoken a formal word on the matter, nor offered a courtship; Mrs. Bennet’s mind was made up.
The carriage had scarcely halted before Mrs. Bennet had the door open, sweeping down in a rustle of silk and a gust of lavender perfume, urging her daughters to follow. A liveried footman extended a gloved hand to each young lady in turn, helping them onto the wide stone steps. The great oak doors stood open to receive them, the heat and music of the house spilling into the night.
Elizabeth, stepping up from the cold into the glow of the entry, glanced at her family and could not help but think they looked rather fine tonight. Their gowns might still bear the mark of country fashion, but they were fresh, carefully mended, and prettily adorned. It did not matter to her in the least—Mr. Darcywould think her lovely, regardless.
The receiving line formed just inside the marble-floored entrance. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst were first, offering the politest possible courtesies without true warmth, before turning their attention to the next guests. Miss Bingley was as glacial as a January dawn to everyone but Jane, who received a marginally softer greeting and an appraising glance at her gown.
Mr. Bingley, by contrast, greeted them with genuine delight, clasping Mr. Bennet’s hand and expressing his pleasure that they had come. “I feared you might be delayed by the weather,” he said cheerfully. “It would have been a poor evening indeed without the Bennet ladies here.”
From there, the Bennets filed into the ballroom. Elizabeth felt her breath catch a little at the sight: a glittering expanse of polished oak, chalked with intricate patterns of vines and garlands. Garlands of hothouse flowers—white camellias, blush roses, and fragrant hyacinths—were looped along the wainscoting and twined about the gilt-framed mirrors. Candles stood in profusion, their light caught and multiplied by every reflective surface until the whole room seemed brighter than day.
Mary made straight for the pianoforte at the far end, perhaps seeking the safety of music. Her first set was promised to Mr. Collins, but she clearly meant to keep her conversation with him as brief as possible. Kitty andLydia drifted through the crowd like leaves in a stream, their heads bent together as they admired the decorations and scanned the arrivals for their friends—and the bright red coats of the officers.
Mrs. Bennet caught Elizabeth’s arm, fluttering her fan so vigorously that it was a wonder she did not stir a draft. “Oh, what an elegant sight!” she declared. “Miss Bingley has done a marvelous job of it, has she not? Look at the flowers—why, the hothouses must be entirely stripped bare! And the mirrors! The candlelight reflects and dances upon them—why, the room is twice as bright for it. Did you see the chalk designs on the floor? And the ribbons on the pillars! Such comfortable seating, too…”
Elizabeth let her mother’s stream of observations wash over her, her own gaze scanning the crowd for a tall, familiar figure. Mr. Darcy had yet to appear. She wondered what detained him—and whether she might have a moment to speak with him about the latest terror at Longbourn before the dancing began. Kitty’s fright from the night before still weighed heavily on her mind.
A deep voice behind her forestalled further speculation. “Good evening.”
Elizabeth started and turned to find Mr. Darcy standing just behind her and Mrs. Bennet, impeccably dressed. His waistcoat was of deep midnight blue shot through withsilver thread, the perfect counterpart to the ribbon on her gown.
“Good evening, Mr. Darcy,” she said warmly.
