Still, beneath her disquiet, a gentler conviction stirred—that somewhere, in another suitor, there was honour yet to be found.
Chapter Twenty-Five
5 November 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
TheresidentsofNetherfieldcame to call on an unusually warm day for November. Miss Bingley glided into the drawing room at Longbourn, nose in the air and pretension in every movement. Her look of superiority faltered as she glanced about and noticed the newcomer. Mrs Bennet greeted her guests warmly, directing them to take a seat and ringing for tea.
“You can see we have an addition to our party,” Mrs Bennet said to the visitors. “Lady Westland, may I perform the introductions?”
Elizabeth stifled a grin as Miss Bingley visibly started. The introductions were soon performed, and the woman’s excessively low curtsey nearly provoked her to laughter.
Miss Bingley assumed the polished manner of one well-schooled in the accomplishments expected of a lady. “Lady Westland, it is an honour to meet you.”
Before she could continue, Mr Darcy stepped forward. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Westland.”
Suzanne’s smile was cordial. “Thank you, Darcy. My sister writes of you often—I have not seen her in some time. Tell me, how is the countess?”
Miss Bingley’s gaze darted between them, her poise slipping into bewilderment. Elizabeth observed the exchange with inward amusement—how she longed to laugh. Surely even Miss Bingley could find nothing to censure in the Bennets’ connexions. Others soon claimed Suzanne’s attention, however, and Miss Bingley turned towards her brother and Jane.
When tea was served, Miss Bingley soon placed herself beside Elizabeth and Suzanne. “I had no idea the Bennets had connexions to the first circles,” Her curiosity was scarcely veiled by courtesy. Her eyes shifted between them. There was a slight furrow between her brows, betraying her confusion.
“I met Elizabeth in town when she was newly married,” Suzanne’s fond glance towards her spoke volumes. “We had so much in common that friendship came easily. Though we have not been in company for some time, we exchange letters at least once a week.” She lifted her cup with unstudied grace. “I am very pleased to meet the rest of my friend’s beloved family. The pleasure has been denied me for too long.”
Miss Bingley’s brows rose a fraction, but Suzanne allowed no pause for comment.
“Imagine my surprise to learn my sister’s nephew was also in the area. I have not seen Darcy insolong.” From across the room, Mr Darcy looked up from his conversation with Mr Bennet. At Suzanne’s warm smile, he inclined his head in acknowledgement. She turned to Elizabeth. “I am eager to introduce him to Mr Blythe. Darcy reminds me of him very much.”
Miss Bingley’s polish wavered for a heartbeat as she looked from one to the other and blurted, “Who is Mr Blythe?”
“Forgive me, Miss Bingley,” Suzanne replied. “Mr Henry Blythe is my betrothed.”
At this revelation, Miss Bingley’s tension visibly eased. “You are to marry, Lady Westland? My felicitations.”
Elizabeth watched the exchange with growing comprehension. So that was it—Miss Bingley’s composure had faltered at Suzanne’s easy familiarity with Mr Darcy. Yet he had never shown the smallest sign of preference for Miss Bingley, at least none that Elizabeth had ever observed. Poor woman—the disappointment must, in time, be hers alone.
The topic shifted, and Miss Bingley enquired where Lady Westland had purchased her gown. Suzanne’s attire was impeccable as ever, the height of understated fashion. The willow green suited her rank perfectly, refined without ostentation, and softened the warmth of her dark hair and hazel eyes. Her alabaster complexion seemed almost luminescent. Ever courteous, even when faced with insincerity, she replied that she purchased fabrics in town, but her maid, being most adept with a needle, designed and made every gown she wore.
“Your own gown is one of Madame Martine’s, is it not?”
Miss Bingley preened at the recognition. “Indeed, it is!”
“I thought so.” Suzanne’s mild interruption forestalled further. “She is daring, to be sure, but her eye for colour is sorely lacking. May I offer a little unsolicited advice?”
Miss Bingley paled, and a flicker of apprehension crossed her face, but she inclined her head.
“Find another modiste, or at least one with a better sense of colour. The design itself is not dreadful, but the hues do not favour you. You would look infinitely better in blues or greens rather than salmon.” Suzanne’s kind smile gentled her words, and colour returned to Miss Bingley’s cheeks. “It is dreadful that the lightest tints are now deemed the fashion for youngladies,” she added with a rueful smile. “They suit so few complexions. I recall Elizabeth telling me such shades made her look particularly sallow.”
Miss Bingley’s salmon-coloured gown indeed washed her out. She did not look ill, but Elizabeth could not but recall the gown she had worn at the Meryton Assembly—a celestial blue trimmed with gold accents. It had suited Miss Bingley’s pale complexion far better, though it was more appropriate for a London ball than a country assembly.
Miss Bingley’s lips tightened; she clearly disliked the comparison to Elizabeth. After a moment, she sought a new topic. “How does Mr Darcy know your sister? I believe you mentioned she was his aunt, but…”
Suzanne laughed lightly. “Oh, my sister hates that story, but I shall tell it all the same. She is many years my senior. My father remarried late in life, and I am the consequence. I was raised with my nephews—the viscount and his younger brother—and naturally I spent time with Darcy as well. We are not related by blood, and though I vexed him as a child, we are quite friendly now.”
“Your sister is the Countess of Matlock, then?” Miss Bingley asked.
