“Bingley is to hold a ball,” he said at length. “May I beg the honour of the first set?”
“Yes, of course.” The words escaped without thought.
The lane before them met Longbourn’s drive. The others had already reached the door; Mr Bingley was handing off his horse to a waiting groom, and Mr Darcy did likewise. Inside, Elizabeth excused herself and took Elinor to the nursery. She did not rejoin the party.
Alone, her thoughts churned. She had suspected some partiality on Mr Darcy’s side and could not deny her own esteem for him. His declaration had been plain.He wishes for more.The words echoed within her.Do I?
Suzanne had urged her to consider happiness.I am happy,Elizabeth reasoned.Life here is good.But was it the best it could be? She already knew the answer. To deny herself of love would be to deny life itself.
And what of her daughter? Elinor wanted for nothing at present. How would she regard it if her mother were to introduce a gentleman into their lives as a lasting presence?
Marriage. The word felt like a curse. To bind herself once more—to become subject to a husband’s will. Her hand rose instinctively to the spinel necklace. She gripped it, breathing deeply until she calmed.
He wishes for more. The words echoed in her mind, as steady and sincere as the look in his eyes. She had heard admiration before—empty compliments and feigned regard—but never quiet conviction. It touched something deep within her, something long buried beneath caution and habit.
Yet beneath the uncertainty stirred a fragile hope. Perhaps Mr Darcy’s wish for more need not mean subjection, but partnership—respect, and kindness unlike any she had known in marriage. The thoughtdidfrighten her, but it refused to fade. Could his constancy ever mean safety, rather than constraint? The question unsettled her as much as it warmed her, for it hinted at a life no longer ruled by fear.
Chapter Thirty-Two
26 November 1811
Netherfield Ball
Elizabeth
“Lizzy,mayIspeakwith you?” Suzanne peeped round the jamb of Elizabeth’s bedchamber door, a trace of anxiety in her eyes.
Elizabeth closed her book and looked up from the comfortable armchair by the fire.
“Are you well, Suzanne? You seem anxious.”
Suzanne stepped inside, twisting the letter in her hand before perching on the chair opposite. The two seats faced the hearth, lending the room a pleasant warmth, though it made the place rather snug.“I have a letter from Henry. He wishes me to come to London for the holiday season.”
Elizabeth’s heart sank. “Oh...” Her fingers clutched the book in her lap. “You were to stay at Longbourn for Christmas.” A pause. It was only natural for Suzanne to wish to spend the holidays with her betrothed, yet disappointment pricked her all the same. “I shall miss you.”
“I want you and Elinor to come as our guests.” Suzanne leaned forwards and clasped Elizabeth’s hand with affectionate insistence. “I know you have not been back to London since…but you would not need to go to your own house. You could stay at Godfrey House with me and Arthur. And you would already be in town for the wedding. Will you think on it, my dear friend?” The firelight glinted in Suzanne’s golden curls, lending her countenance a gentle radiance that only deepened the sincerity of her plea.
Elizabeth felt torn. Could she return to the place where she had endured such torment? Even if she avoided Fiennes’s house, it would stand near…too near for comfort. “I shall think on itlater. We have an evening of dancing to prepare for, after all.”
“That is all I ask.” Suzanne rose, her cheer restored. “We shall have a grand time tonight. I am glad I returned in time for Mr Bingley’s ball. Do you think he will ask Jane for a formal courtship—or a proposal—before the evening is done?”
Unlike her own situation, Elizabeth had every confidence in her sister's future felicity. Mr Bingley was a good man—their investigations had shown that. “One can only hope. They exchange longing glances with such constancy that even the most romantic soul must beg for relief!”
Their laughter mingled with the crackle of the fire before Suzanne swept from the room, saying she had to find Arthur. The young earl had been occupied with his tutor, though he joined the household daily. His admiration for Lydia persisted, but Elizabeth could detect no reciprocal partiality.They are too young. And Lydia is two years his senior.There could be no harm in such childish infatuation; soon enough, Arthur would be off to Eton.
The proposed visit to town both frightened and intrigued her. She wished to go—and wished to equally remain. Mr Darcy was at Netherfield Park, and—
She stopped short, startled by thought.What has Mr Darcy to do with anything?Even as the question formed, she knew the truth: the gentleman had come to mean more to her than any other.Do I love him?It scarcelysignified. Her path was already chosen. She would raise her daughter to be an admirable, intelligent young lady, and…
A long sigh escaped her. Leaning back, she watched the flames dance and flicker in the grate. Loneliness pressed on her with new clarity—sharper still when she thought of Suzanne’s happiness. If her friend, once bound in misery as she had been, could move past it and find love anew, might she not as well?
No answer came. Resigned to uncertainty, Elizabeth rose at last and began her preparations for the ball.
Netherfield Park was alight. Lanterns lined the drive, and the carriages in the queue moved forward in stately procession. Elizabeth gazed at the manor, admiring the blaze of light from its many windows.I could have lived here,she thought.Of all this, I am mistress, yet I hide away at Longbourn.The familiar excuses that Netherfield Park would be far too lonely stirred in her mind, but she dismissed them. She might have invited Jane or Mary—or both—to share the house with her. Yet she had shied away from the place and its connection to her husband.Perhaps new memories will help me see Netherfield in a different light.
The Bennets’ carriage drew to a halt before the grand entrance, its lamps casting long shadows across the steps. Within moments Mr and Mrs Bennet, Jane, and Elizabeth were received into the welcoming warmth and brightness of the hall, followed closely by Suzanne, Mary, and Mr Collins, who had come in Lady Westland’s equipage.
Mr Bingley and his sisters waited to receive their guests. Mr Hurst was nowhere to be seen—likely already in the ballroom and well into his cups. The thought was uncharitable, but she could not deem it unjust.
