"What about me, Mamma?" Lydia demanded. "I want a new gown too!"
"You shall have ribbons, my love. New ribbons in the most fashionable colours." Mrs Bennet turned to survey her assembled daughters with satisfaction. "This ball could not have come at a better time. Jane's attachment to Mr Bingley progresses admirably, Lydia has that wonderful lieutenant of hers as a potential suitor, and Kitty has Mr Poulett's attentions quite secured. Why, even Mary might catch some gentleman's eye if she can be persuaded to smile occasionally."
Mary's expression suggested that smiling ranked alongside dancing the hornpipe in terms of likelihood, but she said nothing.
Elizabeth waited, curious whether her mother would mention her name. When the silence stretched, she could not resist prompting: "And what of me, Mamma? Am I not to make some advantageous match at this ball?"
"You, Lizzy? Oh, but you are quite settled already! Mr Andrew Lucas has been calling with such frequency that everyone expects an announcement any day now. I should not be surprised if he proposes before the ball even takes place!"
The observation landed with uncomfortable accuracy. Andrew Lucas had indeed been calling—twice in the past week alone, and three times the week before that. He was unfailingly pleasant, truly interested in what she had to say, and possessed a modest fortune that would ensure a comfortable life.
He was, Elizabeth had to acknowledge, everything a sensible woman should want in a husband.
"Mr Lucas is a fine gentleman," Jane offered with an encouraging smile. "I have always thought you dealt particularly well together, Lizzy."
"He laughs at all your clever remarks," Kitty added. "Even the ones I don't understand."
It was true that she and Andrew Lucas conversed easily. He appreciated her wit, shared her interest in books, and never seemed disconcerted by her occasionally sharp observations. Their interactions held a comfortable quality that suggested the foundation for a perfectly adequate marriage.
He would make an attentive husband, and their life together would be pleasant enough. Yet she had to acknowledge—if only to herself—that she had not given him the attention he deserved these past weeks. How could she, when her mind had been so thoroughly occupied with Cassandra's correspondence? She had spent hours crafting responses to Mr Darcy's letters and anticipating his replies with a persistent eagerness.
The arrival of each letter had become the high point of her week. It was a chance at intellectual stimulation—the pleasure of engaging with a thoughtful mind through the written word.
Now, however, that peculiar chapter was drawing to a close. Mr Darcy had returned to Netherfield, recovered enough to pursue his courtship with Cassandra in person. No doubt he would propose within the week, if he had not done so already. The correspondence would end, and Elizabeth would be free to focus her attention where it properly belonged—on the gentleman who actually wished to court her.
She sighed internally, her mind lingering on the thought further. She did not love Andrew Lucas. She was fond of him, certainly, but fondness was a pale shadow of the grand passion described in the novels she borrowed from the circulating library. Those heroines did not settle for comfortable companionship. They held out for something more—for connections that transformed them, for attachments that made compromise seem worthwhile rather than merely prudent.
But those were merely stories, Elizabeth reminded herself. Foolish fantasies concocted by authors who had likely never faced the prospect of spinsterhood and dependence. Real life required pragmatism. And if that pragmatism felt rather hollow at present, well, that was likely because she had spent too much time writing romantic sentiments for Cassandra's letters.
"Well!" Mrs Bennet clapped her hands together, effectively ending Elizabeth's uncomfortable reflections. "We must begin preparations at once! Jane, come help me decide which jewels you ought to wear. Kitty, Lydia, you must practice your dancing. I will not have you disgracing the family by forgetting the steps. And Mary—"
"I shall return to my practice," Mary said with dignity, already retreating towards the pianoforte.
The assembly dispersed, leaving Elizabeth alone in the hallway with her father. Mr Bennet regarded her with the shrewd expression he wore when he had observed something his family believed hidden.
"You seem rather relieved to hear of Mr Darcy's recovery, Lizzy."
Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm. "Any Christian would be relieved to learn that an injured gentleman has recovered sufficiently to resume his activities."
"Indeed." Her father's tone suggested he found this explanation insufficient but was too polite—or too amused—to press further. "Though I confess I did not realise you held Mr Darcy in such high regard. At the assembly, I believe your assessment was considerably less charitable."
"People can surprise one," Elizabeth said carefully. "Perhaps I judged too hastily."
"Or perhaps," Mr Bennet said with a knowing look, "you have been spending rather too much time with Miss Rochford and have developed some interest in her concerns. I understand Mr Darcy has been corresponding with her."
The observation struck too close to truth for comfort. "Miss Rochford is my friend. Naturally, I take an interest in her welfare."
"Hm." Mr Bennet did not sound convinced. "Well, whatever occupies your mind, I trust you will sort it out before committing yourself to young Lucas. He seems a decent fellow, but the decision regarding marriage is not one to be taken lightly.”
With that uncomfortable piece of wisdom, he retreated to his study, leaving Elizabeth alone with her tangled conscience.
She returned to her chamber, where the ruined letter to her aunt still lay on the writing desk. Rather than beginning a fresh copy, Elizabeth moved to the window, gazing out at the lane that led towards Meryton and, beyond it, Netherfield Park.
Mr Darcy was there now. Recovered, or at least recovered enough. The relief she felt at that knowledge was entirely proper and reasonable. One did not wish suffering upon anyone, particularly not someone who had endured what he had.
A knock sounded at her chamber door. "Miss Elizabeth?" Hill's voice filtered through. "Mr Lucas has called and requests the pleasure of your company in the drawing room."
Elizabeth straightened her spine and turned from the window. "Tell him I shall be down directly."
