“The estate possesses merit, certainly, Bingley,” he replied after a moment’s reflection, his tone measured yet not without indulgence. “Your liberality will suit it well, my friend, and the neighborhood appears orderly enough to support such plans without undue interference.”
Mr. Bingley’s eyes brightened further, as though the very mention of the neighborhood stirred fresh visions.
“And the society!” he continued, leaning forward with renewed animation. “From what little we have glimpsed—and from Mr. Collins’s earnest, if somewhat partial, descriptions—it promises to be most agreeable. Respectable families, accomplished young ladies… a man might do far worse than establish himself among such neighbors. One hears continually of the advantages of country life for forming lasting connexions.”
He paused, a knowing smile playing upon his features, as if the thought of matrimony had presented itself not as a duty but as a pleasant possibility.
Mr. Darcy’s expression grew rather more guarded; he set down his glass with deliberate care, his mind evidently turning upon the conversation they had endured in the carriage on the journey from Kent—Mr. Collins’s bold yet perceptive observations upon duty, upon Anne, upon the possibility of freedom through another’s choice.
“You speak already of more permanent establishments, Bingley,” he observed quietly, after a pause that betrayed the weight of his reflections. “Yet marriage is a serious undertaking—not to be entered upon lightly, nor hurried by the convenience of a new neighborhood or the schemes of relations, however well-intentioned.”
Mr. Bingley regarded his friend with mild surprise, though affection tempered any reproach.
“You are unusually grave upon the subject tonight, Darcy. Yet our good Mr. Collins seemed to think otherwise—hinting, if I understood him rightly, that even the most reserved dispositions might be drawn forth by judicious encouragement, and that certain long-held plans might be reconsidered for the happiness of others.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze returned to the fire, his brow contracting faintly as he weighed the parson’s words anew. The idea that his continued unattached state held Anne in a kind of gentle captivity—that by stepping aside, by fulfilling his own duty to Pemberley through a suitable alliance elsewhere, he might release her to a life more congenial to her delicate constitution—had lingered with him throughout the day. Pemberley, after all, required an heir; he was not merely the guardian of hissister Georgiana’s future, but steward of an ancient line, with responsibilities that extended beyond personal inclination or familial pressure. To postpone indefinitely was to neglect those duties, yet to yield to his aunt’s inflexible design seemed equally untenable.
“Collins spoke with more perception than I at first credited,” he admitted at length, his voice low and reflective. “His observations upon… family matters were not without foundation. To free Anne from expectations she may not share—to allow her the quiet happiness she might find elsewhere—would be an act of true affection. Yet I cannot contemplate such a step merely to accommodate another’s ambition, nor to escape my aunt’s schemes.”
Mr. Bingley leaned forward, his expression one of affectionate concern mingled with gentle raillery.
“Come, Darcy—you carry too heavy a burden upon your shoulders. Pemberley will endure, and an heir will come in due course. But consider: a suitable alliance need not be a sacrifice. Hertfordshire may yet present opportunities that align duty with… inclination.”
Mr. Bingley paused a moment, as though struck by a fresh thought, and continued with renewed animation.
“And speaking of Hertfordshire—I am resolved, if the morning proves fine, to walk in Meryton directly after breakfast. A new master ought to become acquainted with the town nearest his estate; there will be shops to visit, tradesmen to greet, and perhaps some small intelligence to gather upon the neighborhood. Will you accompany me, Darcy? The exercise would do us both good before the evening’s engagements.”
Mr. Darcy considered the proposal for a moment, his reserve yielding to the practical sense of it; the town lay close, the day promised fair, and a brief survey might indeed prove useful.
“I shall join you,” he replied at length, with quiet decision. “It will serve to acquaint us further with the place we are to call, for a time at least, your home.”
Mr. Bingley’s satisfaction was immediate and unguarded.
“Capital! Then we shall set forth together.”
Mr. Darcy permitted himself the faintest, wry smile, though his thoughts remained guarded.
“Time may reveal what is possible,” he replied after another pause, as though turning the matter over with careful deliberation. “For now, the morrow’s engagements suffice.”
Mr. Bingley, sensing his friend’s reluctance to pursue the subject further, allowed the conversation to drift toward lighter prospects—the anticipated supper at Longbourn, the merits of the neighborhood—yet in the quiet that followed, each gentleman retired to his chamber with reflections of his own: Mr. Bingley dreaming of renovations and agreeable society, Mr. Darcy pondering the delicate balance between duty, affection, and the unforeseen possibilities that Hertfordshire might yet unfold.
***
The evening had drawn on, and the drawing-room at Longbourn was cheerful with firelight and candles as the family awaited their guests. Mrs. Bennet, seated upon the sofa in a state of eager triumph, smoothed her gown repeatedly and glancedoften toward the window, while her daughters—arranged about the room with varying degrees of composure—betrayed their anticipation in whispers and small adjustments to ribbon or curl.
The sound of carriage wheels upon the gravel announced the arrival at precisely ten minutes before five o’clock—the appointed hour for dinner. Mr. Bennet closed his book with a faint smile and rose to receive the party.
The gentlemen entered: Mr. Bingley first, his countenance open and animated with the pleasure of anticipated society; Mr. Darcy following with that grave dignity which marked his every movement in company.
Mr. Bennet advanced with dry courtesy.
“Welcome once more to Longbourn, gentlemen. You are most punctual. You find us prepared—perhaps, as my wife would have it, over-prepared—for the honor of your company.”
Mrs. Bennet rose in a flutter of delight that she could scarcely contain, curtseying with eager animation while her eyes darted from one visitor to the other in rapt appraisal.
“Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy! Such an honor—such distinguished visitors at our table! Pray come in. Hill, announce that dinner is to be served in ten minutes.”
Mr. Bingley bowed with heartfelt warmth watching the house with unguarded pleasure that did not escape the notice of the mistress of the house.
