Mr. Collins bowed with earnest gratification, his countenance glowing.
“I should be most happy to attend, dear cousin, if it may contribute to the general felicity—and perhaps offer an opportunity for rational conversation amid the diversions.”
Mr. Darcy fell silent once more, his gaze resting upon Elizabeth with increasing gravity, while Mr. Bingley continued to engage Jane with gentle, attentive compliments that drew soft replies and quiet blushes.
The conversation flowed onward in this manner—light, varied, and marked by that mixture of sense and nonsense which characterized the Bennet household—until Hill announced that supper awaited, and the party rose to proceed to the dining-room, each with reflections suited to their particular hopes and observations.
The party rose from the drawing-room with that agreeable bustle which marks the transition to dinner in a country house of moderate pretension, the gentlemen offering their arms with due politeness while the ladies arranged themselves with fluttering anticipation. Mr. Bennet led the way to the dining-parlor—a room of comfortable proportions, its table laid with the best linen and silver Longbourn could boast, the candles casting a warm, inviting light upon the assembled company. He took his place at the head with the quiet authority of one long accustomed to presiding over his family’s varied humors, his eyes twinkling with private amusement as he surveyed the arrangement—carefully contrived, in deference to decorum, to alternate gentlemen and ladies as far as numbers permitted: Mr. Darcy, as the gentleman of highest rank, seated at his right with Elizabeth beside him; Mr. Bingley, whose amiable disposition rendered him a most welcome guest, placed at his left besideJane; and Mr. Collins, with his earnest desire to please, positioned near Mrs. Bennet at the foot, where his compliments might be most appreciatively received without disturbing the balance of conversation.
The first courses were served with commendable promptitude—soup, followed by fish and a remove of boiled fowl—while conversation flowed in that easy, desultory manner proper to a family dinner enlarged by distinguished guests. Mrs. Bennet, presiding at the foot with fluttering animation, directed the servants with frequent instructions, her voice rising in delighted commentary upon every dish, while Lydia and Kitty whispered and giggled over the officers they expected at the forthcoming assembly, and Mary interposed occasional solemn observations upon the virtues of moderation.
Mr. Bingley, whose open manners rendered him the most immediate favorite of the household, addressed himself with general civility to the company, though his attention returned often, and with increasing admiration, to Miss Bennet seated beside him.
The courses proceeded with tolerable smoothness, yet when a young maid, in passing the remove of vegetables, allowed her tray to tilt slightly—so that a spoon clattered against a dish—Mrs. Bennet could not forbear a sharp reproof.
“Careful, girl!” she exclaimed, her voice rising with that mixture of authority and vexation habitual to hostesses conscious of their table’s reputation. “We shall have the sauce upon the cloth next, and then what will our guests think of Longbourn’s management?”
The maid colored deeply, murmuring an apology as she hastened to steady the tray, while Hill cast her a quick, sympathetic glance.
Jane, whose gentle disposition could not endure even so mild a rebuke upon another, leaned forward with quiet composure, her voice soft yet distinct enough to be heard by those nearest.
“Pray do not distress yourself, Mama,” she said, addressing her mother with affectionate calmness while turning a kind smile upon the servant. “It was the merest accident, and no harm done. Nancy performs her duties with willingness—I am sure a little patience will soon render her quite adept.”
Mrs. Bennet, though momentarily inclined to persist, subsided with a huff, her irritation softened by the consciousness that her eldest daughter’s gentleness reflected credit upon the family—and perhaps upon the table in the eyes of their distinguished guests.
Mr. Bingley, who had observed the exchange with silent attention—his gaze resting upon Miss Bennet with undisguised yet respectful admiration—felt his esteem for her deepen into something warmer and more decided. The quiet kindness with which she had shielded the servant from further reproach struck him as the truest mark of a benevolent heart. He glanced briefly toward Mr. Bennet at the head of the table—seeking, in the manner of a well-bred gentleman, that implicit sanction which politeness required before venturing a personal observation—and receiving a faint, permissive nod accompanied by the host’s characteristic dry twinkle, spoke at length, his tone softened by sincere feeling.
“You are very kind, Miss Bennet,” he said, leaning slightly toward her with respectful warmth. “Good-hearted people, I find, do not always need to talk much—their actions speak more eloquently than words ever could.”
Jane colored faintly, her eyes lowering with modest pleasure, while Mrs. Bennet beamed with triumphant maternal pride,and Elizabeth regarded the exchange with a faint, affectionate smile—though her own gaze flickered briefly toward Mr. Darcy, curious to observe his reaction to her sister’s gentle triumph.
Mr. Darcy, seated opposite, observed the scene with silent attention, his reserve unbroken though his gaze rested often upon Elizabeth with a gravity that betrayed increasing interest—perplexed, perhaps, by her continued indifference to his presence.
The removes gave way to the second course, and when the covers were lifted to reveal, among other dishes, a fine cold roast beef accompanied by a small silver dish of horseradish sauce, Mr. Darcy’s composure underwent a visible alteration. His eyes widened for the briefest moment, his fork paused midway to his plate, and a shadow of deep, unexpected emotion passed across his countenance—surprise mingled with a tenderness he could scarcely conceal.
Mr. Bingley, seated opposite and ever attentive to his friend, caught the change at once and cast Mr. Collins a quick, conspiratorial glance—half sympathy, half knowing amusement—as if to acknowledge the private significance of the offering.
Mr. Darcy, recovering himself with an effort, cut a small portion and tasted it with deliberate care. The flavor—perfectly balanced, the beef rested to tenderness, the sauce sharp yet harmonious, the horseradish fresh and finely prepared—struck him with the force of a long-buried memory. His eyes closed for the briefest moment, and when he opened them again, they held a softness rarely seen in his reserved countenance.
He set down his knife and fork, his voice quieter than usual yet carrying sufficient weight to command the table’s attention.
“This preparation,” he said at length, addressing the company though his gaze lingered upon the dish with evident feeling, “is remarkably well executed. I have not tasted its equal since… since my childhood at Pemberley. Only my late mother—and the cook she kept—could transform so simple a dish into something approaching perfection. The balance is everything.”
A brief hush fell upon the table—Mr. Bingley regarding his friend with affectionate concern, Jane with gentle sympathy, Elizabeth with quiet curiosity, and Mrs. Bennet with the triumphant gleam of one who has struck an unexpected vein of gold.
Seizing the moment with eager animation, the mistress of the house could not forbear to summon the architect of this success.
“Hill! Hill—come in directly! Mr. Darcy is excessively pleased with the cold beef and sauce—pray come and receive his compliments!”
Hill entered with deferential haste, her face flushed with modest pride as she curtseyed.
“I am glad it pleases, ma’am—sir,” she murmured, her voice low with gratitude.
Mr. Darcy inclined his head with grave courtesy.
“You have my sincere thanks, Mrs. Hill. It is… a rare achievement. Extraordinary, upon my word.”
Hill curtsied deeper, her hands clasped before her.
