Richard glanced at him. “Sacrifice? Wait, I never heard that bit.”
Darcy gave a brief, dismissive motion of his hand. “It does not matter.”
“Oh, it sounds like it very much does. Speak, cousin. What has your father told you?”
“That part came from Lady Catherine, so treat it with the gravity it deserves—which is to say, not much. She was always quoting odd things to him that seemed to change with the color of her gown. My father believed,” he continued, “it indulgent to contradict her, and safer to teach his son the truth—that none of it deserved serious consideration.”
Richard was quiet for a moment. Then, with a faint edge of humour, he said, “And yet everyone seems remarkably eager to tell you where you ought to go.”
Darcy did not answer at once. He had the sudden, unwelcome sense that his father’s certainty had been less dismissal than protection—and that what had been dismissed had not vanished, only waited.
“That does not oblige me to do so.”
“He is already handsomerthan anyone expected,” Lydia declared, kicking her heels in the air as she plopped into a seat.
Elizabeth threaded her needle and did not look up at her sister. “Are we talking about little John Lucas, age twelve? Yes, he is rather a handsome young chap.”
“How can you be so vexing? I mean the new neighbour, Mr Bingley! And he broughthorses, Lizzy.”
“I rather expect he did. How else was he to arrive, by sledge dog?”
“No, I mean the most beautiful matched four in hand anyone ever saw. Jane said they were black. That always means something in a novel.”
“I doubt a horse’s coat colour is a reliable indicator of his quality,” Elizabeth replied, taking her seat by the window with a small embroidery hoop she had no intention of using.
Kitty chimed in from the settee. “Papa went to call this morning, you know. Mama insisted he wear his best coat, and he actually did.”
“I helped pick the cravat,” Lydia added proudly.
“I’m sure that made all the difference.”
Across the room, Mary looked up from a battered copy of Fordyce’s Sermons, her tone mild but pointed. “We might concern ourselves less with a man’s tailoring and more with his character.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, “but that would spoil all the fun.”
Before Mary could reply, Jane entered with her arms full of linens and a warm flush in her cheeks. “Mama says we must air all the tablecloths and polish the silver, just in case there is a dinner party. Mr Bingley has two sisters, and Mrs Long says he will also have a friend staying with him.”
“Did she say what kind of friend?” Kitty asked with glee. “Gentleman friend? Handsome friend?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Perhaps a reclusive philosopher or an amateur botanist. Mama will be devastated.”
“Mrs Long says—” Lydia lowered her voice and leaned forward dramatically, “—that he is very rich, and very tall, and very melancholy.”
Jane raised a brow. “You heard no such thing.”
“I could have!” Lydia grinned, unabashed. “And if he is melancholy, we shall simply have to cheer him.”
Elizabeth shook her head, but it was all fondness. “Did Papa say anything of this Mr Bingley gentleman himself?”
Jane thought for a moment. “Only that he seemed amiable. A little anxious to please, perhaps, but eager to make the acquaintance of the neighbourhood.”
“And what of the others?” Elizabeth asked.
“I do not know,” Jane said. “Mr Bingley did not say much of his friend, and Papa had no occasion to meet his other guests.”
Mama wandered into the drawing room then, looking lost and only half-minded about what she was doing. “Where is that lace? I told you it must be ready if Mr Bingley comes to dine.” She began rooting through the drawer, then tumbled over her sewing basket, spilling the contents on the floor.
Elizabeth reached for the bonnet box on the side table and lifted the lid. “Perhaps it sought refuge here,” she said, extracting the length of lace with a small flourish.
