Before Mrs Bennet could enlarge upon so promising a declaration, a new voice sounded from the doorway.
“More callers? I see I shall be driven to take my book out of doors.”
Mr Bennet stepped into the room, spectacles in hand. He bowed towards the Netherfield party. “Mr Bingley, you are most welcome.”
Bingley half rose from his chair out of sheer goodwill. “Mr Bennet, we could not be in the neighbourhood and fail to pay our respects.”
“Then my parlour is honoured, Mr Bingley,” Mr Bennet replied. His gaze travelled around the room, taking in daughters, guests, and tea-tray with equal composure. “This must be your friend Mr Darcy we have heard so much about. You find Longbourn tolerable, I hope, sir?”
“It is very comfortable, sir.”
Mr Bennet’s mouth twitched at one corner, though no full smile emerged. “Comfort is a precious commodity in any house. I hope my daughters have not overwhelmed you with it. They collect callers the way some men collect broadsheets—every day brings a fresh edition.”
Bingley laughed at once. “I assure you, sir, your daughters offer far better conversation than most printed matter.”
“That may be,” Mr Bennet allowed, “though broadsheets seldom talk all at once.”
Mrs Bennet let out a sound that might have been a laugh or a scold. “You are determined to make us look foolish, Mr Bennet.”
“I would never dare,” he replied, bowing slightly. “Your household makes its own impressions without my assistance.”
Bingley chuckled aloud. “I confess, sir, I envy you. A morning spent in such a lively house must be very cheerful indeed.”
“Cheerful, yes,” Mr Bennet said. “Quiet, no. That is why I take my walks. A man who wishes to hear himself think must look outdoors for the privilege.”
Bingley leaned forward, eager. “Miss Bennet tells me you walk the estate every day.”
“Not every day,” Mr Bennet answered. “Only on the mornings when the house is awake before I am—which is to say, most of them.”
There was a ripple of amusement around the room.
He went on, more lightly still, “I was out at the eastern boundary today. A pleasant stretch, though my poor trees there are nearly broken from all the fruit they bore this autumn. I tell Mrs Bennet we must teach them better manners, but they resist improvement.” He turned his gaze toward Darcy, curious rather than pointed. “A gentleman with such woods as Pemberley must have a way of keeping his oaks in line. A veritable army of groundskeepers, I shouldn’t wonder.”
The words landed with a jolt he had not braced for. A flicker of warning travelled across Darcy’s thoughts, too swift for reason to overtake it. “We attend to planting and pruning,” he said. “There is no method beyond that.”
“Ah. Attention.” Mr Bennet nodded once. “I am persuaded that is the rarest commodity in any household.” His gaze rested on Darcy an instant longer, curious rather than intrusive, and then he turned toward his wife. “My dear, I leave our guests in your capable hands. If you require my company further, you know where I am not to be found.”
“You are a strange creature, Mr Bennet,” Mrs Bennet said, half fond, half vexed. “Always running off. Pray do not mind him, Mr Bingley. He pretends indifference to company, but he is very glad you are here.”
Mr Bennet inclined his head again to the visitors and withdrew. The sound of his retreating steps faded down the passage.
Conversation did not cease; the parlour at Longbourn did not allow such a thing. Yet there was a slight readjustment among the company, a shifting of shoulders and cups, as if everyone sought a new place after his departure.
Miss Kitty broke the moment. “Mr Bingley, will there be hunting again tomorrow? I heard you say you saw a great many birds.”
“If the weather holds, I shall try that way again,” Bingley said. “The cover near the rise looks promising.”
Miss Lydia brightened. “Oh, that way! Lizzy, is that not where you walk? You will wander too close to the guns and be deaf before you are thirty.”
“I shall take care to avoid both shot and conversation,” Miss Elizabeth replied, the slightest glint of humour in her eyes.
Darcy’s mouth compressed before he could prevent it. The remark was general; it was delivered to her sister, not to him. To suppose she had meant him was unreasonable. Yet his thoughts turned upon the words longer than their lightness merited. Conversation with whom did she intend to avoid?
Miss Bingley, perhaps sensing an opportunity to display her refinement, spoke into the space that followed. “For my part, I cannot admire these rough country expeditions. Mud, dogs, damp air—Louisa, you recall that horrid morning in Yorkshire when the carriage could scarcely reach the house for ruts?”
Mrs Hurst shuddered with delicate exaggeration. “I remember my shoes. They never recovered.”
“Mr Darcy enjoys the sport,” Miss Bingley added, turning the subject toward him, “but he is used to a very different style. The shooting parties at Pemberley are quite celebrated, are they not?”
