Chapter 1
“I thought it would never end,” Caroline Bingley complained on the morning after the ball at Netherfield.
The hosts and their guests—still sleepy and drained—were taking a late breakfast in the large dining room, which bore no trace of the previous night’s events. Around the table, conversation was difficult.
“It is snowing,” someone observed; and, with little interest, the company returned to their food.
“I do not remember a more disagreeable gathering than last evening. Forgive me, brother—it was not your fault. It is this country neighbourhood, where all the young women seem unmarried and eager to secure a husband.”
Caroline continued speaking while the others ate in silence, scarcely attending to her complaints. Even her sister, Louisa Hurst, seemed to hold a slightly different opinion, though she did not contradict her.
Charles Bingley smiled—as he often did—at his own recollections. The ball had been delightful, and he still felt the animation of the dances and the pleasure of the conversation. He remembered Jane Bennet stealing glances in his direction,her eyes like two stars that stirred him each time they met his. He inclined his head absently at his sister, paying little attention to her remarks. He was accustomed to his sisters’ constant complaints. He only wished that Caroline might soon marry; many of her concerns would be resolved after that happy event. He was persuaded that her bitterness arose only from her want of affection.
He had once imagined that Mr Darcy might be inclined to marry his sister; but, however often they met, Darcy’s interest in Caroline was lacking. He was polite, but cold—a clear sign that he did not wish to know her better. Bingley had once tried to tell her that men did not admire women who spoke disparagingly and complained excessively of others, but it had been in vain. His sisters lived for gossip and for the discovery of faults in others.
“Did you like the ball, Mr Commack?” Miss Bingley asked, despite the silence that followed her last remarks.
George Commack, a close friend of Bingley and Darcy, was frequently present at their gatherings. He was pleasant company, but as he was already betrothed, he was of no interest to the ladies of Meryton or Netherfield.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” he said, looking at her with unconcealed disdain. “It was a splendid occasion and a pleasant gathering, and the ladies were so handsome and merry that I enjoyed every moment.”
“Mr Commack!” Caroline exclaimed. “What would your intended say to such a declaration?” She meant to sound teasing, but did not succeed; there was only irritation in her voice.
“Lady Roberta is a kind young woman; we love and trust each other. What about you, Darcy? What did you think?”
“I am not entirely far from Miss Bingley’s opinion. There was some beauty, certainly, but the general behaviour did not meet my expectations.”
Caroline nodded with a broad smile. “I am glad that you agree a young lady must receive a gentleman’s attentions with reserve and simplicity, and never initiate any gesture that could jeopardise her reputation.”
“Of course, Miss Bingley,” Darcy said. “I dare say that many young ladies, as well as their parents, behaved in a rather unrestrained manner, to which I am not accustomed in society.”
These words roused Bingley from his reverie. He looked around with some astonishment that anyone could fail to enjoy a ball on a cold autumn night. Most of his guests had spoken only in praise of the music and the refreshments. They had also admired the ballroom, decorated with garlands of flowers at such a season… but his own family, and his dear friend Darcy, were the ones to criticise his efforts.
“What do you think, Miss Commack?” Bingley asked, confident that Commack’s sister would have a kind word for the evening.
She smiled. “Mr Bingley, it was a successful party, and I congratulate you.”
∞∞∞
Bingley was happy and in love—not at all prepared for the discussion his friend Darcy wished to have with him as soon as breakfast ended.
Alone in the library, they sipped coffee and watched the snowflakes fall in a delicate dance, forming a thin white covering over the garden.
“I see you agreed neither with your sister…nor with me.”
The perplexed expression on Bingley’s face made Darcy smile. His friend was the very image of benevolence and good manners. He could not remember Charles ever speaking a harshword to or of another person. But such a quality was of little use in the presence of young women who aspired to be married. Bingley—wealthy and kind—was the natural object of every mother’s ambition, and the dream of every young lady.
“I enjoyed last night’s ball…that is all I said. I do not think it necessary to examine so closely a friendly assembly, or people gathered for pleasure.”
“You have a generous temper, my friend,” Darcy said, with both admiration and concern. “You do not perceive the designs of those around you.”
“Is it ‘malice’ for a mother to wish her daughters well married, or for a young lady to hope for happiness?”
“No, but I find it disquieting when a mother anticipates her daughter’s marriage to a gentleman whom she has known for so short a time.”
Bingley frowned—a rare expression for him.
“What do you mean? I profoundly dislike this manner of speaking in hints and half-meanings.”
