“She will not think so,” Elizabeth said, turning from the window at last. “If she forms her opinion from you, Lydia, she will be very secure of that.”
Lydia laughed, perfectly satisfied with the compliment, whether intended or not. “I shall prepare a display of our hats for us to discuss.”
Elizabeth smiled at her and took her seat again, though she did not resume her breakfast.
“Do you know much of Miss Darcy?” Jane asked, watching her with quiet interest.
“Very little,” Elizabeth replied. “Only that she is much younger than her brother – and very much under his care.”
“And that she is accomplished,” added Mary, who had entered unnoticed. “Mr. Darcy has said she plays the pianoforte exceedingly well.”
“Then she will be a great addition to our society,” Lydia said. “We have no one who plays well enough to make it worth listening.”
Mary coloured slightly but said nothing.
Jane smiled. “I dare say she will be very agreeable.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “I hope she will be at her ease.”
“You think she may not be?” Jane asked.
Elizabeth hesitated. “If she resembles her brother at all,” she said, with a faint smile, “she may not immediately delight in new acquaintance.”
Outside, the morning had brightened.
The uncertainty of the previous day had passed, and though the air retained its coolness, the light was clearer, steadier – as if the weather itself had resolved to favour what was to come.
Elizabeth rose at last.
“If Miss Darcy is to be received,” she said, “we must at least attempt not to alarm her at the threshold.”
“And how is that to be achieved?” Lydia asked.
“By behaving,” Elizabeth returned, “with as much composure as we can command.”
Lydia laughed again. “Then we are lost already.”
Elizabeth smiled, but as she left the room, the note was still in her hand.
She folded it once more, more carefully than before, and slipped it into her pocket.
For all her efforts at composure, she was very sensible that the day promised something new – and that she was not entirely indifferent to it.
***
The same morning had not long advanced when Mr. Bingley sought his sister.
Miss Bingley was in the smaller drawing-room, her work untouched before her, though she held it as though engaged. She looked up at his entrance with a composure which, though carefully arranged, did not entirely conceal her expectation.
“Charles.”
“Caroline,” he returned, with an ease that was not quite his usual lightness. “I wished to speak with you.”
She set her work aside. “Indeed?”
“We are to go to Longbourn this afternoon.”
There was the slightest pause.
