Her mother was an eager strategist, such as when she made her own daughter leave on horseback, knowing it was going to rain. It was heartwarming, though, to see how Mr. Bingley fretted around her sister the evening she brought her down after dinner. He was enthusiastic by nature, but a little help in bringing him and Jane together could indeed help them grow more attached.
This dinner may be one of her better ideas, she thought, though she was not yet certain she trusted that conclusion. And yet, even as the thought formed, she checked herself. It was not often that her mother’s plans bore such promise, and she was not quite certain that she judged fairly.
One idea, however, would not leave her: Mr. Wickham and Mr. Darcy, seated under the same roof, at her father’s table.What would it be like?And would it be as revealing as she imagined?A scene of civility forced and strained, or the cold disregard of two men whose histories were too bitter to be softened by courtesy?
Her heart, still warm with the memory of Mr. Wickham’s openness and his account of past wrongs, quickened with indignation at the thought of Mr. Darcy presiding with all hishauteur. How blind must Bingley be, that he could so esteem such a friend! And yet, a dinner at home, with both men before her, might give her eyes the confirmation she needed. She would watch Mr. Darcy’s countenance; she would see the truth in his very look. Or so she believed – though she could not entirely say what that truth must be, nor whether she would recognise it when she saw it.
But even as she thought of it, her mind returned with indignation to the story itself. How was it possible that a man of Mr. Darcy’s station – of education, fortune, and consequence – could so grievously wrong a friend’s son? The question felt settled – and yet, when she examined it too closely, it resisted her more than she liked. To deny him the living that had been promised, to cast him adrift without provision or regard, and all out of sheer pride and jealousy! The very contrast struck her: that Wickham, with so much frankness and good humour, should be left dependent upon his own efforts, while Mr. Darcy, with every advantage, seemed determined to employ his power only to mortify and oppress.
There were moments – brief, and very quickly dismissed – when she wondered whether she had heard the whole of the story; though even the wondering felt, at the time, like an error she preferred not to pursue. These doubts felt almost a disloyalty to the frankness with which it had been given, and she would not dwell on them.
It was enough to make her quite resolved that no amiable exterior could ever atone for such a defect of principle. She still smarted from Mr. Darcy’s comment at the assembly, and she was not a little mortified to remember that she had once thought him handsome.
Drawing her shawl closer about her, Elizabeth leaned back and allowed the flames to dance in her vision, mingling with her own rising curiosity.
Saturday evening promised amusement enough, though perhaps not always of the comfortable sort.
Her spirits were light, and her expectations lively; yet she did not examine them closely, for had she done so, she might have found more uncertainty in them than she was inclined to admit. She looked forward to what was about to happen with complete confidence. How fortunate it is that young ladies are so often possessed of such confidence, for without it, they might be robbed of half their entertainment.
***
Elizabeth quickly changed into her morning dress, a more delicate one better suited for indoors, leaving the back open for now. With her usual light step, she ran and tapped at her sister’s chamber door. Not waiting for an answer, she slipped in and found Jane still curled beneath the coverlet, the pale November sunshine just beginning to reach across the floor.
“Jane, wake up! There is news to rouse even the soundest of sleepers. Mama is already in a flutter, and it concerns you most particularly.”
Jane stirred, pushing back her hair with a sleepy smile. “What is it, Lizzy? Pray, do not make me guess before I am properly awake.”
Elizabeth perched on the edge of the bed, eyes alight. “A dinner, tomorrow evening, here at Longbourn. Mama has resolved to do so, in gratitude for Mr. Bingley’s invitation, and she is already planning how best to shine. And do you know what she decrees? That you must sing – and I must play for you.”
Jane sat up at once, colouring. “Oh no, Lizzy. I had much rather not. You know I never like to put myself forward. Besides, my voice…”
“… is lovely,” Elizabeth finished firmly, taking her hand. “Do not deny it. You may be shy, but Mama will never be dissuaded once she has made up her mind. Better that we choose the song ourselves, than wait for her to thrust one upon you. I will play the accompaniment, and you shall sing something simple and sweet. We shall practise. It will charm them all, and no one more than Mr. Bingley.”
Jane blushed deeper and shook her head, though the smile betrayed her. “Lizzy, you tease me cruelly. Mr. Bingley is civil to everyone.”
Elizabeth was about to reply, but something in Jane’s manner – so gentle, and so unassuming – made her hesitate. “Civil,” she repeated at last, though with less conviction than before. Yet she rallied quickly enough. “If that is civility, then I wish more men would learn the art. I daresay his eyes hardly leave you when you enter a room. Sing tomorrow, dearest, and you shall see whether he applauds out of mere civility or something more.”
Jane pressed her sister’s hand with quiet affection. “You will only make me more nervous.”
“Then I will sit at the pianoforte and make you laugh with a sour note or two, and all the solemnity will vanish. Between us, Jane, we cannot help but please.” She turned her back to her sister. “Could you tie my dress?”
With that done, Elizabeth jumped up, full of mischief, while Jane, still blushing, resigned herself to the certainty that her sister’s prediction – and her mother’s scheme – would both be fulfilled.
As she fell back on her pillow, she smiled at the prospect of having the Netherfield party for a whole evening. She recalled with affection how he took care of her in the Netherfield parlour when she went down after dinner. He paid attention to her exclusively. And remembered with joy how he looked at her when they brought the invitation. Before they left, he stepped to her side and quietly said, “I will have to dance the first with my sister as hostess, but can I have your second set?”
To her ears, that meant that his duty notwithstanding, he would have wanted to dance the first dances with her. To be asked for the first dance was a distinction universally felt; it marked, beyond all casual civility, the lady most particularly in a gentleman’s favour, and was seldom forgotten by those who witnessed it. She determined to see whether he would ask her to dance again, as he had at the assembly. That would tell her of his preference.
***
By half past nine, the family had gathered in the breakfast-parlour, where the table was laid with fresh bread, cold ham, eggs, and the little dishes of preserves Mrs. Bennet liked to boast of to her neighbours. Mr. Bennet sat with his usual dry composure behind the newspaper, while Mr. Collins, already furnished with a plate piled high, was describing at length how Lady Catherine preferred her toast cut.
Mrs. Bennet, unable to keep her triumph to herself a moment longer, clapped her hands together. “Now, my dears, I have news for you all! We are to have company at Longbourn tomorrow evening. A dinner – a handsome dinner – in honour of our friends from Netherfield. Mr. Bingley himself, his sisters, Mr. Darcy, all the party. And, besides, I plan to invite the Lucases,Colonel Forster, Mr. Wickham, Mr. Denny, and – of course – you, Mr. Collins,” she added, as if bestowing a prize.
Mr. Collins felt the fullest gratitude for being included in such an event. He was about to mention how many times he had dined at Rosings, which experience had totally prepared him for any social event.
Still, Kitty and Lydia cried out together, their voices carrying clearly over the clatter of cups. “Wickham! Denny! The Colonel, too!” They fell into a flutter of anticipation over scarlet coats at the Longbourn table.
Jane blushed at once and bent her eyes upon her teacup. Elizabeth, catching the expression, smiled mischievously. “Only think, Jane. Mama has contrived it so you may not only dance with Mr. Bingley at the ball but sing to him in our very parlour.”
