Bingley laughed and welcomed them both to the table. “You are unjust! I find the neighbourhood full of cheer and civility. Why, every day we receive some fresh kindness.”
As if to confirm him, a servant entered with a letter. Bingley took it up, broke the seal, and read with visible delight. “An invitation! From Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn. A dinner for tomorrow evening, in gratitude, I suppose, for our own little scheme.”
Miss Bingley raised her brows and cast a glance at Darcy. “A dinner at Longbourn. My dear Charles, I cannot imagine Mr. Darcy will think it a suitable amusement. He is not used to such provincial society.”
Darcy looked up from his cup with composure. “On the contrary, Miss Bingley. One ought to honour the attentions of one’s neighbours, wherever one resides. Hospitality is not measured by fashion.”
Bingley beamed at him. “There, you see? We must certainly go. Jane will be pleased… that is, Miss Bennet. It will be most agreeable.”
Caroline bit her lip and offered no more, but her glance, first at Darcy and then at her brother, betrayed her vexation that either should think of Longbourn as anything but a bore.
Darcy returned quietly to his breakfast, his face unreadable. Yet inwardly, he was a little astonished at himself. Was it truly a sense of neighbourly duty, or had he been influenced by something less easily accounted for that had prompted his reply, or the wish to cross Miss Bingley in her officious certainty? Or– and here he would not linger – was it the sudden thought of Elizabeth Bennet, and the prospect of meeting her again? He dismissed the question with impatience, but it was not so easily silenced.
***
By the time the messenger from Netherfield was heard upon the gravel, Longbourn was already in motion.
Mrs. Bennet had not waited for certainty before acting; certainty, she believed, was for those without imagination. Hill had been dispatched twice to the larder, the cook consulted with great seriousness, and the parlour table was once again strewn with papers, menus, and half-sharpened pencils. If Mr. Bingley declined the invitation, it would not be for want of readiness on her part.
Elizabeth, passing the window on her way from the back room, saw the messenger arrive and paused. She smiled to herself.
“So,” she said quietly, turning back, “the die is cast.”
Jane looked up from the small stack of linen she was folding, her expression composed but attentive. “Do you think it is the answer already?”
“I cannot imagine my mother would allow a messenger from Netherfield to come to our door for anything less,” Elizabeth replied. “Come, we may as well be present when the thunder breaks.”
They had scarcely reached the parlour when Hill entered, breathless with importance, bearing a sealed note upon a salver.
Mrs. Bennet snatched it up at once. “From Mr. Bingley himself, I see! Very handsome paper, too. I always said they had good taste at Netherfield.” She broke the seal with unnecessaryforce, scanned the contents, then clapped her hands. “Accepted! Accepted. With the greatest pleasure! He says they shall all attend, and that he looks forward to the evening exceedingly. Did I not tell you so?”
Jane felt her colour rise, though she smiled. Elizabeth caught her hand for a moment and squeezed it, saying nothing.
“Well,” Mrs. Bennet continued briskly, already moving to her next thought, “Kitty, go tell your father the dinner is on. There is not a moment to be lost. Jane, Elizabeth, you will assist me. Jane, you must help decide what music will be suitable; Elizabeth, you shall oversee the table arrangements and see that nothing is wanting. Kitty and Lydia can help you. Mary, call Lucy and make sure the dining room is all clean and presentable. The picture frames and windowsills, too. Ten gentlemen and ten ladies must not be left to chance.”
Mary was about to respond, but Elizabeth shook her head at her. She raised her brows. “Twenty people. A grave responsibility indeed.”
Mrs. Bennet waved aside the remark. “You may laugh, Lizzy, but these things are observed. Mr. Bingley observes them, I am sure of it.”
Elizabeth smiled, but she obeyed, following Jane into the smaller parlour where the pianoforte stood. For a moment, neither spoke; the stillness was broken only by the distant clatter from the kitchen at the rear of the house.
“At least,” Elizabeth said at last, lightly, “everything will be spotless. After all, Netherfield is coming to us in full force.”
Jane nodded, smoothing the linen absent-mindedly. “Mr. Bingley wrote very kindly. He thanked Mama most warmly.”
“I should be surprised if he did otherwise,” Elizabeth replied. “He seems constitutionally incapable of refusing pleasure – or gratitude.”
Jane smiled. “I see nothing wrong in it.”
“No, you would not. And I did not mention it because I disapprove. His manners are open, and he puts others at ease. He happily discusses any subject with anyone, unlike his friend, Mr. Darcy. I really wonder what makes the two of them so close. It seems an impossible relationship. Mr. Darcy goes out of his way to do the opposite.”
“I know what you are saying, but then he behaved rather out of character at Netherfield.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was downstairs, he was easily drawn into conversation with you. I thought he was shockingly honest about ladies walking in front of gentlemen. It made me pause.”
“Oh, I do not deny he is capable of conversation, but he seems to find great pleasure in arguing with me.” She huffed.
