And they did.
Mr. Bingley turned first, his face brightening as it always did at the appearance of his sister. Mr. Hurst followed, from habit if not interest. Mr. Darcy looked up too, as civility required, his expression attentive for the briefest instant.
Caroline met his eye – and held it.
But if she expected more, she was disappointed. Darcy’s glance, having performed its duty, moved away again at once. He reached for his gloves, drew them on with deliberate care, and turned slightly aside, as though the matter were already concluded.
In that instant – so brief he might have denied it had he been asked – another image intruded upon him: a face animated not by design but by feeling, a look unstudied and therefore far more unsettling. He dismissed the thought at once, with someimpatience at himself, and tightened his hold upon the gloves as if so small an act might restore order.
Caroline descended the remaining steps with her composure perfectly intact, though a sharper observer might have detected a faint tightening about her mouth. “Well,” she said lightly, “I hope I have not detained you beyond endurance.”
“Not at all,” Bingley replied cheerfully. “We were only remarking upon the pleasantness of the evening.”
“Indeed?” Caroline smiled. “I had not noticed. One becomes so accustomed to fine weather here.”
Darcy offered her his arm with polite correctness. “Shall we?”
She accepted it at once.
As they moved toward the door, Caroline cast a final, calculating glance in the mirror opposite the stairs. Her reflection faithfully returned her look: elegant, composed, and very much as she wished to be seen.
What it did not return was the satisfaction she had hoped to feel. They had not admired her gown. Mr. Darcy did not even blink at her appearance.
Darcy, for his part, stepped into the carriage with a mind already turned elsewhere, and a determination – unacknowledged even to himself – that whatever the evening might bring, he would conduct himself with all proper civility, and nothing more.
***
The carriage wheels were scarcely still upon the gravel before Mrs. Bennet was in motion. Mr. Bennet followed at a more deliberate pace; his expression composed into that look of tolerant resignation which long practice had perfected. Togetherthey took their place in the drawing-room, where candles burned brightly, and the air seemed charged with expectation.
Elizabeth stood a little apart with Jane and Charlotte Lucas, her posture easy, her countenance animated by a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Jane, pale but serene, held herself with quiet composure; Charlotte observed everything with a thoughtful seriousness that contrasted with Elizabeth’s lively attention.
The door opened.
The Netherfield party was announced.
Mr. Bingley entered first, all warmth and readiness, bowing with unaffected pleasure. His sisters followed, Caroline with studied grace, Louisa with languid civility. Mr. Hurst drifted behind them, already casting a glance toward where refreshment might later appear.
Mr. Darcy entered last. His eyes moved instinctively across the room – and stopped.
Elizabeth.
She stood just as he remembered at gatherings: animated, unconstrained, engaged in conversation. Her face was bright with expression, her manner entirely at ease. For a moment, he forgot the company, the ceremony, the evening itself.
Then she turned her head, felt his gaze upon her, and met it.
The recognition was immediate. Elizabeth’s lips curved – not into a smile precisely, but into something that acknowledged him without invitation. Darcy inclined his head, formal and restrained, and looked away at once – annoyed to find that the impression remained.
Mrs. Bennet advanced with effusive delight. “My dear Mr. Bingley! How excessively good of you to come! And Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, and Mr. Darcy welcome, welcome to Longbourn! I trust you had the pleasantest drive. We are lucky with the weather.”
Bingley assured her that nothing could have been finer. Darcy bowed with proper civility. Caroline smiled as if conferring a favour.
Before the introductions could proceed in any orderly fashion, a figure detached itself from the far side of the room, leaving the local parson, Mr. Johnson, and advanced with alarming determination.
Mr. Collins did not wait. He stopped directly before the two gentlemen, clasped his hands together, and regarded them with solemn eagerness.
“Pray forgive me,” said he, “but may I inquire which of you is Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley? I should be mortified beyond expression were I to mistake one gentleman for the other, particularly when one of you is so nearly connected to the illustrious Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whose name…”
There was a moment of absolute stillness.
