“Thomas.”
“I am merely intrigued, my dear. A man who evaluates minds the way a vintner evaluates grapes deserves rigorous questioning, and I intend to provide it.”
The Netherfield party arrived at four. Mrs. Long, having already been dropped off by her nephew in a gig, settled herself in to appraise each new arrival with a critical eye, no doubt gathering gossip the way squirrels hoarded nuts.
Mama placed Jane near the door, understanding that proximity and good lighting were the twin pillars of romantic opportunity.
Bingley entered first, because Bingley entered everything first—rooms, conversations, affections—with the heedless enthusiasm of a man who had never met a threshold he did not wish to cross.
“Miss Bennet.” An easy smile brightened his face as he bowed. “What a pleasure. Your home is warm, and I say, whatever is in the kitchen smells delectable.”
Jane smiled at him with a dangerous warmth that I recognized as her heart already halfway given. “Thank you, Mr. Bingley. You are most welcome.”
“Quite attentive,” Mrs. Long murmured to no one in particular,though the murmuring was pitched to carry exactly as far as Mama’s left ear. “He went straight to her. Did not even glance at the furnishings.”
Caroline and Mrs. Hurst descended next, handed down by Darcy and Mr. Hurst. The two Bingley sisters, however, kept their imperious gazes on our furnishings, curtains, wallpaper, and artwork.
“What a charming room, Mrs. Bennet.” Caroline flicked her fan appraisingly. “So cozy.”
“We find it sufficient,” Mama said, with the steel-tipped pleasantness she reserved for women who confused wealth with worth. “The proportions suit a family. I am told that fashionable London drawing rooms are considerably larger, though I have observed that the conversations in them tend to be rather smaller.”
Georgiana followed the Bingley sisters into the room. She stood with her back straight, a pleasant look on her face, and her hands clasped before her. Her gown was one I hadn’t noticed previously, a pale blue with embroidery that suggested a London designer, and her hair was styled with such meticulous care that not a single curl was out of place. Yet, she offered no smile.
“Miss Darcy.” I took her hand, and for a fraction of a breath, the careful mask slipped. Her fingers tightened on mine before she drew her hand back.
“Miss Bennet,” she greeted. “Thank you for the invitation. It is very kind.”
And then, there was Darcy.
He stooped a little to get through the doorframe; Longbourn’s doorframes weren’t built for men his height. When he straightened, his eyes met mine, and the encounter was brief and devastating in its ordinariness. It wasn’t a clandestine meeting in a dark corridor or a late-night kitchen encounter, nor was it a library rendezvous in nightclothes. This was a drawing room, with every member of both families present, and the sheer normalcy of it made it all the harder to dismiss the blush that crept up my neck.
He bowed, and I curtsied. The forms wereobserved. And between the bow and the curtsy lived everything we had not said in the kitchen and everything we could not say here.
Mrs. Long’s fan accelerated its flutter, her gaze moving between us like a metronome, measuring the bow and the curtsy, and the fraction of a second the eye contact held beyond what propriety recommended.
As Darcy crossed the drawing room, Cinnamon launched herself from Papa’s chair and wound herself around his boots with a purr of such volume and conviction that it was less a greeting than a formal annexation.
“Hello, madam,” Darcy said, bending to scratch behind her ears. I was astonished that a man so proud would stoop for a mere feline, but I noticed his expression soften ever so slightly as he did.
Caroline, standing too close, produced a sneeze of considerable force.
“Charles.” She pressed her handkerchief to her face. “I had hoped the animal situation at the Bennets’ would be more contained than at Netherfield.”
“Cinnamon lives here, Caroline,” Bingley said mildly. “She is a member of the household.”
“An affliction of the household, perhaps.” Her comment was ignored by all when Lydia bounded down the staircase and spotted Georgiana. “Miss Darcy! You are here. Kitty, she is here! Come and see her dress. It is French, I can tell by the stitching. Miss Darcy, your hem is so elegant. May I examine the embroidery? It must be French.”
Georgiana’s mouth twitched. She was about to lift her hem when she caught Caroline’s disapproving eye, and then, the light went out of her eyes, and she greeted, “Miss Lydia, Miss Kitty, and Miss Mary. How very pleasant.”
Mama’s dinner was an argument, presented in pastry with roasted mutton and potatoes crisped in goose fat, executed with a precision bordering on vindictive. Walnut biscuits graced the sideboard, while Mary’s steady hand had whipped the syllabub to firm peaks. She laid out the Wedgwood with the confidence of a woman who knew her china was not fine, but her food was superior to anything a French-trained cook at Netherfield had produced all autumn.
Caroline and Mrs. Hurst studied the table the way one studies a quaint ruin, with appreciation for what it attempted and pity for what it achieved.
“How wonderful,” Mrs. Hurst observed, sampling the mutton with the tip of her fork, “that you have prepared this yourself, Mrs. Bennet. There is something so heartwarming about a family that dines on the labors of its own hands.”
“The Clarks have been feeding people since your family was still in trade, Mrs. Hurst,” Mama said, refilling her glass with the unhurried hand of a woman who could deliver a killing stroke while passing the salt. “My grandmother baked for the king. I bake for my family. The difference is merely one of audience.”
Mrs. Long lifted her glass in a gesture so small it might have been accidental. “I can attest to that, Mrs. Hurst. I have been eating Mrs. Bennet’s biscuits for twenty years, and I have never once been offered anything finer in London. Though I confess I have not been invited to try.”
