The first was a man of comfortable girth and satisfied expression, whose good humour seemed to increase the nearer he approached the table of punch and pastries. The other, however, was of a very different cast. He was tall, handsome, and distinguished in his bearing, yet with an air of reserve that spoke of little enjoyment in the scene before him. Hisexpression, grave and proud, suggested either a distaste for the company or a reluctance to be amongst it.
“That,” Charlotte whispered again, following Elizabeth’s gaze, “is Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth repeated absently.
“Yes,” said Charlotte. “He is Mr. Bingley’s friend. He is said to have ten thousand pounds a year — twice Mr. Bingley’s fortune — and is, by all accounts, quite unmarried.”
Elizabeth turned to her friend with a spark of mischief in her eyes. “Why do I suspect you admire him already?”
“Indeed, I do,” Charlotte replied with a good-humoured smile, though a hint of wistfulness softened her tone. “At seven-and-twenty, I can hardly afford the luxury of indifference. A gentleman of fortune and proper consequence must, of course, command a measure of my admiration.”
Elizabeth sighed at this declaration. The subject was not a new one between them, for they had often spoken in this very strain. Miss Lucas had long confessed her fear of being left upon the shelf, and had frequently avowed her resolution to marry for comfort and security wherever such might be found. Elizabeth, on the other hand, had ever maintained that nothing short of affection could persuade her into matrimony. Perceiving, therefore, that her friend was once more inclined to that practical line of reasoning, Elizabeth judged it prudent to decline all argument and let the matter rest.
“Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy waited upon my father yesterday,” Charlotte continued. “Mr. Bingley had called the very week of his arrival, but he returned yesterday with his friend to pay his respects.”
“That explains why you know so much about him—and why you admire him already,” Elizabeth said, her eyes bright with laughter.
Charlotte smiled, unoffended. “If I were not to admire such a gentleman, I fancy my mother would think me quite without ambition.”
They might have continued their playful exchange had not Lady Lucas begun signalling rather urgently to her daughter. The Bingleys and their companions were advancing through the room, exchanging greetings with the host, and Lady Lucas was clearly determined that her daughter should not be overlooked.
Elizabeth had barely time to tease Charlotte about her mother’s strategy before she felt a sharp pinch at her own arm.
“Mama!” she whispered, giving a small start as she turned to see her mother.
Mrs. Bennet, her eyes gleaming with excitement, leaned close. “Lizzy, do attend! Mr. Bingley and his party will soon be approaching. Compose yourself, child.” She fanned herself with brisk determination, scarcely pausing for breath. “Your father should be here—but no, he would rather sit among his books than bestir himself to find husbands for his daughters. Sir William, now there is a man of sense! See how attentively he receives them. I daresay he means to secure Mr. Bingley for Charlotte before the evening is out.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile. “I believe Sir William’s enthusiasm may frighten poor Mr. Bingley before he reaches us.”
Her eyes drifted toward Sir William, who was now introducing Mr. Bingley to Charlotte with his customary zeal. From there, she allowed her gaze to wander about the room.
The Meryton Assembly Room was at its liveliest: the air bright with candlelight, the polished floor reflecting the shimmer of muslin gowns and scarlet coats. The musicians were already taking up their bows, the hum of talk and laughter rising in rhythm with the tuning of violins. Mirrors along thefar wall doubled the light, while the mingled scents of beeswax, perfume, and powder hung pleasantly in the air.
The Bennet sisters were distributed much as usual. Jane, radiant in pale blue, stood a little apart, conversing softly with a pair of neighbours, her serenity drawing glances even before the evening’s chief guests had arrived. Kitty and Lydia had already attached themselves to a cluster of militia officers—an encampment of red coats and eager smiles near the refreshment table—while poor Mary had stationed herself beside the musicians, frowning slightly each time a note fell out of tune.
Mrs. Bennet, perceiving that the moment of importance was fast approaching, began signalling to her daughters with energy. Elizabeth had only just caught Mary’s attention and motioned for her to return when her mother’s whisper grew more urgent.
“Jane, my love, stand a little forward. Yes, that’s right. Lizzy, do smile—but not too broadly. Mary, step away from those fiddlers and come here. Kitty, Lydia, leave those officers alone this instant! I declare, if your father will not direct his daughters, then I must do it all myself!”
Elizabeth exchanged a helpless look with Jane, amusement sparkling in both pairs of eyes.
“Our general marshals her troops,” she murmured softly.
“Hush,” Jane whispered back, though her smile betrayed her laughter.
The murmur of voices deepened as Mr. Bingley and his party drew near. Mrs. Bennet straightened her posture, adjusted her shawl with all the dignity she could summon, and fixed her expression somewhere between triumph and nervous delight.
“Now, girls,” she said in a hurried whisper, “remember your manners. We must make a most pleasing impression. Oh, if your father had but an ounce of Sir William’s spirit, we should already be dining at Netherfield before the week is out.”
The sisters had only just arranged themselves before the new arrivals set off in their direction. Mr. Bingley came forward with Sir William leading the way, his enthusiasm giving the progress all the appearance of a miniature royal procession. He bowed and gestured with such lively zeal one might think the evening’s felicity rested entirely upon his shoulders.
“Mrs. Bennet! Miss Bennets! Allow me to present Mr. Bingley of Netherfield and his party!” he announced, his cheerful voice carrying across half the room before he moved on to the next eager listener.
Mr. Bingley’s bow was quick, his smile quicker still. Mrs. Bennet introduced her daughters one after another, each curtseying in turn. Elizabeth noticed that Jane kept her eyes upon the floor as she curtsied—a sure sign of her shyness.
“Delighted, ma’am—quite delighted,” Mr. Bingley said warmly after the introductions. His gaze found Jane, and his expression softened at once. “Miss Bennet, if I am not too forward, permit me to ask whether you are well acquainted with dancing, for I shall count myself fortunate indeed if I may claim the first set.”
Jane’s colour rose prettily. She looked from Mr. Bingley to Elizabeth, then to her mother, and back again. “You are very obliging, sir,” she said at last.
