"I see," he said, his eyes crinkling slightly. "Well, Pippin seems to have excellent judgment in her companions. Perhaps we should all take note."
Elizabeth smiled despite herself. “Perhaps, Papa.”
The talk soon turned back to the Netherfield ball, to gowns and ribbons and the general excitement of the occasion. But Elizabeth’s thoughts were elsewhere. As Pippin pressed close to her knee, Elizabeth absently stroked her soft fur, her mind drifting to the tall, reserved gentleman whose words had surprised her so.
Unseen by her, Mr. Bennet watched his daughter with quiet curiosity. There was a softness in her expression he had not noticed before, and though he said nothing, the faintest smile touched his lips.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Longbourn – November 1811
TWO DAYS SLIPPED QUIETLY away at Longbourn, leaving behind a sense of restless expectation. Elizabeth was relieved that Mr. Collins had not attempted to renew his attentions—at least, not yet. Apart from a visit to Lucas Lodge and one solemn dinner homily upon “the duty of young people to discern the Lord’s favour when it presents itself,”—a discourse Elizabeth was convinced had been directed entirely at her—he had kept to himself with commendable restraint.
Most of the household, however, was in a flurry. All conversation, planning, and occupation centred upon the approaching Netherfield ball. Gowns were examined, ribbons chosen, and new bonnets procured from Meryton. Mrs. Bennet presided over every preparation with the importance of a general before battle, inspecting each of her daughters’ dresses and declaring that Jane would, without question, be the “star of two balls in succession throughout Hertfordshire.”
To the astonishment of everyone, Mr. Bennet announced that he too would attend. Elizabeth could scarcely believe it; her father was far fonder of solitude and his books than of any public assembly.
“It will be my little way of calling upon Mr. Bingley,” he explained, half amused at their surprise. “After all, I have not paid him a proper visit since he arrived in the neighbourhood.”
Mrs. Bennet sniffed. “And whose fault is that, pray? Thank heavens Mr. Bingley does not measure friendship by the diligence of fathers, or our daughters would have no chance at all.”
Elizabeth laughed quietly to herself and escaped to her room, where her own gown lay spread upon the bed—a simple blue muslin trimmed with white ribbon, a gift from her aunt Gardiner the previous Christmas. It was not the most fashionable of her dresses, yet it pleased her taste far more than the gaudier silks her mother favoured.
Pippin, who was lying upon the rug, lifted her head as Elizabeth smoothed the muslin’s folds. “Well, Pippin,” Elizabeth said with a fond smile, “it seems this must do. I dare say we shall not outshine Jane, but I am content to let her have all the admiration. She deserves it.”
The little spaniel wagged her tail, as if in agreement. Elizabeth knelt beside her and, after a thoughtful pause, continued in a softer tone. “I wish Aunt Gardiner were here. She always knows what to say before such an evening. Her advice is never worldly, only honest. For example, she would never counsel me to marry a man merely because he is to inherit my father’s estate.”
Pippin gave a low, sympathetic whine.
“Exactly,” Elizabeth said, laughing a little. “She would say as much herself. You know, Aunt Gardiner married my uncle for love, and I dare say she has been the happier for it.”
The dog tilted her head as though in question, her brown eyes bright and curious.
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, smiling at her own fancy, “I am quite certain she would think Mr. Darcy sensible. My aunt has a most generous eye for character and is always disposed to find the good in people. It took me rather longer to do the same,though I cannot say he has ever exerted himself much to correct the world’s opinion of him.”
Pippin nudged her mistress’s hand and licked her fingers, as though offering gentle contradiction.
Elizabeth laughed again, brushing the soft curls behind the dog’s ears. “Very well, I shall allow it. He did make an effort to correct mine, at least. We must count that in his favour.”
She rose, holding the gown against her in the looking-glass. The blue suited her complexion better than she had remembered. Pippin barked once, as if in approval, and Elizabeth smiled faintly at her reflection.
“Perhaps,” she murmured, half to herself, “we shall see whether Mr. Darcy continues his efforts at the ball.”
Outside, the last light of the afternoon fell through the window, gilding her hair with a soft gleam. Pippin settled once more at her feet, her tail thumping gently against the floor, while Elizabeth gazed into the glass—half thoughtful, half amused, and wholly unaware how near she stood to the edge of something more than civility.
***
THE NIGHT OF THE NETHERFIELD ball was a mild November evening, soft with a thin mist that glistened upon the hedges and silvered the lanes. Inside Longbourn, all was in cheerful confusion. Gowns were adjusted, ribbons retied, gloves hunted after, and shawls exchanged at the last moment. Yet for Elizabeth, the bustle was shadowed by a small sorrow.
Pippin stood by the parlour door, her bright eyes full of expectation, her plume-like tail sweeping the rug each time Elizabeth passed. “No, my dearest girl,” Elizabeth murmured, crouching to stroke her silky head. “Not tonight. Mama has been very clear, and I fear this is one argument I cannot win.”
The spaniel gave a faint, bewildered whine, and Elizabeth smiled sadly. “You shall forgive me, won’t you? I promise we shall have our own little ball tomorrow — a walk across the meadow at sunrise, and no one to tell us otherwise.”
But Pippin’s tail drooped, and she retreated to a corner of the room, curling herself upon the hearthrug with an air of quiet martyrdom. Elizabeth felt a sharp pang of guilt and bent to kiss the dog’s head. “I am sorry, my love,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a laugh she could not quite manage. “If I could smuggle you into the carriage, I would. But to keep you from running after us, I must leave you indoors. I know last time was an adventure, but we cannot risk another. Mama would surely faint.”
Pippin gave a soft, pitiful whine, her eyes rolling upward in mournful appeal. Elizabeth sighed and brushed her hand along the dog’s silky ears. “I shall explain everything to Mr. Darcy, and he will tell Apollo. It must be this way, dearest girl.”
Outside, the sound of wheels and stamping hooves announced the carriages’ arrival. For convenience, Mr. Bennet had rented a second carriage, declaring it a necessary expense to preserve both his sanity and his daughters’ finery. He and Mr. Collins occupied that conveyance, leaving Mrs. Bennet and all her daughters to fill the other. When the door closed and Longbourn’s familiar windows disappeared into the fog, Elizabeth pressed her face briefly to the glass, her breath misting the pane. She thought of Pippin’s small, reproachful eyes and could not help a sigh.
