There was a short silence.
Darcy added, almost absently, “My stepmother has lately begun considering whether my sister should be allowed to attend some of the local assemblies near Pemberley in a year or two—Lambton, perhaps, or Kympton.”
Miss Bingley blinked. “Surely those are more refined than anything held in a market town like this. Especially with Pemberley so near to elevate the tone.”
Darcy’s expression did not shift. “I expect they are less so, in fact. Derbyshire is more remote. Meryton has the benefit of proximity to London. There is a greater mingling of society.”
Miss Bingley’s mouth opened, then closed. She pursed her lips in visible displeasure. From the corner, Mr. Hurst let out a stifled snort, and his wife gave him a sharp look of reproach.
Bingley beamed. “I knew you would not disappoint me, Darcy! I had hoped—well, I know how you feel about crowds, but you are right, of course. It is a matter of principle.”
Darcy inclined his head.
He did not add that avoiding Miss Bingley’s determined attentions for a few hours at a public gathering would be a greater relief than any rest the evening could offer.
∞∞∞
The drawing room at Longbourn was a flurry of satin, starch, and conflicting voices.
Jane stood before the pier glass in her new gown of rose muslin, soft as blush and trimmed modestly in white lace. Her hair had been swept into a braided coronet, and her complexion glowed with a natural serenity which could not be bottled, powdered, or purchased—even though Mrs. Bennet had certainly tried.
“Oh, Jane,” Kitty sighed. “You look like a duchess.”
“Prettier than a duchess,” Lydia corrected. “I daresay no duchess has a figure or neck like hers.”
Mary, seated on the settee with her hands folded over her prayer book, sniffed. “Beauty is fleeting.‘As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion’.”
No one answered.
Kitty and Lydia, undeterred, resumed their quarrel over a length of blue ribbon, both insisting they had laid claim to it first. Lydia had already affixed it to her hair; Kitty was now trying to tug it off.
“Girls!” Elizabeth said, raising her voice slightly.
She stood at the writing desk, one eye on the squabble and the other on a tenant ledger she had taken out “just for a moment.” A margin note regarding the Debbins’ barley planting had caught her attention earlier, and now it refused to be ignored. She adjusted a figure, then sighed and set down her quill.
Her gown was one she had worn to at least three assemblies already—a pale green sprigged with darker flowers, with the faintest fading at the hem. Her coiffure was simple: a modestbun pinned with care but without flourishes. She had not the time, money, or inclination for fuss.
At that moment, Mrs. Bennet swept into the room with a swish of skirts and a rattle of bracelets.
“Mr. Bennet!” she called toward the hall. “Are you ready? We must be off shortly!”
From his office, his voice drifted lazily: “Enjoy yourselves, my dear.”
Mrs. Bennet scowled and turned toward the stairs. “Mr. Bennet, I insist! Mr. Bingley must have proper introduction, and it will not do to arrive without a gentleman to present the girls!”
“I daresay Sir William Lucas will be more than happy to do so,” came the reply. “It is his great delight to bow and present.”
Mrs. Bennet’s cheeks flushed. “Sir William will promote hisowndaughters before ours! And then what are we to do? Stand in the corner while that dreadful Miss Goulding engages all the officers? Mr. Bennet, you are the father offiveunmarried girls!”
“Still?”
Lydia giggled. Mary frowned.
Elizabeth, watching the exchange, spoke up gently. “Papa, perhaps—just this once—you might attend? Only for the introductions?”
There was a pause.
Mr. Bennet appeared in the doorway a moment later, spectacles perched on his nose, his book in hand. “My dear Lizzy,” he said with exaggerated fondness, “must you too betray me as well?”
