Lady Lucas, who had taken a seat by Mrs. Bennet, rose suddenly. “We must be off, I’m afraid. Charlotte, the turnips still need preparing, and Cook has not yet found the goose fat. I promised we would not be long.”
Charlotte’s expression barely shifted, but Elizabeth saw the flash of annoyance in her eyes—and then the faint flush of embarrassment.
She hid it well, standing smoothly and adjusting her gloves. But Elizabeth had heard from Hill—whose cousin was in service at Lucas Lodge—that Charlotte often had to step into the kitchen as the household was short-staffed. Sir William might call himself a gentleman since his knighthood, but their household still bore the marks of a shopkeeper’s purse.
Charlotte turned to Jane again. “Truly, you must not let this opportunity pass you by.”
“I had not thought of it as an opportunity,” Jane said quietly.
Charlotte smiled, though it did not reach her eyes, and said nothing more.
It must sting,Elizabeth thought—not just the labor, but the knowledge that others knew of it. She reminded herself of that whenever Charlotte’s observations grated or her advice came too sharply worded. Pride and practicality often made uneasy companions.
They saw the Lucases to the door with the usual farewells. Jane was sweetly attentive, Elizabeth a little quieter than usual.
But long after the drawing room was quiet again, Elizabeth remained thoughtful.
∞∞∞
The ladies of Longbourn soon called on the ladies at Netherfield, and the visit was soon returned. Elizabeth was gratified to see that her elder sister’s sweet demeanor and gentle manners were appreciated by Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst.
Only Mary seemed untouched by the excitement of the visit. She had withdrawn to her corner of the drawing room with the latest volume of Fordyce and answered all questions with the slow solemnity of a vicar delivering a eulogy.
She had not yet recovered from their debate the other morning, and her glances toward Elizabeth were tinged with righteous indignation. That her sister had taken the part of the Methodists—and worse, the Catholics—rankled. For Mary, spiritual danger loomed behind every papist hymn and every unregulated chapel in the countryside.
“I only mean to say,” she had told them at breakfast, with all the wounded gravity of a prophet ignored, “that tolerating false doctrine is no better than preaching it.”
Elizabeth had not replied. There was no winning such a conversation.
Even now, as the sisters gathered later that day for a quiet afternoon by the fire, Mary’s occasional sighs and carefully turned pages betrayed her simmering discontent. At one point, she cleared her throat loudly and remarked to no one in particular, “It is a terrible thing when the truth must yield to fashion.”
Kitty, who was trying to coax Lydia into mending a hem rather than tearing it further, rolled her eyes. “Mary, no one is being fashionable. Lizzy was just saying people should mind their own churches and not worry so much about everyone else’s.”
Mary pressed her lips together, her knuckles whitening on the book’s edge. “I pray none of you learn too late what it means to treat sin lightly.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who gave a tiny shake of the head. It was not worth arguing. Not tonight.
Let Mary fume in righteousness. The rest of them had more pressing matters to consider—like the fact that Jane had received an invitation to dine at Netherfield that evening. An invitation extended not to the family, but to Jane alone.
Mrs. Bennet was already concocting ways to ensure her eldest daughter would not only attend—but stay so she could see Mr. Bingley. “You must go on horseback, for it looks like rain.”
Biting her lip, Elizabeth wished to object, but knew her mother would only silence her with a cruel jibe about her looks. Instead, she looked out the window at the gathering clouds and prayed for her sister’s safety.
Chapter 12
Darcy sat alone once more in the breakfast room at Netherfield, a modest fire warding off the morning chill. Bingley and his sisters were still unaccustomed to country hours, though Darcy himself had always preferred the early mornings, even in London.
A half-eaten plate of poached eggs rested at his elbow, long since gone cold. He had been absently stirring his tea for several minutes, his eyes fixed on the neat bundle of letters that had just been delivered.
Most of the post was of little interest—his steward had forwarded a note about horses, and his solicitor had enclosed a draft of a lease agreement he had already read twice. But one letter, sealed with a thick crest of blue wax, bore a hand he recognized at once.
His aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Knowing his aunt’s personality, Darcy had chosen to read hers last. Letters from Lady Catherine de Bourgh were unpredictable things. He turned the envelope over in his fingers, knowing it could contain directives as imperious as a general’s orders—you must dismiss that man at once, orI require you in Kent before Whitsun—or it could be strangely tender, full of inquiries after Georgiana and gentlereminiscences of her own girlhood, before life’s tragedies had hardened her speech.
He had grown used to the inconsistency. There was affection in her, even if she had never learned to deliver it sweetly.
He broke the seal and unfolded the thick paper.
