Page 12 of A Most Unwelcome Acquaintance

Bennet lowered his feet to the floor and studied Elizabeth over his clasped hands, with the patience of someone who expected folly and seldom had to wait for it.

“Mr. Darcy may lack the advantages of wit and manners, but he has done the neighborhood a favor,” he said. “He distinguished himself so well that none of the local men need fear comparison.”

Kitty dissolved into laughter, Lydia let out a whoop, and even Mary allowed a thin smile.

Mrs. Bennet huffed. “I suppose you have made your point, but I still think he is the rudest man in Hertfordshire.”

Elizabeth touched her hair, fingers tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “It is no matter,” she said. “Tomorrow will bring new material for the neighborhood. By next week, I am sure he will have insulted someone else and left me in peace.”

Lydia yawned, and Kitty followed. Mrs. Bennet fussed with her cap and sent them all upstairs.

Jane gathered her gloves and moved to the door, her steps soft. She squeezed Elizabeth’s hand in passing.

Lydia and Kitty scampered ahead, making a contest of who could ascend the stairs in fewer steps. Mary trailed after, cradling her book to her chest.

Bennet lingered by the fire a moment longer, then patted Sarah’s flank and followed the others.

Elizabeth remained at the mantel, her shoulders dropping as the door clicked shut behind her father. The hush was near complete, broken only by the crackle of the last embers and the steady, sleepy breathing of the dog on the rug.

She looked at Sarah, whose head had lifted, eyes open and waiting. Elizabeth moved to the hearth, knelt, and pressed her palm to the warm spot at the dog’s side.

“You have seen worse than pride,” she said, voice pitched low. “And so have I.”

Sarah’s tail swept the rug, once, twice. She pressed her head into Elizabeth’s hand, then closed her eyes.

Elizabeth sat for a while in the shifting light, feeling the burn of the hearth and the ghost of the evening’s laughter. She knew the injury was not her appearance, it was what Darcy decided she was even before he knew her name.

She pressed her palm against the dog’s ribs, felt their warm, steady rise, and kept her hand there until the fire turned to ash.

The morning room at Netherfield filled with sunlight, the air warm despite the early hour. Bingley sat at the breakfast table, having finished two cups of coffee, his napkin on the carpet. He relived the previous night in fits and starts, recounting every detail for anyone willing to listen: the music, the crowd, the briskness of the sets, the local pastries, and, above all, the warmth in Miss Bennet’s face whenever she spoke to him.

“She is so composed, and yet never shy. I spoke with her for a quarter-hour during the second set. She never faltered, not once. There is a sweetness in her manner I do not see in Town. None of the affectations. And her beauty—”

Caroline sat on the sofa with her embroidery and did not lift her eyes. “So you have said, Charles. Several times.”

“She is not like the others,” he said. “Did you see how the sisters watched over her, as if she were the only one worth noticing?”

“I confess I noticed none of the others,” Darcy said from his place near the window.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the lawn outside. His reflection in the glass added a second audience for Bingley’s enthusiasm, but he did not turn.

Caroline drew her needle through the cloth and examined the stitch. “The assembly interested me less than discovering that the young woman you saw repairing the hedge was Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the second daughter of Longbourn.”

Bingley looked pleased. “You are sure?”

Caroline allowed herself a small smile. “Mrs. Long confirmed it as I left the hall. Miss Bennet is eldest, Miss Elizabeth the second. The others are younger.”

Darcy’s mouth pressed into a line. “She is a gentleman’s daughter, then.”

Caroline looked up, not quite at Darcy. “Did you mistake her for a tenant’s?” She let the question rest, needle poised above the cloth.

Darcy took his time answering. “She looked like someone who is accustomed to fieldwork.”

“Some families do not mind their daughters learning practical things,” Caroline said. “But I grant you, it is unusual.” She glanced at Louisa, who sat by the tea service, half-listening, half-skimming the local newspaper.

Louisa said, “Mrs. Long claims the Bennets have no brothers. The girls will inherit nothing, so the father manages with what he can.”

Bingley seized on this. “I think it creditable. They keep a cheerful household on modest means.”