Page 13 of A Most Unwelcome Acquaintance

“Modest?” Caroline arched an eyebrow. “If the rumors are accurate, Longbourn is a poor cousin to Netherfield.”

“Then let us hope they call soon,” Bingley said, “so we may form our own judgment.”

Darcy looked through the window. “I have mine.”

Bingley grinned. “So have I.”

Caroline returned to her stitch. “Miss Elizabeth is lively. She danced all but one set, and I hear she walks each day, even in the worst weather.” She drew the needle through the cloth. “Her manners are less finished than her elder sister’s, but she has a clever way of turning everything into a jest. I see why you noticed her.”

Darcy answered without hesitation. “The impression she made was strong. Last night showed me that I had mistaken her position, not her character. The Bennets are too free in their manners, and Mr. Bennet manages Longbourn no better than its hedges.”

Caroline nodded. “Indeed. The mother appalled me, and the younger girls are wild. The Lucases are not much better, but at least they appear genteel.”

Bingley looked unconcerned. “I thought them very pleasant. Lively, as you say.”

Louisa, still browsing the newspaper, remarked, “There is a note about the boundary hedge. Mr. Bennet asked the parish to send a repairman, but it may be Netherfield’s responsibility after all.”

Darcy turned toward the table. “Establish the boundary before you arrange for any work.”

Hurst yawned behind his hand. “Those sheep appear to have no respect for leases. Sensible beasts.”

Bingley laughed. “You may be right.”

Darcy moved to the table, picked up a piece of toast, and set it down again untouched. “If the Bennets come to call, I trust we will offer the correct formality.”

Caroline did not look up. “I never neglect formality, Mr. Darcy.”

A small silence grew, filled by the scratch of Louisa’s page and the faint snap of Bingley’s cup against its saucer.

Bingley rose and paced the length of the room. “I hope we will see Miss Bennet and her sisters soon. I think Miss Bennet the prettiest woman I have met in years. Miss Elizabeth, too, though in a different way. What is the word...”

“Rustic,” said Caroline.

Bingley stopped, puzzled. “No. Spirited.”

Darcy’s gaze shifted to the green beyond the windows, where a line of sheep drifted along property’s edge. The boundary hedge caught the sun, its shadow jagged from the gap that was not yet mended.

His eyes narrowed, and he turned away.

Caroline’s voice, quiet but pointed, followed him. “Some impressions take time to revise, Mr. Darcy.”

“And some are best left as they are.”

He stood by the door, hands in his pockets, the lines of his coat sharp in the new sun. For all the certainty in his words, his gaze lingered on the broken green between Netherfield and Longbourn, as if he might see a figure walking it. He flexed his hand once, then left the room.

Chapter 6

TWO MORNINGS AFTER the assembly, Netherfield’s breakfast parlor held the leftovers of the morning’s meal. The table ran with the remains of bread and ham, a bowl of fruit bruised by indifferent handling, the silver coffee pot losing its heat to the indifferent air. Hurst had left the roll on his plate after a single bite, its glaze dulled and the crust softened by the slow bleed of juice from the oranges. No one had touched the compote, and the toast was cold and hard. Sunlight reached Caroline’s untouched teacup and gleamed along its gold rim. She traced the cup’s handle with two fingers, then let her hand rest against the tabletop.

Caroline traced the cup’s handle with two fingers, then let her hand rest against the tabletop while she considered Longbourn and everyone in it. The exercise was the final sorting of evidence gathered over the past forty hours: Jane Bennet, the eldest, sweet, a little too artless in her manners, but not the blank her mother seemed to wish for her. The second, Elizabeth, sharp and, more troubling, aware of the sharpness. Her manner carried the edge of a private joke even when her face was grave. The other daughters had not impressed. Lydia talked like a parrot after wine, Kitty repeated whatever Lydia said, and Mary spoke in proverbs while managing to appear both present and absent in every room.

Across the table, Louisa turned a spoon in her tea with such caution that the clink never varied. Her reluctance to offer opinions until she knew how they would be received made her a reliable, if unexciting, ally.

The sisters understood each other well enough to divide the labor of public life, though not to inspire mutual confidence. Louisa accepted this; Caroline demanded it.

Bingley entered the room in a rush, the ends of his cravat loose and the waistcoat under his coat unfastened at the second button. His boots showed the morning’s mud in streaks above the polish, and a wildness in his hair made him appear several years younger than the man who had praised local society with such solemn enthusiasm.

“Good morning, good morning,” he said, not so much to greet them as to announce that he still existed. He sat at the table and picked up the coffee pot. Finding it empty, he called for more, then swung the pot by its handle as though to shake out a stubborn drop.