Page 24 of A Most Unwelcome Acquaintance

“Do you not find the country dull after a time?” Louisa asked Jane. “Town offers more variety.”

“I have visited London, but I have never lived there.”

“Then perhaps you have not remained long enough to appreciate it.”

“Perhaps not,” Jane said, smiling. “Though I believe I should still prefer the country. It changes with every season.”

“Then you must see London in the spring,” Louisa said. “The parks are not to be rivaled.”

“I hope to judge for myself one day.”

Caroline had expected shyness or tedious modesty, but Jane offered neither.

Mrs. Bennet resumed, “I told my girls this morning that Netherfield would put them all to shame, and I believe I am proved right. It is not only the setting I am considering, but the company, and I see at once that Miss Bingley is as accomplished in hospitality as in taste.”

Caroline nodded, offered another biscuit, and said, “You are too generous. We are delighted to receive you.” Jane ate little, and Elizabeth accepted tea, holding the cup with both hands.

The conversation moved to the subject of the last assembly, with Mrs. Bennet eager to recount every dance, every compliment, and the number of times Mr. Bingley had looked at Jane. She made it clear that the entire evening centered on her eldest daughter, though she disguised the assertion in the language of concern: “Jane is too modest to say so, but I am sure you noticed she was quite the favorite. All agreed on it, and Lady Lucas said as much to me not an hour after the set.”

Lydia interrupted: “But Mr. Darcy did not dance, and stood by the wall the whole time. He looked as though he might say something and then thought better of it.”

Mrs. Bennet shushed her with a hand, “Lydia, you are not to discuss the manners of gentlemen in such company.”

Kitty, perhaps emboldened by Lydia’s incaution, asked, “Is it true, Miss Bingley, that Mr. Darcy has ten thousand a year? Or is it only a story?”

Caroline’s smile remained fixed. “I could not say with any precision, but he inherited Pemberley from his father, and it is the finest estate in Derbyshire. I have seen it myself, and I am sure you would admire it.”

Kitty’s color rose, and Elizabeth said, “Some prefer smaller houses with lighter windows and less formality,” her voice so even that Caroline at first missed the diversion.

Mrs. Bennet, after a moment’s pause, followed the new subject. “Our own parlor is dark, and the ceiling low, but I believe that makes it warmer in winter. Mr. Bennet will not hear of altering the house, though I have said it is no disgrace to follow the fashion if it improves comfort.”

Louisa said, “Mr. Hurst would agree with you. He cares for nothing so much as a warm room and a hot meal.”

Lydia, unable to keep silent, said, “Last winter we held a dinner in our smallest room, and the windows froze solid. Papa had to chip them open with the poker before we could see outside.”

Mrs. Bennet, scandalized, said, “That is not a story for company, Lydia.”

Elizabeth glanced at Lydia, then at Caroline, as if to say she could do nothing about Lydia, and one must accept her as she came.

The conversation rolled and broke like this for twenty minutes. Caroline directed the tea, asked the expected questions, and received the expected answers, but Jane’s presence and Elizabeth’s restraint called for different responses than Caroline had rehearsed.

Where she expected to lead, she had to follow: Jane rarely voiced an opinion, but when she did, it left no room for contradiction; Elizabeth’s silences reflected patience, not awkwardness.

Caroline studied Jane, who spoke with Louisa as if they had known one another for years. Elizabeth sat with her cup at rest, following each speaker. Neither would be as easy to manage as Caroline had expected.

The talk turned to the regiment in town, with Mrs. Bennet describing the effect of officers in the neighborhood as “most enlivening,” and Lydia adding that they were “handsomer and better dressed than any in Town.” This provoked a lecture from Mrs. Bennet on the dangers of daughters praising officers in company, but Caroline detected no conviction behind the warning. Their mother took too much pride in her daughters to correct them with any force.

It was at this moment, as she declared, “The officers are a credit to Meryton, but I hope my girls will be content with gentlemen of more settled income,” that Kitty, in her eagerness, upset her teacup, sending a thin wave of tea across the linen. Jane caught the cup and righted it before the liquid reached the edge of the table. Elizabeth dabbed the spill with her napkin, and Lydia stifled a laugh. Caroline watched, her hand closing on a fold of her skirt, the movement invisible to anyone but herself.

The minor disaster passed with murmured apologies, and Caroline commended Jane’s quick hands. “I have had considerable practice,” Jane said. “Lydia and Kitty are forever in need of rescue from their own enthusiasm.”

“Do you play, Miss Bennet?” Louisa asked.

“A little, though not well.”

“Jane is too modest,” Elizabeth said. “Her playing is always pleasant and never showy. She believes music should give pleasure, not demand admiration.”

Caroline shifted her attention to Elizabeth. She found nothing to dislike in her, which made her more cautious. Elizabeth sat at ease, unimpressed by superior fortune or fashion. Any contest would be with her, not Jane.